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When I return to the kitchen, to my surprise, the queen has set the table for tea.
The chair has been dried with a kitchen towel that now hangs over the oven handle.
“Guess you didn’t travel with your servants,” I say, glancing at the boiling kettle.
Her eyes flick down to my stomach, just for a moment.
Neither of us says anything more until my shaking hands deliver the queen her tea. One cream, two sugars. Because everyone in Gravenland knows how the queen takes her tea.
I take my seat across from her, unable to meet her gaze.
“How far along are you, dear?”
Wow. Okay, guess we’re doing this. “Nearly eight months, Ma’am.”
“Is this my grandchild you’re carrying?”
I meet her ice-blue eyes with steadiness I didn’t know I possessed. “Yes, Your Majesty. Sigurd is the father.”
“He is to be king, you know.”
“Etienne should be king,” I dare to say.
The queen draws her shoulders up high. “Torben should be king. The firstborn. Not the second, not the third. But no one in this family seems to appreciate a strong and steadfast traditional monarchy anymore.”
I don’t know if that’s a jab at my pregnancy or at her sons, and I do not dare to ask. Still, she must smell my fear.
“Relax, dear. I’m not going to order you beheaded. This isn’t Tudor England.”
I can’t repress the smirk.
“Come here and let me look at you,” she says. “Lift up your chin.”
When any man tells me to do something, they risk getting kicked the balls. When the queen says jump, I ask how high.
I go to her, and we both stand. She clutches my chin and inspects me like a prized racehorse.
“Common features, but that can be fixed with some contouring. Sable can work with you on your…wardrobe. You’re large-boned like Flora. Now, what to do about that hair?”
I swallow again, finding it difficult to keep my throat from drying up.
“If I may say something…”
“Speak.”
“Your son doesn’t want to be king.” I really just said that to the queen, didn’t I?
“Sit.”
The queen lets go of my chin, and I sit again. Why do I feel like a schoolgirl, and not in a good way?
I watch the monarch sip her tea before she leans forward. Each word, she drops like icicles. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. He is third in line to the throne.”
“Yes, but…”
“Don’t you think he could be king?”
The question takes me aback. “Well, sure, but…”
