A Nordic King

by Halle, Karina

  Then Karla appears, dropping off two mugs of fragrant bone broth for us before scurrying away, and then it’s just me and Aksel and the pig. His sharp words still hang in the air and his intense gaze has lifted off my face.

  “Well?” he prods me. “You could have died out there.”

  “It’s just a little snow.” My voice is weak but I’m stubborn.

  He stares at me like I’m an idiot. “A little snow? How long would you have gone running for if I hadn’t found you?”

  “I wasn’t running,” I tell him. Doesn’t he get it? “I was looking for Snarf Snarf.”

  There’s a small shake of his head, the melted snow dripping off his hair and onto the floor. “I know what it looks like to run. You were running. From what? From me? From this?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. “I just wanted him back. I couldn’t bear for the girls to lose him, for you to lose the girls’ happiness. Why would I run from this? I work here. I went out there so I could continue to work here.”

  “You think I’d let you go otherwise?”

  I press my lips together and look down at the pig. He seems to be sleeping now despite our conversation which is getting louder by the minute.

  “You’d said I’d blame you,” he goes on. “Do you really think that?”

  I glance at him warily. For the first time ever, he actually looks hurt. I didn’t think it was possible to hurt him, especially from something like this.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess … I got afraid. I wasn’t sure what you’d do. And I realized how important this job is to me.”

  He stares at me for a long, heavy moment. The fire roars, the pig is snoring lightly, the grandfather clock ticks on. The loudest sound of all is my heart.

  “Is that the only thing that’s important to you?” he asks, his voice low and rough. “The job?”

  “No. The girls are everything to me.” I take in a deep breath. “As are you.”

  There. I said it. Part of my truth.

  I’m scared to watch his expression but I can’t read it at all. He just stares at me. It’s like he didn’t even hear me.

  Or that he doesn’t really care.

  Probably the latter.

  I look away and start to peel away the blankets, growing hotter now. My clothes underneath are soaked from the melted snow.

  “You need to get out of those clothes,” Aksel says, straightening up and walking past me. “Stay there. Drink your broth.”

  Yes sir, I think but don’t dare say it. Not now.

  Still, I do as he told me, the broth reviving me a little. I’ve drunk half the mug when he returns with one of his flannel pajama sets. He places it on the arm of my chair and then crouches down in front of me and starts unbuttoning my wet cardigan.

  I’m breathless. He’s so close to me and he’s taking off my damn clothes. He smells like snow and cardamom, his presence feels as warm as the fire. I can only swallow loudly, my heart beating against my ribcage, powerless to him, to this moment.

  “You know my father wore cardigans just like this,” he says quietly as his fingers slowly unbutton just below my breasts.

  Oh good. I remind him of his dad.

  “Your father must have good taste,” I manage to say, and my voice comes out all squeaky.

  “Mmm,” he grunts in reply and continues to work his way to the bottom, frowning as if in deep concentration.

  “Do you ever stop frowning?” I ask him softly, and without thinking I reach up and slide my thumb between his brows, smoothing over the deep line. He closes his eyes to my touch, as if surrendering to me. It makes me think he might be as deprived of touch, of connection, as I am.

  I should take my hand away, but I don’t. Instead I gently trail my fingers up and over his tense brow, feeling the cold of his skin beneath my fingertips. I bring them down over the dip of his temple, coasting the tips of his wet hair, dusting over his high cheekbones.

  His inhales through his nose sharply, eyes pinched shut, letting go of the end of my cardigan. He places his hand over mine, holding it to his cheek, warm fingers wrapping over the edge of my palm.

  For a moment it seems like he might move my hand to his mouth and kiss my palm.

  For a moment, this is all I can hope for.

  For a moment, this is all I’ve ever wanted.

  But he doesn’t. His eyes open and they flash with something I can’t figure out, something raw and dangerous, and that frown returns. He removes my hand from his cheek and gets up to his feet.

