The Morning Flower

by Amanda Hocking

  “I don’t really know either,” I admitted. “But I think being honest and not keeping things from each other is a really good start.”

  “Smart.” He looked at me with a relieved smile. “See? That right there is exactly why I like you.”

  I laughed and leaned in closer to him, but I kept my arms around my legs, holding them to me. “So, if we’re being open and honest, is it okay if I ask you about Rikky?”

  “What do you wanna know?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing too personal. Just the normal basic stuff. How’d you meet, why’d you break up? I mean, I assume it was mostly amicable, since you two are still so friendly.”

  “Yeah, I mean, it really was,” he said. “Everything I told you about her was true. We met through the Inhemsk Project. I was going through a rough patch, and we grew closer and we started dating.”

  He rubbed his jaw, waiting a beat before continuing. “We had fun, but we moved in together pretty fast, because she didn’t have a place to stay in Merellä. But the truth is that she didn’t really want to stay in the city, not after she connected with her Trylle family.

  “She stayed about as long as she could handle it,” he went on. “But I cared too much about the work I do, and I didn’t want to give up my life in Merellä. And that’s what it all came down to. She wanted to go, and I wanted to stay. So, she went, and I stayed.”

  I waited a moment before asking, “Do you regret it?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I never have. When we first split, we both left the door open—if either of us changed our minds, we could pick it back up. But neither of us knocked on that door. Not in all the months and months since she moved here. So, I guess neither of us regretted it.”

  He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “Is anything I’m saying making sense or is this the incoherent ramblings of a semi-drunk man?”

  I laughed. “No, I get it. I think.” Then I yawned loudly.

  “It’s been a long day. We should both get some rest. We’ve got another busy day tomorrow.” He stood up and stretched. “You’re having brunch with a Queen.”

  “It’s not brunch. Just a meeting. But yeah.” I took a deep breath. “I should rest up.”

  He looked at me a moment longer, like he was thinking of something more, but instead he said good night and headed into the main room, turning off the stereo before crashing on the couch.

  6

  Crowns

  To get to the palace, we had to go through Fulaträsk. Rikky’s place was way outside of the city limits, which was why a human-maintained road went right up to her dock, and the Postkontor office I had gone to the day before was on the outskirts, so I hadn’t yet seen the city proper.

  Fulaträsk was sort of like a backwoods Venice mixed with an Ewok village, where everything was only accessible by water or wooden bridges—some of which connected the treetop homes and shops together.

  The Omte didn’t have the psychokinetic powers that the other tribes did, and they didn’t have the strength to rely solely on magic cloaking the city, the way Merellä did with the Ögonen, or even to lesser degrees like the Kanin, Trylle, Vittra, and Skojare did with their larger cities.

  That left the Omte utilizing more basic forms of camouflage. They lived far from humans in an overgrown, virtually uninhabitable swamp. The homes were hidden high up in the tops of the massive cypress trees, and the buildings on the ground tended to be masked with mud and overgrown vines.

  The other part of their defense were the archers. Rikky pointed them out, or I wouldn’t have noticed them otherwise. They were perfectly camouflaged and hidden behind blinds in the trees. Rikky wasn’t sure how many there were in total, but she said they had archers guarding the city limits at all hours of the day and night.

  Sometimes I wondered if it was worth it, the lengths we went to in order to live separately from the humans. Yes, historically humans reacted very badly when they discovered a troll in their midst, leading to whole troll villages being destroyed back in the Dark Ages. And there were also situations where the humans were justified in hating us, especially considering the practice of changelings was really an extended con involving kidnapping, robbery, and fraud.

  Tribes defended the practice of changelings by insisting that it was our only means of survival and an act of desperation that the humans had driven us to. They outnumbered us thirty thousand to one, and they monopolized so many resources—and not only gems and gold, but also medicine, land, and knowledge. Humans tended to rush straight to violence and war when they encountered something they didn’t understand, especially when that something had terrifying superpowers.

  In Salem, they slaughtered innocent young women suspected of having a mere fraction of the power that the current Trylle Queen actually possessed. Admittedly, that was back in the seventeenth century, but I didn’t know if that type of hysteria was something humanity could ever really grow out of.

  Either way, I couldn’t really fault the tribes for trying to live as far away as possible from humans—while still trying to reap the benefits of what they had to offer, like health care and Wi-Fi and Swarovski crystals.

  All of that is to say how pleasantly surprised I was by the beauty of Fulaträsk—at least the parts that I could see. Last night, Rikky had gone to great lengths to tell me of the emphasis that the Omte put on functionality and practicality.

  “Beauty serves no purpose for us,” Rikky had said, and even then—when I was under the fog of the Omte sangria—I wondered if that was easier for her to say because she was conventionally attractive. That was definitely not a prominent feature among the tribe, with so many ogres and the frequent facial and body asymmetry. Me—with my left eye slightly larger than my right, my shoulders too broad for a woman my height, my stomach doughy and my thighs thick, my full lips making a lovely smile, my boobs large and almost perky, my legs long, and my skin smooth—no part of my appearance was spectacular, but it wasn’t awful. I was neither a beauty queen nor a monster. Just average. An ordinary Omte.

