Chapter 4: Meat That Talks

"Get out," Vidar said to Ragna.

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't have to.

The air in the room changed, heavy and electric.

Ragna's smile slipped.

She pushed off the door frame and left without another word.

"Who is she?" I said.

"My uncle's stepdaughter." He stared at the empty doorway. "She was raised to be Queen. She's very good at it."

"Were you two..."

"A long time ago. Briefly. Badly." He looked at me. "It's two in the morning. Tove will give you a room."

"I'm going home."

"You're asleep on your feet. And if I go down again before dawn, you're already here."

He had a point, and he knew it.

I slept four hours in a guest room with a quilt that smelled of pine.

At seven Tove banged on my door with coffee.

"Council breakfast," she said. "They're talking about you. I thought you'd want to hear it in person."

The great hall had a long oak table down the middle.

Seven old men and women sat along it with plates of eggs and venison sausage.

Torvald sat at the head.

Ragna sat at his right hand in white cashmere, buttering toast.

Vidar wasn't there.

The talk stopped when I walked in.

"Ah," Ragna said. "Good. More coffee, please. And the jam."

She held her cup out toward me without looking up.

I looked at the cup.

Then I sat down in the empty chair across from her and poured coffee into my own mug.

An old man with a white beard snorted into his eggs.

"Ms. Odegaard," Torvald said pleasantly. "We were discussing your situation."

"I don't have a situation. Your nephew does."

"The King is the pack," said a woman with a long gray braid. "What happens to him happens to all of us."

"And you've decided I'm what happens to him."

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