  “I think you can handle the rest,” he says, gesturing to the last two buttons. He clears his throat and bends down to scoop up Snarf Snarf. It would be the cutest thing in the world if I still wasn’t reeling over what happened. We were so close there, just for one moment, but a moment was all there really was.

  “You must really love that pig,” I comment, trying to cover up how awkward I feel. “To go after him like that.”

  He cocks his head. “I went after you, didn’t I?”

  That’s true. And he obviously doesn’t love me. He’s just a good man, even if I get the feeling he doesn’t believe it himself.

  He stares at me for another beat and then turns around. “I’m going to put him back in his room, make sure he’s okay,” he says over his shoulder. “Get dressed, stay warm. I’ll be right back.”

  I watch as his tall figure disappears.

  Then I get up.

  I take his pajamas and head up to my room. I know he told me to stay where I was but honestly, I don’t trust myself. I’m at the point where I’m involuntarily touching him, feeling his damn face like he’s braille, not to mention that I ran out into the snow and nearly got hypothermia, which seemed to really piss him off.

  No, this is an evening that needs to be put to bed.

  But that doesn’t stop me from slipping into his pajamas anyway.

  Just to fall asleep to the smell of him.

  Chapter 12

  Aurora

  The rest of the weeks leading up to Christmas fly by. After the Snarf Snarf incident (and, believe me, there always seems to be a Snarf Snarf incident), Aksel and I went from one step forward to two steps back. Though he sometimes took part in the girls’ Christmas activities, such as candle lighting and wreath decorating, most of the time he’s been gone.

  It’s not his fault. It turns out that Christmas is the busiest time of the year for a king, with an endless stream of public duties, such as parties for Helena’s various charities, taking part in annual ceremonies and attending numerous galas and dinners around Denmark, and even abroad. We even had a dinner at the palace for the Crown Prince of Norway, but according to Maja, my job was to keep the girls out of sight.

  When I did happen to see Aksel, he was back to keeping his distance from me, much like he did at the very beginning of this job. He’s not as grumpy or cantankerous. He’s not even that cold. It’s more like he’s wary of me and unsure. He treats me like I’m a wild deer, permanently ready to bolt. No sudden movements around the nanny.

  I’m going to assume that he thinks I’m an unstable nutcase since he found me running around in the snow and doesn’t quite know how to handle me anymore. And that really sucks because December was already a tough month for me to begin with. I hate having this space between us, especially since I still feel this pull to him, like one magnet to another, that only increases with each and every day.

  It’s foolish. So foolish. And it hurts my heart.

  But hearts are made to hold you hostage and I’m captive against my will.

  Now, it’s Christmas Eve, the main event, and he’s here, sitting across from me at the lavishly decorated dinner table, looking too handsome for his own good. There’s a half-eaten Christmas goose between us, surrounded by leftover plates of herring, dill and potatoes, dark breads, fried fish, shrimp, meatballs, cabbage, and shot glasses of aquavit and bitter Schnaps. The girls are still devout vegetarians (well, Clara is. I saw Freja sneak a bit of goose when her si
ster wasn’t looking) but at least they were satisfied with the ample amount of potatoes and root vegetables.

  At the moment, everyone is eating a traditional Danish dessert called ris á l’amande (which is French but actually doesn’t exist in France), which is rice pudding, whipped cream, cherry sauce, and cut almonds. It’s delicious and we’re all stuffed but those aren’t the reasons why we’re eating it so slowly. It’s that one of the bowls has an uncut whole almond in it, and apparently whoever discovers the almond in their bowl wins a present.

  I’m not sure if I’m fond of this tradition. I’ve devoured nearly the whole bowl, even though I’m bursting out of my seams at this point and I don’t have the damn almond.

  “Okay, I’m out,” I say, leaning back in my chair and pushing my bowl away. “I got nothing. And now I’m so full I might die.”

  Princess Anya, Aksel’s niece, giggles from across the table, looking awfully suspicious.

