Astrid

I hum a soft tune to myself, one that Alfier particularly seems to enjoy as I make my way past the myriad of doors. My thoughts are no longer in this castle. They have long been attached to my father: to what he must be doing right now, to whether or not he might allow me to help him shave this morning.

“Morning.”

“Aa-gh!”

Kieran’s eyebrows lift at my raised fists. He steps out of the shadows and into the early morning light.

“Going somewhere?” he says.

My tongue goes numb. I shrug, hoping he cannot hear my pounding heart. “I was just going to see if Eli would like to join me for a morning ride about the grounds.”

He nods, his forehead crumpling in mock seriousness. “And you’re in the West Wing because…?”

“Because I wanted to see if you want to come along,” I say smoothly.

“Uh-huh.”

The manner in which he appraises me is a testament to the fact that he hardly believes the half-baked excuses I am feeding him. He folds his arms.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed you’re sneaking around like this.”

So he knows. Of course, he knows. He seems to see everything in this place.

“Look, Kieran, I…” I start, shame heating my face. “I did not mean to…that is to say – I have to…”

He dips his head an inch lower, so that our eyes are level.

“I’m disappointed because you should have told me, Astrid. You should’ve known I’d let you go to see your father.”

My eyelids flutter in disbelief. I purse my lips.

“Would you, though?”

“Well…” He shrugs, and again there is that surprising grin, sheepish in nature. “Eventually.”

The neighbours knock on my father’s door before our hour is up.

They call out impatiently from outside. My father and I exchange sour looks.

“Should I tell them to mind their own business?” he asks.

Despite the hope in his voice, I know it will bring no benefit to him in the long run. So I squeeze his hand once and assure him of my return tomorrow.

As he wistfully opens the door for them, I slip out through the back door.

The buzz of the marketplace crowd has already died down. Now, all is at peace. I pull my hood over my head and kick the stones lying in my path, inhaling the scent of home. The refreshed memories of where all the buildings, the abandoned crates and cracks in the walls lie make it feel as if I am watching everything through the eyes of a stranger.

“Oh!” someone gasps when I accidentally run into them. I tear my eyes away from Mr Haylin’s pigs.

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“Beg your pardon,” I murmur, keeping my head low.

Before I can step around the person, she says: “Astrid?”

I look up. Those soft, almond eyes go wide.

“K-Katya?”

“It is you!” she gasps. Before I can break into a run, she grasps my shoulders and pulls me into a hearty embrace. “Oh, I thought you had left for good! Your father said you’d gained employment somewhere far.”

“I have.” I brush at my sleeves when she releases me. “I am just here for a quick visit before I leave once again.”

She blinks, clearly crestfallen. “Oh,” she pouts.

I clear my throat. “And how have you been faring?”

Her gloved hand tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her smile returns just as easily as it had faded. “Very well, thank you.”

And then she launches into her usual tales of who-did-what-and-when. For a brief moment, I remember what it used to feel like living here.

“...and now we are engaged!”

My attention switches back on. I shake my head abruptly. “Beg your pardon? To whom?”

She must notice that I haven’t been paying attention, because she presses her lips together. But she cannot resist retelling the news: “To Francis, of course.”

“What?” I spit.

Now her smile truly does falter, and it makes no effort to return. “Do I need to repeat myself again, Astrid?”

“Please, do not.” I hold my hands up. “Have you gone mad, Katya? The man is repulsive.”

She steps back by half a foot. “He is not! He has changed.”

“Yes, because all our lives we have known him to be a boy capable of change, have we not?”

“Why are you saying all this?” she cries indignantly, stomping her foot.

I have to maintain my peace, because passers-by are beginning to glance our way. I pull my hood lower over my head.

“Because I care about you, Katya,” I soothe my own voice to a calmer note. “You can be so naïve sometimes. You are far too precious to waste your life away as some sort of doll to be thrown off to another man’s greed. How can you be so sure he will care for you? Are you so desperate to be locked into a pathetic marriage?”

Her expressions steels to a coldness I have never seen before. For a split second, she looks as if she is going to hit me.

But then she shakes her head.

“I do not want to discuss this with you,” she says, tightening her wrap around her shoulders. She curtsies briskly. “Fair travels, Astrid.”

I watch her turn on her heel and stomp off.

Just before she can put enough distance between us, she pauses in her steps. Her foot taps against the ground before she spins around and storms right up to me once more.

“Do you know, Astrid,” she huffs. “That not everybody in this town is as fortunate as you are?”

I raise a brow. “Fortunate?”

“Yes, fortunate! Not everyone is as courageous as you are, to not worry about the possibility of having none to care for you as you age?”

“You are saying all this as if my father is not ailing, and I have not a care in the world,” I spit venom.

“You are employed!” She throws her hands in the air. “And educated! Do you think my father would let me see the light of day if he ever finds out you’ve taught me how to spell my own name?”

The rising tide within me wavers.

“Do you think I could be a maid in the mills forever?” she presses on, clearly unable to stop the flow of angry words from tumbling out of her mouth. “You think you are above everyone, do you, because you do not dream of marrying and watching children play outside your house as you finally, finally rest knowing you are not a burden to your own family? Well, I shall tell you this, Astrid.”

She daggers a finger in my direction. It feels as though she were pointing a knife at me.

“I have been nothing but loyal to you, breaking my own heart each day in the hopes that you – beautiful, intelligent, witty Astrid – would deign to pay just an ounce of devotion to me, as I have to you. But your words today have only confirmed the notion I have long suspected but punished myself for thinking as such.

“Perhaps you are only beautiful on the outside.”

We face each other off. Her lower lips tremble. She looks as if she wants to revert to her own nature and apologize profusely. But perhaps I might feel even more awful if she did.

Thankfully, she doesn’t. She wipes her hands on her skirt, as if this conversation has somehow sullied her spirit.

Before she turns, I have to say: “Katya?”

She waits.

Rotten. I am rotten inside. “Will you not tell anyone I am here?”

All the uncertainty leaves her expression. She jerks her head in a stiff nod, and then leaves me behind.