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On top of that, he has a beautiful speaking voice.
He should use it more often, and I told him exactly that.
Imagine a prince asking me about my childhood. When he’d asked, I had the notion to leave out the more harrowing bits. He did not need to hear about the more harsh families I’d encountered. Nor had I intended to drone on about how I’d felt when my favorite foster mother, a retired widow, could no longer take care of me due to failing health in her old age. But I’d spilled all of it.
And he’d listened, much like Jakob sometimes listens when I need to talk and to process.
But I never feel a stirring in my loins around Jakob.
With Sigurd, everything feels different.
But the telling of my story wore me out, nonetheless.
So while the prince spun yarns about growing up in the palace, sneaking out with his brothers, and learning to hunt and fish alongside the old gamekeeper, Mr. Black, and his son, Callum, I stretched out on the mat next to him and listened.
A campfire at night eases us all into talking about things we don’t say with the sun shining on us.
I awake to the sensation of rising.
Sigurd is once again carrying me in his arms. And what do I do? I pretend I’m still asleep.
I desperately want to open my eyes and look at that severe face up close. Stroke the soft, wild beard. But I don’t dare. I’m just going to enjoy this moment.
The kind of moment I never had as a child that I’ve heard other people describe: the feeling of falling asleep in the back of a parent’s car, big strong arms lifting, carrying, bedroom doors opening, the easing off of shoes, the comfort of a favorite blanket, big footsteps disappearing down the hall, lulling back to sleep at the sound of adult conversation in the kitchen.
The prince doesn’t know it, but he’s filling that gap for me. That missing piece.
He sets me down on the bed with as much care as he did earlier today when he pulled me from the water. I should reveal that I’m awake, if only to protest the ridiculous idea that he intends to sleep outside. But I don’t.
I think…I think he likes taking care of me.
I recall the coffee mug with the words “World’s Best Big Brother” scrawled in childlike handwriting, and I smile. Warmth spreads through me like melted butter. The princess, as a little girl, looked up to him. That’s huge for me.
I burrow into the pillow.
A low, quiet sigh fills the room. Sigurd is still here.
Is he making sure I’m fully asleep, or is he watching me sleep?
Either way, I don’t want to ruin the moment, so I do nothing but listen to him breathing and tuck the blanket up under my chin.
The following day, refreshed and rejuvenated, I jump out of bed and bound to the kitchen.
Minutes later, I have the table set with a traditional Gravenlandian breakfast: tea, seeded toast slathered in butter, pungent cheese, whole milk yogurt, and fruit with honey. It’s the least I can do to thank him for being so kind to me, and a gentleman.
But when I step outside, he’s gone.
“Sigurd?” I call out aimlessly before catching myself. If he’s hiding from something, he probably doesn’t want me announcing his presence to the neighbors. Not that I can see or hear any neighbors, but it’s better not to risk him being found out.
The morning dew slicks my bare feet as I search the clearing for clues. The campfire is extinguished. I don’t see Sigurd’s sleeping mat or sleeping bag anywhere. Come to think of it, I never noticed if he had any luggage at all.
Once again, I ask silently, what is he running from without a stitch of extra clothes or food?
I feel let down. Just when I was starting to enjoy his company, he takes off.
Trudging back into the cabin, I remind myself that that is what the Wild Prince is like, though, isn’t he? Torben is the reliable one. Etienne is the fuck-up who shows up late (and sometimes drunk) to royal engagements. Princess Flora is the sometimes-distracted one, but sweet and charming and always camera-ready. Sigurd is the outdoorsy, reclusive one who, now that I think about it, is also the least photographed of all the siblings.
So why should I be surprised when he disappears?