  Her mother, Princess Stella, finishes the spoonful of dessert and looks over at her daughter’s bowl. “Din lille snydepels,” she admonishes her, pointing at it.

  “What?” I ask.

  Now Clara is laughing. “I think Anya has the almond.”

  “That figures,” Aksel mutters.

  “What?” I ask again.

  He looks at me, and the bright clarity of his gaze makes me realize we haven’t really looked at each other in a long time. It’s arresting, to put it mildly. “Sometimes, if one has discovered the almond early on, they’ll hoard it until the very end.”

  “Forcing everyone else to finish their bowls,” Stella says with a sigh, patting her stomach. “This child of mine. So devious.”

  “At least it’s delicious,” Maja says pragmatically. “And I guess this means you get the prize, Anya.”

  Her prize ends up being a marzipan pig, which apparently is also tradition. Anya calls her pig treat Snarf Snarf, of course, before she gleefully bites the pig’s head off, making Clara and Freja squeal with horror.

  When dinner is over, we take everything into the kitchen and wash up. Because Karla and a few other cooks slaved over this food all day, Aksel made sure to give them the rest of the holiday off, which means we’re all on wash-up duty.

  It’s actually kind of fun to watch Aksel wearing an apron at the sink, scrubbing the roasting pans and pots, his sister teasing him, the girls occasionally spraying him with water. This is probably the most relaxed I’ve seen him all month, maybe even since I first started working.

  I know I’m watching a bit too much because at one point Stella gives me a curious look and I quickly avert my eyes, as if I’ve been staring at the sun. The last thing I need is for her to tell her brother she thinks the nanny has a full-blown crush on him.

  Because that’s the only name I have for this … affliction. It’s a crush. And yet, that word doesn’t seem enough. God, if only I could just stop these feelings growing inside of me. I’m afraid of what might happen if they don’t go away. Will it just bubble up and rise until they’re bursting out, like water spilling from a boiling pot? Or can I just keep trying to bury it, deep, deep down, without being driven insane?

  The funny thing is, I don’t even know what I’m feeling most of the time, just that it’s there and it’s deep and raw and persistent and centered around him. It’s like everything now is centering around him. He’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep. He haunts my dreams, my thoughts, and the more I deny it, the more it hurts like salt in a wound. Being obsessed with a man you share a house with is a recipe for disaster.

  I’m in the living room, setting out hot cocoa for the girls while they play downstairs with Snarf Snarf, when Stella comes out with a glass of wine for me.

  “Aksel tells me you decorated the tree,” she says, nodding at the tree in front of us, mounds of presents piled underneath it. “You did a good job.”

  “Well, technically the girls did the first four feet and I did the other ten,” I admit, taking the glass from her. “Tak.”

  “And he also says your Danish is coming along nicely.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” I wonder how much Aksel has told her about me—and when. So, of course, I ask, “What else did he say?”

  She smiles, and her smile matches Aksel’s on the rare occasions he uses it. “Only good things.”

  I take a sip of my wine. “I have a hard time believing that. Has he always been so …?”

  “Serious?” she provides. “Moody? Brooding?”

  “Yeah, all those.”

  She nods and sighs. “When we were little he was a lot … looser. He smiled and laughed more. He was certainly more adventurous.”

  “He used to race cars in his twenties.”

  “As a rally driver, yes. Then he raced boats. I’m sure he’ll take you out on his yacht come summertime. But to answer your question, that’s just the way he is.” She looks furtively toward the doorway as if to check if anyone is listening but we’re alone in the room.

  “Our parents weren’t the best,” she admits in a low voice. “I know it’s terrible to speak of them this way, especially with how our mother is, but it’s the truth. For some reason, they were kinder to me. At least our mother was more loving. They were both cold with Aksel. Harsh. They were like teachers rather than parents. I think they were just trying to prepare him to be King one day. They knew I’d never take over the throne so they treated me more like a daughter than an heir, if that makes any sense.”

