The Impostor Queen (26 page)

T
hough I've told Oskar virtually nothing about myself even after he laid himself bare, he asks me only one question. It's a simple request, and so hopeful that I can't tell him no, even though it makes me ache.

That night, after we stay out most of the day and he takes down eight hares with his ice magic, we return to the caverns. Oskar refuses to let me help skin them—he insists I stay by the fire and keep my hands, especially my right, warm. I would rather be useful, but I'm also relieved. My hand hasn't hurt this much since I was first injured, and I feel sick with the pain and my efforts to hide it. It's apparent that Oskar can see it, though, and Maarika as well. She brews me a tea that tastes strongly of tree bark, and I drink it with gratitude and try not to grimace.

Oskar gives me a veiled look as I disappear with Freya into our little bedchamber. She chatters at me for several minutes about how Harri was asking after me this afternoon, how she thinks he wants to “entangle” with me. I listen with half an ear, distracted by what I'm about to do. The moment Freya's voice trails off and her breathing evens out, I sit up and peer through the gap between the fur and the frame from which it's hanging. Oskar's waiting for me. My heart is beating so fast. I've spent a significant part of every night watching him out there, but as I crawl forward to join him, I know—this is different.

I'm not sure if I want it or not. I
do
want to touch him. I've wanted to touch him for a while now, and not only because I want to help him. As confusing as it is, when I think of putting my hands on him—and the few times he's touched me—my stomach drops in the same way it always did when I thought of those things with Mim. They are nothing alike—Mim was softness and comfort where Oskar is gruff and hard. And even now, after all these days and weeks, thinking of her still stirs that warmth and worry and want inside of me. But when I look at Oskar, I cannot deny the flutter, the silent longing inside. At the same time, I don't want to accidentally drain away all his magic, even though that's exactly what he's hoping will happen. I'm scared about what it would do to him.

Oskar has placed his own pallet right next to the fire, and he's laid out a second on his other side and put an extra fur blanket atop it. He swallows hard when I come through the curtain, looking more uncertain than I'd expected, given his delight when I agreed to do this. “Are you . . . ,” he begins, then clears his throat. “Is this all right? Do you have enough room?”

My pallet is a good three feet away from his. “My arm's not that long.”

His cheeks, the tan fading into winter pallor, take on a pink flush. “Oh. How do you think we should . . .” He gestures from my body to his.

I shouldn't be doing this. If Raimo knew, he'd be furious. But as I look at Oskar, inching my pallet a little closer—but not
too
close—to his, I can't refuse him. If this gives him any relief at all, I'm willing to try. If it seems to have any negative effect on him, though, I'm pulling away.

“I think we'll have to figure it out together,” I say quietly.

I sink onto my pallet, the soft fur tickling the palm of my mangled hand. The pain from earlier in the evening has subsided now, but I still curl it against my chest to protect it. Oskar wraps his cloak around himself. We lie on our sides, facing each other.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I happened to overhear what Freya was saying to you about Harri. . . .”

My cheeks must be flaming. “I want absolutely nothing to do with him.”

Oskar's quiet for a moment, just staring at me. “Good,” he finally says, then reaches down and pulls the fur blanket up to my shoulders. “I'm grateful that you're willing to do this,” he murmurs.

“No promises.”

“Understood.”

Tentatively, he slides his hand toward me, palm up, calloused and strong. It comes to a stop between us. Waiting. Once I do this, there's no hiding, no going back, no pretending there's not something odd about me. I look from Oskar's hand to his face. He's watching me, a frown tugging at his lips. His fingers curl like a snail pulling into its shell. “You don't have to, Elli. If you say no, it won't change anything at all. You'll still have a home here, for as long as you need it.”

His hushed words fill the hollow space inside. My eyes sting with tears as I silently lay my palm over his.

It's the quietest of things, the most fragile of moments. I feel the coolness of his skin, but also the texture of it, hard and soft, rough and smooth, as his long fingers wrap over mine. As soon as our gazes meet, the cold magic swirls along my palm, around my wrist, winding its way up my arm until it trickles into my chest, glittering and frigid. Oskar's lips part. He looks stunned and stuck, like it feels too good to speak. The rush of magic intensifies, pouring into me so quickly that I swear I feel the tiny, cold kisses of snowflakes on my face.

“Oh,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you.”

I watch his face relaxing into the smallest of smiles as he falls into a peaceful sleep. He breathes evenly, a smooth rhythm from his powerful body, a much-needed truce after so much war inside him. My mind flickers with ice floes on the Motherlake, with icicles forming along branches and rocks, with snowflakes tumbling playfully through the air. The sight of his relief makes a tear slip from my eye, and I bow my head and kiss his knuckles, held tight in my grasp. I give in to it without guilt or shame. His skin tastes faintly of salt, maybe from my tears.

“Good night, Oskar.” I close my eyes and welcome his frigid dreams into my hollow darkness.

Over the next fortnight, we develop a new routine. Every night, Oskar waits, and every night, I go to him. I siphon his icy dreams, and inside me they thaw. It doesn't hurt. The ice can't claim me. It can't even make me shiver.

But Oskar can, though I don't think he realizes it. Now that he sleeps easy, he rises early, refreshed and warm. He always tests his magic on the pail of water near the fire—after a night touching me, it's all he can do to make the surface freeze. And instead of being horrified that I've drained the powerful ice magic away, he's delighted. He brews me tea, as if he's worried his dreams will give me a chill. He never asks how I do it, or why I have this power. He always asks if perhaps I'm too tired, if I'd like to sleep with Freya in the other chamber. He seems embarrassed. I don't think he understands that it feels just as good to me. I had been scared I would hurt him somehow, but every day he looks better.