  Rikky was driving me to the appointment to meet the Queen, and she went slowly to prevent backsplash from messing up my nice indigo crocheted sundress. Pan stayed back at her place, sleeping off his hangover. With the speed she was going, Rikky thought it would take nearly forty-five minutes to get to the palace, and that gave me plenty of time to admire the hidden city.

  The sky was completely devoid of clouds, and the sunlight shone brightly through the canopy, highlighting the sprawling tree-house city. They were clearly giant tree houses—they had to be, to house the large ogre families I saw hanging out on the balconies, watching as we weaved through the trees.

  The unwieldy size appeared to be the only thing they had in common with the luxurious human tree houses I’d seen on TV. At least from the exterior, they appeared to be constructed with many of the same materials that Rikky had used on her house—repurposed barn wood, faded driftwood, mossy branches, and the occasional panel of gray-blue rippling sheet metal.

  Somewhat ironically, it was precisely the nature of the materials that made the houses seem so beautiful. The way they were built of discarded bits of wood and upcycled windowpanes, with vines and moss growing over it all, these fabricated structures seemed to merge back into nature. They had a lovely fairy-tale quality.

  Finally, I spotted the palace in the middle of a clearing. Much like the Postkontor, it was a short square block of a building, albeit significantly larger. The royal residence sat on a low hill, nearly flush with the water. Moss covered the stone walls all the way up to the rather Gothic-looking vulture statues on the eaves.

  The palace blended nicely with the surroundings, and from the outside it looked about how I’d come to envisage the Omte and their kingdom: deceptively imposing and decaying beautifully. Even with my expectations, the large front doors of the palace—twenty-foot-tall iron double doors—were far more rusted than I would’ve thought appropriate for a palace.

  Only one guard waited at the d
oor, but he’d let only me in, since Rikky’s name wasn’t on the list to see the Queen. We parted ways, and the guard led me inside, where it looked more like a crypt than the home of the royal family.

  The humidity and dank smell of the swamp permeated the place. The large main hall was dimly lit with iron chandeliers, so I couldn’t say for sure, but everything appeared to be covered in a thin layer of moss or slime. When I passed under an arch, I had to duck out of the way of a spiderweb.

  Finally, the guard showed me down a narrow corridor and into an office of sorts. It was slightly brighter than the rest of the place, thanks to a large stained-glass window letting sunlight in. However, the picture depicted in glass dampened the effect—a big black vulture stained with bright red blood. All the black and crimson created a very ominous glow.

  The guard left me alone, presumably to tell the Queen Regent of my arrival, but I couldn’t really be sure, since he didn’t say anything at all before leaving. There was a sitting area—black velvet furniture (a poor choice of fabric for such a damp climate), with black marble end tables.

  One wall was lined with bookshelves brimming with Omte “treasures.” Mostly they were gaudy, jewel-encrusted fantasy statues that looked like they’d be expensive at a Renaissance fair. Lots of detailed dragons guarding brightly colored orbs, and dark birds perched on topaz-encrusted trees, but there were others, like a couple amber crystal snails and sapphire spider figurines.

  On another wall was a huge portrait—nearly floor-to-ceiling and almost as wide as the wall, so it had to be around nine-by-six feet. The large crown of twisted bronze on the man’s head meant he was probably the Omte King. The size of the painting may have exaggerated his build, but he looked massive. A big lumbering figure with hair of light bronze-brown, but there was something oddly cheery about his broad face. Maybe it was the slight smile on his full lips, nearly hidden in his bushy beard.

  A short time later—just long enough for me to start wondering if I should sit down or go look for the guard—the Queen arrived. Or at least I assumed she was the Queen. I wasn’t immediately sure, based on her attire.

  She wore a pantsuit made of black velvet—which again seemed like exactly the wrong fabric for an environment where there is an above-average chance of sitting on a slug or in vulture poop—and she’d accessorized it with big bold pieces of costume jewelry with amber gems and black metals. The whole outfit seemed perfect for a supernatural lawyer in one of those teen soap operas that Hanna loved so much.

  The only real indication I had that this woman was the Queen was the brass crown that sat crookedly on her dark hair. It was the same one from the painting, except it was bent now, and it appeared much larger on her smaller head.

  “Hello!” I blurted awkwardly and did a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you for meeting me. Your Majesty.” I ended my stammering with a quick bow, and I realized too late that I hadn’t had enough experience with royalty to know how to behave around them.

  In the very, very limited interactions I’d had, I was always with somebody who knew exactly what to do, like Finn or Bryn; even in Merellä, when I met with higher-ups, I had Pan or Dagny with me.

  Not that it should matter. One of the main tenets that Finn pushed on all of us—me, the kids, even Mia—was to always be prepared.

  “Yes, well, sorry to have kept you waiting.” Her words were short and rapid, and not exactly unkind—just quick and disinterested. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  “If I understood correctly, you’re a friend of Rebekka Vallin’s?” She sat down, crossing one leg over the other, and toyed with the numerous rings on her fingers.

