“Selah, I am not perfect,” Torden finally said, his tone frank. “My brothers could—they will—offer you a long list of my failings.”

I swallowed. “Like what?”

Torden raised his eyebrows. “Will you tell me yours if I tell you mine?” he asked baldly. I considered this a moment and nodded.

He blew out a breath. “I am rash,” he said. “Impatient. Not as wise as my father or as thoughtful as Hermódr, and Aleksei is much cleverer. And I am too ready to fight when I should try to talk.”

I didn’t agree out loud, but he’d spoken truly. I could see those things in him.

And yet, I thought, you confess quickly, too.

His fingers flexed, a few inches from mine on the table. “Your turn.”

“I question myself ceaselessly,” I half whispered. “I have no confidence—I’m afraid to fight. Afraid even to be laughed at.”

I thought of myself fleeing the ball in Potomac, fleeing the ball in Winchester. Running away from watching eyes and whispering mouths.

Torden scratched at the wood grain on the table, then turned his gaze on me, searching my face. “That’s the worst of you,” he said in a low voice. “Now tell me the best. Don’t be shy. Don’t be modest.”

I swallowed hard and reached for his hand.

This list took longer to assemble, my brain buzzing at our touch. “The best things about me are gifts from the people I love,” I finally said. “Kindness. Loyalty. Faith.” I paused. “More than anything, faith that a larger story is being told all around us, even when it’s beyond our view.” I swallowed and glanced at Torden. “Your turn.”

His voice was quiet but sure. “I’m not afraid.” One thumb rubbed my knuckles. “I keep my promises. And despite what he did, you can trust that I will never lie to you. Whatever I tell you, you can believe it is the truth.”

I squeezed his fingers and faced him, blood pounding in my ears.

Just do it, he’d said. I’ll catch you.

Across the room, Perrault was eyeing us. He nodded, pleased.

I didn’t want his approval; it washed over me like icy water. But somehow, it drove me nearer to Torden.

“Will you dance with me?” I asked.

Torden didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go of my hand as he led me from the table.

42

The Asgard boys had ribbed Fredrik in English the night before, but the way they hassled Torden while we danced made me grateful I didn’t speak Norsk. He ignored them for an hour until something else made him falter—the twins, Vidarr and Váli, at the head table with his father and stepmother. They were too far away to hear, but their hands were unmistakably tense and argumentative, their mouths surly.

“It— Selah, I am sorry,” he said, looking perturbed. “Excuse me.”

“Of course.”