Maybe I'm keeping him safe from his nightmares and giving him rest, but he's giving me something too, more than the new pair of gloves that magically appeared beneath my cloak one afternoon, the one for the right hand crafted with only three fingers and extra padding over the knuckles where the ring finger and pinkie would have been. More even than the delicate carving of a dove that I found under my pillow the evening after that, its wooden wings spread in flight, the flex of its body ecstatic and free.

I'm not sure how to pin this feeling down. It's as elusive as the numbness that swirls inside my body. Every day, as the hours creep past, I find myself getting jittery, waiting for the sight of Oskar's tall figure striding into the cavern. And when he does, I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face—especially because his eyes search for me, and when they find me, he smiles right back. That in and of itself is magical and ignites a spark of pride inside me.

I gave Oskar back his smile.

One day, as I'm hanging our laundry up to dry by the fire, he emerges from the back cavern, clean-shaven. Some of the young men, including Harri, his curly hair damp from the stream, are joking with him. “Tell me, Oskar, was it difficult to kill the ferocious little beast that had made its home on your ugly face?”

Oskar runs his palm along his smooth cheek. Harri couldn't be more wrong—Oskar is far from ugly. He looks a few years younger without that beard, but his jawline is straight and strong. He laughs. “It was a close call,” he says, then draws his hunting knife and waves it in the air. “But it was him or me.” He looks over and sees me watching him, and I bite my lip and duck into the shelter again.

Even though we're locked in the hard grip of winter, even though it's so cold in the caverns that my bones ache endlessly, I've never been happier. Oskar had hoped I could take away his magic for good, but I'm ashamed to admit that I'm glad it grows inside him during the day and leaves him shivering on his pallet at night, waiting for my touch. That moment I slide my hand into his is the absolute best second of every day.

Each morning I wake a little closer to Oskar's side, until one morning, I wake up in his arms. I don't remember it happening, but my head is on his shoulder, and my forehead is pressed to the cool skin of his throat. Strands of my copper hair are sticking to his dark stubble. His fingers are woven into my thick locks. He's breathing deeply, still sleeping, sweet and quiet. But my heart is racing. Tentatively I slide my arm over his chest, feeling the contours of him, memorizing the feel of it.
This is what it's like to be in the arms of a lover,
my mind whispers.

This is a thing I never thought I'd experience, yet something I have imagined more than a few times. I know that Oskar and I are friends—that he appreciates what I do for him and cares for me because I do it—but for a moment I close my eyes and pretend. His other hand is on my waist, and one of my feet is tucked between his calves. I inhale his scent, wood smoke, sweat, and something crisp and fresh that I can only think of as the purest kind of ice. It fills me with the crazy desire to curl my fingers into the fabric of his tunic, to press my lips to his skin and taste him.

I can't help but think he would taste delicious.

I should move, but I can't quite summon the will. I want this to go on and on.

I should be cold, molded against the body of a powerful ice wielder, but heat is rushing through my veins. My body tightens, curving into him, edging closer. I'm not sure what I'm seeking, but I crave it like I've never craved anything before.

The slow swish of Oskar's breath falls silent. For the barest instant, his fingers tighten in my hair. And then he turns on his side, rising on his elbow. His hair hangs down, shadowing his features as his face hovers above mine. But I feel his eyes on me. Trembling, I reach up and touch the tiny bow in the center of his upper lip. His breath gusts warm over my fingertips as he begins to lower his head.

“Don't mind me,” Freya says cheerfully as she pops out of her chamber. “Wouldn't want to interrupt.” She strides out of the shelter, probably headed for the relief chamber.

Oskar sits up abruptly, tugging his cloak around his body as he peels himself from my side. He rises from the floor, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I, ah . . . I should . . . yes. I should.” He walks out of the shelter, leaving me sitting on the floor, my hair a mess, my heart thumping in my once again hollow chest.

Freya returns a few minutes later and sits next to me by the smoldering fire. “You didn't think you were fooling me, sneaking out every night?”

I pull one of the fur blankets over my lap, twining my fingers in the soft pelt. “I guess I did.”

Freya's dark-brown hair is loose and wavy, and she has her skinny legs pulled to her chest under her thick woolen nightgown. “You're not very stealthy.”

“Are you angry?” I swallow hard and look over my shoulder at the curtain of pelts that covers Maarika's chamber.

“She knows, Elli.” Freya tosses a stray bit of wood onto the fire. “But Oskar's been happier in the last few weeks than he's been in a long time. It's hard to be angry about that.” She snorts. “I can think of a few people who might be, though.”

“Oskar and I aren't . . .” I have no idea what we aren't. Or what we are. But I have the niggling fear that what happened between us just now might have complicated everything. And despite that, I want to relive it over and over. To understand. To savor.

Freya pokes my arm. “Oh,
sure
you aren't. I might be ten, but I'm not stupid.”

I laugh. “Well, lucky for you. I'm sixteen, and right now I feel
really
stupid.” I get to my feet and grab one of the empty pails. “I'm going to fetch some water.”

Oskar's little sister gives me a saucy, raised-eyebrow look. “Make sure Aira's nowhere nearby when you do. She just might push you in.”