  It makes perfect sense. Definitely explains why Aksel is so closed-off.

  “Then of course he became King before he was ready, he lost our father, our mother, there was the accident and Helena and … he got worse.” I nod, my heart pinching every time I think of him suffering. “But then he got better.”

  I glance at her, swallowing my wine. “Got better?”

  A knowing smile stretches across her lips, and she nods. “Mm-hmm. He’s so much better now. Ever since you showed up.”

  “Me?” I almost laugh. “I don’t think so. I think I’ve probably only made things worse. He treats me like I have the plague.”

  She studies me for a moment. “Listen, I know my brother. Maybe it looks that way to you. But you’ve brought light into this house. You make him happy.”

  Don’t let it go to your head, it means nothing, it means nothing.

  “I’m sure he’s just happy that the girls are doing better.”

  “Yes. That’s true.” But still, she has this impish look on her face, like she knows something I don’t.

  Naturally I want to take this feeling and run. Create a world of possibilities in my head. I make him happy. Me. But what good would that do me?

  Suddenly the girls come barreling into the room yelling about it being present time, followed by Aksel and Maja who are in a conversation about something, glasses of brandy in their hands.

  In Denmark the presents are opened on Christmas Eve, and I was told by Maja the other day that it’s quite an event. There is no frantic tearing like the kids do in America. Instead it’s done one by one, slow and thoughtful. Knowing this, I went out of my way to buy everyone something special, or I at least hope they’ll think it’s special.

  We all gather in spots around the tree, Stella and I on the velvet couch, Maja and Aksel in the armchairs, the kids on big pillows on the floor. Each girl is in charge of being a Christmas “elf” and handing out the presents, which is great because it means I can just sit back and drink.

  Luckily the presents I picked out for everyone are well-received, which isn’t an easy feat when you’re dealing with a royal family, AKA the family that already has everything. So I went for more unusual gifts instead.

  I got a couple jars of Vegemite that I ordered from Australia for Maja since she recently discovered she loves it on her rye bread in the mornings. Though I don’t know Stella well, she seemed to like the leather planner I got for her with her initials on it. Anya, I got her a
book about horses. Freja is going through a “big girl” phase right now which means an obsession with jewelry, so I got her a silver necklace with her Norse goddess namesake on it. And for Clara with her love of reading and everything Snarf Snarf, I compiled all the photos I’ve taken so far into one of those photobooks you can make online, only this one also has one of the many versions of The Magical Tale of Snarf Snarf that I tell the girls at bedtime.

  Clara is so happy about it, she nearly starts crying. She drops the book and comes right over to me, enveloping me in a tight hug that lasts for several seconds.

  I glance over her shoulder at Aksel who is watching us closely. Something deep and real dances in his blue eyes. You make them happy, I remind myself, therefore you make him happy.

  But before I can give Aksel his present, Anya hands me his present to me.

  “It’s from Uncle Aksel,” Anya says, and I can’t help but smile at his name.

  It’s in a large box, professionally wrapped in shiny gold paper.

  I smile curiously and lift it up to shake it but Aksel leans forward in his chair and says, “It’s fragile. Very fragile.”

  Fragile? I’m not exactly the type of person who should receive, like, a crystal duck or something.

  I slowly, carefully unwrap it, every now and then looking around the room to pick up on any clues of what it could be. As far as I can tell, they’re all as intrigued and clueless as I am. But Aksel seems … nervous? He’s tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair and there is this glittering intensity in his eyes as he looks from the box to me and then around the room.

  The paper covers a plain brown box, and I carefully lift up the top lid to see a bunch of bubble wrap covering something.

  “Careful,” Aksel says.

  “You don’t say?” I tease him considering how well protected this thing is.

  It’s large too, hence the size of the box. I stick both my hands inside and gently pull it out. I still can’t tell what it is.

  “Can I play with the bubble stuff after?” Clara asks hopefully as I pull loose the stick of tape and start slowly unraveling the wrap.