Chapter Text
Anna has always believed in true love. She remembers spending hours in the gallery, tracing the painted expressions of lovers gazing at each other. Her parents would tell stories about how they met; how easily childhood friendship grew into a rich and loving partnership. So, when she wakes in a room she doesn’t recognize, wearing a ring and watched over by a prince who had sacrificed so much just to be with her - it feels like she is finally living her story, the story she always wanted.
While Anna adores stories about grand romantic gestures, proposals, love-at-first sight, people tell other kinds of stories about love and marriage as well. Compassion and compromise and forgiveness and communication and deference. It takes maturity, and patience to be husband and wife. It can't all be passionate kissing and grand romantic escapes. It's just a shame she doesn't even have those memories to fall back on.
But perhaps Anna is being unfair. It must be hard for Hans to be affectionate with a wife who doesn't remember him.
And Hans is perfectly attentive - they share a newspaper in the morning, they play checkers in the grass, and when their walk in the garden was interrupted by bad weather, they sat in the conservatory and listened to the rain. But they don’t hug. Hans doesn’t touch her hair, she doesn’t catch him gazing at her - not in a besotted way, anyway, more of a tracking kind of way, like he thinks she's about to pitch off the balcony.
Anna wishes he was more willing to tell her stories about their past. She asked once how they found this house, wanting to hear about how long they searched, the All Wrong houses they saw along the way, the moment their eyes met and they knew this was their home, maybe they said it at the same time, maybe they were that in sync with each other…
Hans had replied, "The estate agent found it. It was a good price."
Anna wrinkles her nose. Warily, she lowers herself onto the first step, tucking her skirts under her thigh to block the chill. She keeps her two feet firmly planted, and one shoulder blocked against the wall, an irrational dizziness overcoming her when she looks down the curving stone staircase.
She works her ring around on her finger, misty-eyed. Maybe whatever maturity that age and marriage had brought to Anna, that had made price a more important factor than romance, maybe its absence is what makes Hans seem so stiff around her. After all, she supposes, from his perspective his wife has awoken as a girl with silly notions in her head.
No one seems to know for certain what she was doing when she fell – Anna least of all. If their house employed a full staff, this would have been the servant’s access point to the second floor from the cellars. She’s been told she wasn’t carrying anything, there was nothing found around her that provided any clue and she hadn’t mentioned to anyone what she was planning that day.
“You don’t keep me informed of your every movement, Anna,” Hans had said, when her questions became pressing.
Anna would have liked to have someone to plan the minutiae of her day with, but that’s a smaller matter.
She runs her finger along the cliff’s-edge of the top stair. In the middle it’s been worn smooth and shiny through years of use. Is this the patch she’d slipped on? She hopes not – it’s a long way down from here. She winces, picturing it. She’s lucky she wasn’t hurt worse.
Bertha finds her, eventually.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she chides, helping Anna to her feet. “You know your husband doesn’t like it, and I don’t either!”
Bertha leads her through the house and down the main staircase (solid wood and fixed carpeting and a sturdy handrail - much safer, why wouldn't Anna have used this one), muttering all the while. She doesn’t let go of Anna’s hand until she’s settled in her spot at the end of the countertop.
“Now,” she asks, concerned, “are you… remembering anything?”
Anna drops her gaze, sucking on her teeth and making a close inspection of the knife-marks in the counter. It’s been over a week now and Anna hasn’t remembered anything. She breathes in through her nose and almost whispers, “What if it isn’t going to come back?”
Hans has sketched such happiness to her. They’re both better off for having left their respective castles. She can just imagine it - finally free to be themselves, no more oppressive silences and closed doors – replaced by a family of their own making; small but joyous and open and together and Anna can’t remember a moment of it.
Bertha doesn’t know what to say, Anna can tell. They’ve had versions of this conversation before. Anna can’t really talk to Hans about it. He – well, Anna supposes it’s very difficult for Hans. He just says, Listen to the doctor, Anna, and, Don’t dwell on it, Anna.
“I just want to remember,” she says, still down to the scattered indents in the wood.
“What did the doctor say this morning?” asks Bertha, probably fishing for some good news to be cheerful about.
