8

Cobie and I followed the freinnen out of the hall. If I didn’t want Fritz to change his mind and send us away, there didn’t seem to be anything else to do.

The girls chattered like a flock of birds, darting irritated glances back at Cobie and me as an attendant led us through damp-wallpapered halls. My trunks scraped over the pitted stone and rough wood floors as we scrambled to keep up.

The castle seemed full of empty spaces: portraits lifted from walls, leaving their pale shadows behind; shelves filled with nothing but dust; crucifixes and relics swept away from what once must have been a chapel. My mind reeled as the queue followed turn after turn, past darkened, barred windows and over mildewed stairs.

The only direction we seemed reliably to be heading was down, down, deep into the bowels of the castle.

Finally, the line paused at a door. The girls at its tail—a pair of twins who looked about fourteen—pointedly ignored Cobie and me as we followed them over the room’s threshold, sweating under the weight of my possessions.

The door slammed as soon as we were inside.

None of the sisters said anything at the sound of bolts flipping shut behind us. Ten locks, one for each girl.

Cobie’s jaw was as tight as a steel trap as she stared like a caged animal between the locked door and the ten freinnen. I felt my face pale.

I dropped my bag on the floor and crouched, head between my knees. My heart beat hard against my chest, as loud as the echoes of the falling dead bolts, as weighty as the gaze of the tsarytsya, present though she was absent.

I wished for the press of my father’s kiss on my forehead. I wished for Torden’s arms around me. But the tsarytsya knew my name. No one could hide me now.

“Excuse me,” snapped one of the girls—in English, to my surprise. She nodded sharply at my trunk, blocking her path.

“Oh—I’m sorry.” I picked it up by its handle, my sweaty palms slipping as I heaved it out of her way, and she sailed past me.

We were in a long room, its dimensions more like a corridor than a normal bedchamber. A dozen or so beds lined the walls, nearly all covered in stockings and hairbrushes and jewelry; four vanities between them were heaped with beauty products.

The girls scattered about the room eyed us with suspicion.

Cobie and I dragged our things toward two beds not strewn with possessions or haloed by the fashion plates and sketches that papered the walls. “We’re locked in here,” I said in a low, tense voice. I’d never been behind a locked door in my life.

Cobie’s hands shook as she set down her carpetbag. “We’ll figure it out.”

I sank onto the bed I’d chosen. Dust on its blue counterpane hinted at its long disuse, and its sheets were stiff. This room, at least, smelled clean, not like the mold of the upper halls. But it was nothing like my rooms at home in Potomac or on the Beholder, nothing like Anya’s treehouse-like quarters in Asgard.

How could I help Lang from behind a locked door? How would I ever find Hansel and Gretel if I couldn’t search for them?

And how would I survive, knowing the tsarytsya knew my name and where I would lay my head at night? It had been bad enough risking her attention when I was merely courting suitors; now I was transporting contraband.

I clenched my fists tight against the anxiety that crept over my skin.

The freinnen busied themselves picking over cosmetics and pawing through wardrobes full to bursting. Dress forms, too, loitered about like half-clothed guests at a party. One fireplace warmed the room, flames crackling beneath the girls’ whispers.

No one approached us.

“I wish I’d studied more Yotne,” I said, suddenly desperate. I was drowning in a sea of mutterings I didn’t understand.

“They’re not speaking Yotne,” Cobie said quietly, her eyes lit, despite everything. “That’s old Deutsch.”

I turned my head sharply. “What?”

“Will’s and my people are all from Lancaster, up in Deutsch migrant country.” Cobie smirked dangerously. “I’m fluent.”

I wanted to ask her what they were saying. But suddenly one of the freinnen was standing at the foot of my bed.

“I’m sorry no one welcomed you properly.” Her hair was black and her skin was fair, her figure soft and her blue eyes kind. “I’m Leirauh.”

She was the one who’d tried to break in while her father spoke. I tried for a smile with little success. “It’s not your fault. I’m Selah, and this is Cobie,” I added. Cobie nodded, mouth frowning, eyes alert.

“Still.” Another of the freinnen crossed the room, settling her lithe figure gracefully on the tiny bed next to Leirauh. “What an upsetting mix-up.” Though her brown eyes seemed to take in everything about us, she appeared not to notice Leirauh’s sudden tension at her side. “I’m Margarethe,” she said, brushing a strand of waist-length brown hair out of her face with long, deft fingers.

“Pleasure,” Cobie said coolly. “We’ll survive.”

“Of course you will,” Leirauh jumped in quickly. Her pale cheeks flushed like feverish roses.

Margarethe tipped her head to one side, showing the elegant length of her neck. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? The castle makes its own Riesling.”

I became aware again of how cold I was. “Tea, please,” I said, scrubbing a hand over the goose bumps on my arms.

“Wine for me.” Suspicion lingered beneath Cobie’s polite tone.

Locked in, drenched, and unwelcome.

I ached with the memory of our arrival at Asgard. Of meeting Torden for the first time, of Anya’s immediate embrace, of Valaskjálf’s blazing fires.

I crouched over my trunk, peeled off my wet clothes, and changed into pajamas, twisting my hair into a knot. A moment later, Margarethe and another girl—light brown–haired and brown-eyed, like Fritz, like Margarethe—crossed the room with our drinks. “I’m Ursula,” she said, passing me a cup of tea. Her arms were long and pale, delicate from shoulder to elbow to wristbone to fingertip. “I hope you like milk and sugar.”

Grateful despite myself, I nodded, sipping at the warm drink and leaning against my pillow. I wished I could read, or speak to my godmother. But my storybook and my radio were aboard our ship, and the eyes of the freinnen were on me. Watching me, like they were waiting for something.

Their expectant faces were the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.