Anya won easily, over and over again. The last time she upended me, I righted myself and dog-paddled feverishly toward her, barely afloat, not saying a word. She stared at me blankly until I dove forward and ducked her underwater, crowing, “I won this one! I win!” Anya shrieked delightedly, swiping at me wildly.

Torden finally intervened and the two of us tried to duck him without success. He flipped Anya and me over his shoulders, arms around the backs of our knees and both of our heads just above water. We screeched and hooted and flailed, and when he released us, Anya somehow managed to flip over his back into the lake, but I wound up in his arms, close against his chest.

I pushed my hair behind my ears with one hand and clung to his neck with the other, shaking from nerves and the cold as we bobbed silently together in the water.

Neither of us moved until another catcall from Fredrik split the air.

“Time to dry off,” said Torden, voice so low it rumbled in his chest. He hauled us both out of the lake easily, as though I weighed nothing at all.

The others climbed out after us, blue-lipped and shivering likewise. But as Fredrik heaved himself onto the bank, Torden gave him a playful shove and he flopped backward, hitting the water with a huge splash.

Fredrik clambered back toward the bank and dragged himself onto dry land. “What was that for?”

Torden eyed him and gave a long wolf whistle, as sharp and silly as Fredrik had before I’d jumped in. We all collapsed into laughter.

We retreated to the fortress freezing but exhilarated, and Anya and I both took scalding baths before I collapsed into her bed.

When I woke, Anya was aglow with excitement, her hair a mess and eyes so bright I wondered if she’d napped at all. “Time to get ready?” I asked hazily, wiping my eyes.

Anya nodded eagerly. “Time to get ready.”

We pawed through each other’s things while we got dressed, like little girls playing dress-up. Anya talked me into red lipstick and a bright ruby pendant of my mother’s with my yellow gown—but only on the condition that she wear her own golden tiara and the green dress I’d worn in England. She’d refused at first, her tone all well-bred protest, but her hands traced the patterns in the lace even as she shook her head.

I thought of the tie I’d knotted around Bear’s neck the night I’d worn that dress, of the way he’d watched me and held me when we danced.

It felt foolish to give away something so expensive. But it wasn’t as if I was ever going to wear it again.