The Doctor, Anna would scoff if it weren’t so unkind. But Bertha doesn’t like the man either, Anna can tell, ever since she saw the way Bertha glared when Dr. Wallace brought a load of his linens down for washing.
“The same thing he always says! Rest and wait and don’t strain myself.”
“And you asked about the specialist, I suppose, like you planned?”
Anna slumps further. It hadn’t gone very well.
“He said he looked into it. There isn’t anybody nearby, and we shouldn’t risk traveling by ship while I’m healing.” He had shown her copies of the letters they had sent out, asking specialists in faraway cities to come and visit, but no one had replied yet. The downside of abandoning the crown, he’d said. Hans hadn’t been willing to consider going to Elsa or his father for help just yet.
“I’m sorry, dear,” says Bertha, and she really does sound it, “That makes a lot of sense. A long journey like that can be very taxing, and you need your rest. It hasn’t been that long.” She pats Anna’s hands. Anna tries not to hold the sentiment against her –she enjoys her time with Bertha, but she’s sick to death of being told she needs to rest.
{ - }
The itch under her skin spreads, across her back and down her shoulders – a discomfort that Anna associates with being cooped up.
“Perhaps today we could walk past the gate,” she suggests, as she and Hans are setting off on their loop around the garden, “I would love to see the forest!”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” her husband responds, “if you were to stumble, out among the trees?” he gives her wrist a significant look, “there’s no clear path, and you know you are fairly prone to falls.”
Anna has generally found that she has good balance – you have to, to ride a bicycle down a staircase – but it’s hard to argue the point with her arm in a splint and the fresh scar along her temple. The bandaging around her head has been reduced to a single band - no more gauze. Anna can’t wait until the whole thing can come away.
“We could walk down the lane,” she counters.
“Another day,” he says, “I worry about you, I hope you understand.”
It rises in her throat again - that lump that won’t let her be content with a husband so devoted and careful - but Anna swallows it down. Compassion, and compromise. These things are different when you're not alone.
“Of course,” she assures him, patting his arm.
The matter settled, apparently, Anna allows him to lead her in a circle along the same garden path they’ve been treading over and over. They don't say much. There isn't much left undiscussed about the state of the garden or the hypothetical birdbath.
She’s still feeling a little peevish at dinner, when Hans addresses her.
“Doctor Wallace and I are going into town tomorrow,” he says, watching her closely for a reaction.
What an exciting surprise! She has been talking a lot about wanting to see the nearby area, and he listened! “Oh!" she exclaims, "what time do we leave?”
Hans clears his throat and taps his index finger against the table. “Ah, I said, actually, Wallace and I, we have business, it will probably take the whole day…”
All Anna’s excitement drains away as she catches his meaning. He cannot be serious.
“Well, I can come along, you don’t need to worry about me, I can keep myself busy."
“My intention was for you to stay here,” he says, “We plan to leave before sunrise, and we won’t be back before dinner. I’m concerned about the strain on your health-”
“My health? I’ve ridden in the carriage before, we went for a drive the other day-”
Hans clears his throat and casts a meaningful expression across the table to the doctor.
“Yes, ah, the thing is, the air in town won’t be as clear, it could aggravate your condition,” offers Doctor Wallace, “And all the stimulation of the environment, it’s risky, in your condition.”
“I have one wrist in a splint,” Anna fairly snaps, exasperated.
Her breath is coming short, now. She can’t remember the last time she was this angry. He means to leave her here. When he knows how she’s been feeling, how cooped up, how restless.
“And a severe enough head injury to lose years worth of memories,” her husband says, slow and calm, a tone that makes her childish and unreasonable, “I won’t go against the doctor’s orders.”
"So you're going to go," she says, flatly. "And I’m going to stay here, alone. And that's the end of the matter, is it?"
“You won’t be alone, of course not. Bertha will be here to keep you company.”
Anna doesn’t have much else to say. Her lip wobbles but she holds her mouth tight. He isn’t listening. It isn't compromise if only one side is budging, after all.
{ - }
After dinner, Hans gathers Bertha and Dr. Wallace and the four of them read the first act of a play Hans selects. It’s a good diversion, though the doctor is very clearly not enjoying himself and Bertha’s line readings would generously be described as stilted.