  “Rebekka?” I repeated, and it took a few seconds for it to click. “You must mean Bekk! Yes, but I would say she’s more of a friend of a friend.”

  She arched an eyebrow, her dark eyes studying me. “They must be very good friends, for her to cash in a favor with the Queen.”

  “I believe they are,” I replied uncertainly.

  “So.” Bodil gave me a tight smile. “What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

  “Orra Fågel.” As I said her name, the Queen subtly recoiled. She may have been trying to hide it, but she visibly pulled back, her jaw tensing, the veins standing out in her throat, and she lowered her eyes. “She was your cousin, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Why do you want to know about her?” she asked coolly.

  “I think she might be my mother.”

  She said nothing for a moment, then she licked her thin lips and looked closer at me. “You know that as my cousin—a mere distant relative of the Queen Regent—Orra and any of her possible heirs have no claim to any of this. Nothing from my estate or that of the kingdom. All of this”—she motioned to the space around us—“belonged to my late husband, King Thor, the Third of His Name. Before him, it was his father’s.After Thor passed, it all went to our son, the Crown Prince. This is not mine, and it will certainly never be yours.”

  “I suspected as much,” I said honestly. “I didn’t come here for money or titles. I’m not entitled to any of it, and I don’t want to be. I only want to know who my parents are and find out about my family.”

  I had spent so much of my nineteen years wondering about my parents, imagining what they were like or making up stories about why they had to leave me the way they did. In the long, lonely days of my childhood, the stories were all I had, really.

  The Tulins were kind enough to me, but they didn’t really love me. Nobody had, not until I moved in with the Holmeses, where the kids would throw their arms around my neck before telling me they loved me.

  Even though I now had so much more love and happiness in my life, the stories from childhood still haunted me. Who were my parents, and why did they leave me? The question left an aching hole inside of me that would never mend until I found the answer.

  “That is an admirable pursuit, but unfortunately, I don’t think I can be of any help,” Bodil replied evenly. “Orra died many years ago, and as far as I know, she had no children.”

  “I did find a telegram about her.” I reached into the pocket of my dress, where I had carefully stashed a photocopy I’d made of the paper I found back at the Mimirin.

  I held it out to her, and she stared at it for a few moments before finally taking it from me.

  NORAM TELEGRAM

  Province of Fulaträsk 2 Dec 1998

  C/O P.O. Box 117 Latania Springs, LA 70750

  After much discussion we have decided that an

  intervention must be undertaken. A peaceful resolution

  is only possible with an intermediary. Orra Fågel has

  been dispatched to the First City as an emissary for

  the kingdom.

  h. t. Otäck, Adviser to the King

  On the same paper, beneath the typed message was a quick handwritten one:

  Orra has not yet returned. What is the status of her whereabouts?

  H.R.M. Bodil Freya Fågel, Consort to the King

  8/Nov/1999

  She read it impassively. “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it among the Omte records at the Mimirin,” I told her.

  The Queen Regent pursed her lips and set the paper aside—on her end table, as opposed to handing it back to me. “I suppose there’s no point in lying, is there?”

  7

  Expectations

  Queen Bodil sat beside me, and she exhaled deeply through her nose. Her makeup was quite heavy—thick coal-black eyeliner and false lashes, stenciled eyebrows and burgundy lipstick. All of that made her expression harder to read, especially considering how fiercely she tried to remain stoic.

  She wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but her features were dramatic and striking. A long aquiline nose, protruding dark eyes, a wide mouth with thin lips above a sharp chin, large hands with broad shoulders. The Queen Regent was an imposing presence.

  So I waited for her to speak, even as the sil
ence dragged on for what felt like an endless amount of time. I didn’t want to scare her off with too many questions, so I thought it would be better to wait until she opened up on her own.

  “Why do you think Orra might be your mother?” Bodil asked at length.

  “It’s not much,” I admitted before explaining how she matched up with the few clues I had.

  All I knew from Mr. Tulin was that the woman who had left me with him was called Orra, she appeared to be Omte and carried an Omte dagger, and she looked to be in her twenties or thirties in the fall of 1999. Orra Fågel matched all of that, with the added fact that she went missing shortly after I was dropped off at the Tulins’ doorstep.

  “It may not be a lot, but I haven’t found a better match than her,” I finished.

  “What is it that you hope to find?” she asked pointedly. “You had access to that note, so I presume you had access to Orra’s other records, and you saw that her whole family is dead. Her parents, and all three—no, wait, there were four boys—they’re all dead. Even my mother—Orra’s aunt—is long deceased. Orra herself hasn’t been seen in nearly twenty years.”

  I gulped, trying to swallow down the painful lump in my throat, but I kept my expression neutral. She wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t already read, but it still hurt to hear it spelled out so harshly.

  “If she is my mother, I would like to learn about her as much as I can, or at least find out what happened to her,” I said, speaking slowly and deliberately to hold back the tears. “And I would like to find my father. He might still be alive.”

  “Orra and I weren’t particularly close, but we were family,” the Queen said. “I believe she would’ve confided in me if she’d had a baby.”