After those two excuse themselves, Anna and Hans sit together on the settee.
“I’m sorry about the trip,” he says. “I hope you don’t feel I’m being overbearing.”
“I understand where you’re coming from,” she hedges. It’s not untrue, after all. And he has been very sweet making it up to her tonight. "I just wish you would trust me to know my limits."
"We'll take the carriage out for a picnic, when I get back," he promises. Anna relents. That does sound nice - a better compromise.
He suggests that he could read to her for a little while, as Bertha and Wallace have retreated to bed very early indeed. She has a fleeting impulse of scooting over, leaning on him, but she can't quite summon the bravery to initiate.
Hans reads aloud from the book of poems for a little under ten minutes. He reads smoothly, but Anna wants very badly for him to stop, something about the situation agitates her, she’s fidgety and uncomfortable from the first word.
At the end of the next poem, she jumps to her feet, like a coiled spring.
"Gosh, thank you!" she exclaims, "that was lovely. It is quite late now though, so I think I'll-" She gestures vaguely upstairs.
They say stilted goodnight, he continues down the corridor to his office rather than following Anna up to the main landing.
It was nice of him to read to her. She hopes he didn't notice she wasn't properly listening.
It was nice of him, yes. But she hopes he doesn't offer again.
{ - }
Anna spends many afternoons with Bertha in the kitchens, after she and Hans have tea and go on their walk. Today she just comes down earlier than usual, as there’s no one else to share the morning meal with.
"Did you ever work at the castle?" she asks, curious if Bertha has known her for longer than she realizes.
Bertha snorts, derisively, then remembers herself. "Uh - no, no I didn't. In order to work at the castle you need a reference. Usually the jobs go to relatives of people who already work there, or if you've worked for a notable family in the area and you can get a letter of reference. It's not something you just fall into," Bertha explains.
"I never really thought about it," Anna admits, "but I guess I assumed that anyone in Arendelle who wanted a job could come work at the castle… I didn't realize it was hard."
"Most people in your position wouldn't think to ask," Bertha reassures her, "I've certainly never spoken about it before."
Anna frowns, then. "I never even asked you?"
"Oh," Bertha clears her throat, awkward as ever when reminded of Anna's memory gaps, "no, of course. I meant before as in, before when I worked in households previously."
"Okay good." Anna smiles. “I hope you don’t mind me going over all of this twice!”
“No, you’re - welcome company, Anna…”
Anna grins. This will be okay actually. She’ll get some time with Bertha and maybe with Hans out of the house, break away some of the formality that still sits like a crust over their relationship.
Even with Anna’s lack of (successful) experience, Bertha gets her bread made ahead of schedule. Well, it’s already a big puddle of dough that’s been resting overnight by the time Anna meets it, but Anna does fold it a few times on her own!
They share tea while the bread bakes and it comes out a perfect shade of golden brown.
“Well,” Anna says, appreciatively, “we missed you in the castle, I assure you.”
Bertha laughs but by the expression on her face, Anna thinks it was the right thing to say.
“Well, it’s on to scrubbing floors next, so you can go and make yourself busy elsewhere,” says Bertha, once the loaf has been stored away.
“Oh no, don’t!” says Anna, genuinely horrified. “Don’t scrub things while they’ve left us to go off traveling - how awful! No, you should take the afternoon off!”
Bertha barks a single laugh, like Anna has said something absolutely preposterous.
“I mean it!” Anna insists, “You should take this chance to go and lie down. Get some rest. You deserve a day off. I am perfectly capable of keeping myself occupied."
Bertha hesitates. "What will you do?"
Anna knows what she’s going to do if she wins this argument. But what she says is, "Well, it is as good a time as any to rediscover an old favorite book!"
Bertha didn't work at the castle when Anna was a child. They all grew wise to Anna's scheming.
Bertha looks skeptical, still. "Mr. Westergaard really would prefer I didn't leave you by yourself."
"If Mr. Westergaard wishes I should have company, he certainly knows where to find me." Both of Bertha's eyebrows climb at the less than teasing tone in Anna's voice, but she doesn't comment.
A begrudging smile twists Bertha's face.
"Very well,” she gives in with a tease. Anna claps, happily. "Would you like me to prep any lunch before I leave you?"
"No, thank you, and if I need anything I can find the kitchen well enough."
“Perish the thought,” Bertha mutters, but she acquiesces to Anna’s shooing.
Bertha trudges away to her room, god willing, to nap. The woman was up when Hans and Dr. Wallace left, Anna knows, so it’s a safe bet.
Letting the sprout of an idea grow, Anna heads up to her room. She makes her way to the closet and finds the coat and walking shoes she dons for garden walks. She makes herself sit patiently on the bed, waiting, until enough time has passed that Bertha will have gone to sleep, or at least occupied herself with something in her own room.
She feels bad about the deception, of course, except that no one is going to be hurt by it. Bertha will have some well-earned rest and Anna is going to go for a stroll under the trees.
{ - }
The road sweeps away left and right from the end of their driveway. Quite at random, Anna picks left, toward the mountains.
It is a lovely day. The air is cool and crisp, the sun is shining but the trees bend inward above the road, shading her walk perfectly. In all her time sitting at the windowsill no cart or carriage has passed their house, so Anna feels perfectly comfortable walking down the center of the road. She sticks to the lane where the earth is flat, though the treeline wants exploring. She doesn't risk it though - if she returned to the house after an illicit walk with her wrist worse off than it was, well, she'd never hear the end of it.
It's hard to say how long she walks before she reaches the crossroads, but she would guess less than an hour. The intersecting road is wider, more evenly paved with less grass encroaching from the sides, so Anna guesses this is the main road. A wooden road sign points to Anna's right and reads Hallstatt - 12km
Anna stands under the sign and huffs. Well - she's not walking to town then. Instead she picks left again and keeps her easy, strolling pace.
The exercise feels good - she hadn't realized how stiff she was feeling, even with their garden turns. She picks up her pace and walks until she can feel it in her chest and down the back of her legs.
She has the wild urge to just keep going. Walk and walk until she hits the snowy mountain horizon. But that's not a responsible decision - she'll want a glass of water and something to eat when she gets back, and she definitely wants to be there when Bertha wakes up.
Anna gives herself some time to sit on a fallen log by the roadside and just absorb her surroundings. She can see the beauty in this place, though frankly she’d prefer it as a holiday house. She can imagine herself retreating to the country with a retinue of close friends, to escape the city and spend days walking and picnicking.
But that’s a princesses instinct, she supposes. How absolutely spoiled.
It’s time to walk back. She’s more than proven to herself that she is capable of walking along a smooth road in the daylight, and she’s looking forward to telling Hans about her adventure when he gets home. Then he will relax a little about her health, or she’ll invite him to come with her next time, if he so badly wants her supervised. That could be nice, she thinks, to extend their walks in radius and duration. Maybe they'll walk to the picnic rather than take the carriage.
She’s been alone so long on the path that she’s surprised when she hears a horse’s hoofs coming from further down the road. When the rider appears around a bend in the lane, Anna can tell she has taken him by surprise too.
"Good afternoon! Are you lost?" He asks, bringing his horse to a stop beside her.
"No, I am quite nearby, thank you," she says gesturing the way she had come.
He tilts his head, confused, looking down the lane, though the house can't be seen from this distance. Even from a great deal closer, their driveway is enclosed by hedges.
"My apologies," he offers, tipping his hat, "I hadn't realized there were any families visiting the area."
Any sense that he might know her dissolves. Likely for the best, Anna doesn't particularly want to have to explain her memory issue to a stranger.
"We live here," she corrects him, "the house is just down the lane beyond the hedgerow."
Now he looks truly surprised. "Oh! I am sorry, I did not know the Oswald's had sold the old place! Usually it's only occupied in the summers. How are you finding it?"
"We've been here some time now, actually," she tells him, but as Anna says it she realizes she doesn't actually know how long precisely.
He frowns, looking quite confounded.
"Erm, well… I suppose I have my dates all wrong. Anyway - it was lovely to meet you, miss - ?"
Anna almost blurts her maiden name, though she supposes she has probably not gone by that since leaving Arendelle.
"Westergaard," she says instead, "Anna Westergaard."
"A pleasure, Mrs. Westergaard." He tips his hat again and clicks at his horse. "Perhaps we shall see each other in town."
Anna waves at him and he goes.
There, she thinks. Perfectly capable of both walking and having cordial interactions with neighbors. She argues good-naturedly with an imaginary Hans as she gets closer to the house, coming up with some really good points about how overprotective he’s being and how she is beginning to find it stifling.
She understands that he’s worried about her, of course he is, how terrifyingly random her accident must have seemed to him, but he needs to understand her perspective too!
Anna lies down for a nap herself, when she gets home. Bertha wakes her for dinner and they spend the evening together. Anna begins to feel quite guilty about being so deceitful. Bertha would be in major trouble with Hans over Anna’s little adventure, so Anna doesn’t bring it up. She doesn’t want to stress the other woman out, and she’s sure that once she’s had a chance to speak with Hans about the situation properly it will all smooth out nicely and no one will face any repercussions.
They sit by the fire in the kitchen and Anna helps hold the yarn basket while Bertha knits, and they drink tea and Anna peppers Bertha with questions about the craft and where she learned it and what else Bertha remembers about her grandmother. It’s just a lovely, cozy evening - the kind Anna treasures.
It's obvious when the men return, as they can hear the horse and the clattering carriage wheels on the cobblestone driveway. The night air has turned chilly and neither Anna nor Bertha are particularly inclined to go out and assist.
Hans enters, eventually, still tugging off his gloves, with Dr. Wallace behind him. "Princess," he nods, curt, before turning to Bertha, "a word with you?"
Anna bristles, the doctor is a guest in their household, he doesn't have the right to go ordering Bertha around like that, but Bertha follows him out of the room without hesitation.
"Is everything okay?" she asks Hans. Anna has always been able to sense tension like this. She always knew when her parents were stressed.
"Just a long day," he assures her. Anna doesn't believe him. It's certainly not a good time to bring up her sneaking out, that's clear.
Hans doesn't linger with her, he claims tiredness and promises to fill her in on all the details of the trip tomorrow. But he heads in the direction of his office, which is on the other side of the house entirely from the bedrooms, not to mention on the wrong floor.
Something went wrong, she thinks. And obviously no one feels much need to fill Anna in.
Well, there goes the comfortable aura of the evening so far. She will entertain herself until bed then.
She spends a few moments kind of absently twirling around her room, marveling at how it really doesn’t feel like her space, even an older version. There’s very little in the way of personal touches - no portraits of her loved ones, not even any of herself and her husband, no diary that she’s been able to find, no letters, no set up on the desk for her to engage in either diary-keeping or letter writing. Just the bed, the desk, the window ledge, the wardrobe, and the dresser. She even keeps her sewing kit downstairs.
Privately, Anna suspects that she spends most of her nights in her husband’s room, but he’s too much a gentleman to draw attention. This isn’t actually her room - it’s the only explanation.
But for tonight’s entertainment, the pickings are slim. She can’t sit at a window for long, and her sewing kit is downstairs, though her wrist would still make any attempt awkward and clumsy. So - an improving book, she decides. And perhaps she’ll fall asleep early.
The bookshelf is a study in dust - further evidence that it’s a converted guest room, she thinks. But now that she’s close, she can tell easily which was the most recently read book. It’s slim with a pink binding and the dust in front of it is disturbed in a parallel track, like the way she used to stalk slugs through the gardens.
With a single finger she sweeps The Mysteries of Udolpho from the shelf and opens to the description.
Emily St. Aubert, she learns, is the fictitious only child of a landed rural family whose fortunes are in decline, meets a man with whom she feels an instantaneous connection… Oh yes, Anna thinks, this will do well. She carries the book to her bedside table and takes a minute to get herself ready for bed. Fully settled, under the bed covers and propped up against pillows, she opens to the introductory chapter.
Except the book doesn’t want to open to the front page - there’s something tucked in at the back, folded paper, she sees, in amongst the pages.
Excited, she unfolds it - after all, it’s hardly likely that Hans was the last to read this book, it can only be Anna who hid this paper here, just like she used to at home.
Her breath catches at the first two words in her own handwriting, Dear Elsa, and she reads very quickly from there.
I fell, last week. Or so I’m told.…