Archive of Our Own

1. Nina

“This is a joke,” Nina says. “You’re joking. You enjoy being cruel to me, and that’s exactly what’s happening right now.”

“Am I enjoying your suffering?” Zoya says, studying Nina with her hand under her chin. “Yes. Is this a joke? No.”

“I can’t go to Fjerda,” Nina says. “It’s a wasteland.”

“It’s a perfectly fine place,” Zoya says. “Not nearly as bad as the stories tell you.”

“You’re lying to me,” Nina says. “You’ve condemned me to live on the ice for fun, and now you have the raw gall to lie to me.”

“Mind your tone,” Zoya snaps. “This is an honor. You’ve been chosen to represent Ravka in our new era of peace.”

“If it’s such an honor, why don’t you do it?” Nina asks.

“I don’t want to,” Zoya says.

Nina feels herself grinding her teeth. “What’s expected of me?”

“Elaborate,” Zoya says.

“Well,” Nina says, waving the contract around. “If I’m going to be sent off to Fjerda to marry some- Some guy, what does that entail for me? How should I act on our wedding night?”

“I think you know how to act on a wedding night,” Zoya says. “You’ve certainly been able to do it on far less important nights.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from-“ Nina bites her tongue before it gets her killed. Lets out a huff. “Well take a good look, then, because that’s the last time you’re ever going to see my tits, General Nazyalensky.” 

“There are other tits in the Ravkan army,” Zoya says.

“You are such a-“ She sucks in a breath. “Genya!” she offers brightly, turning on her heel. “You’ve always wanted to-“

“No I don’t,” Genya says.

“Can Fjerdan men marry other men?” Nina asks.

“Oh, definitely not,” Fedyor says. “Frigid in every sense of the word.”

“I hate everyone in this room,” Nina says. 

“Hey!” Nadia protests. “We’re all making sacrifices vis a vis never seeing your tits again.”

Nina just shakes her head. “I don’t even know this-“ she scans the page. “Matthias. Aren’t all Fjerdan men virgins?”

“Yes,” Genya says.

“I’d assume,” Fedyor adds.

“Not all of them,” Zoya says. 

“What if I refuse?” Nina says. “In fact, I’m doing that right now. I object. I am consciously objecting to this union. I’m a soldier, for fuck’s sake. I’m not just some… some girl!” She crosses her arms. “I’m not doing it.”

“You do realize that consciously objecting would make you a deserter,” Zoya says. “And we would have to execute you.”

“Good!” Nina says. “Do it. Do it now, even. Try me .”

“Oh, I’m not the one who made the final decision,” Zoya says. She smiles. Never a good sign. “Orders are from General Morozova himself. Would you like me to go get him?”

Nina clenches her free hand into a fist. “Maybe.”

“Sure,” Zoya says. “Let me do that right now.” She takes a step back, like she’s going to head for the door. “What would you like me to tell him? You think you’re too good for this? Certainly you think you’re better than the rest of your fellow soldiers, who fought beside you, died beside you. You think you’re better than the emperor, too. Isn’t that right? Maybe you should be Empress, instead. I’ll tell General Morozova all of that. I’m sure he’ll love hearing it.”

“I…” Nina says, meeting Zoya’s eyes. “Hate you.”

“Good,” Zoya says. “Hate me all the way to Fjerda.”

Nina’s shoulders slump. 

“Listen to me very carefully,” Zoya says. “Because you are a soldier, you will serve your country to the best of your abilities. As you always have. You will not be treating this as a burden. Or worse. A vacation.”

“So I’m a diplomat, too?” Nina says.

“And Saints help us,” Zoya says. “Are we clear?”

Nina reviews the document, looking for any error in the seal, any chance it might be a forgery. 

But no one in Ravka is this good.

The deal is already done.

“We’re clear,” she mutters.

“Good,” Zoya says, reaching for the contract. “This has to be sent back to Fjerda.”

Nina catches something at the top of the page. “Antoinina Zenik?” she snaps. “Are you joking?”

“What?” Zoya asks. She shrugs an elegant shoulder. “That’s your name.”

Her most legal name, sure. The name only Zoya calls her, ever, to be difficult. Nina considers hitting her for good measure, opting to bite the inside of her cheek as the wave of annoyance rides out. “Must you squeeze as much torment out of me as possible?” Nina says. “Are you really so sad you’re never going to see me again?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Zoya says. “Fjerda is just a few days away. I’m sure I’ll find something new soon enough.” She waves her hand. Discussion closed. “Go stitch them a handkerchief or something so they don’t think we’re sending a completely lost cause.”

“If he kills me,” Nina says. “You’ll have to take all of this out on someone else.”

“Please,” Zoya says. “Don’t insult me. I trained you myself. If it comes down to it, I’m sure you’ll be able to kill him first.”

2. Matthias

He’s not sure what to expect when he’s called to Brum’s office. Alone.

Certainly the looks from his fellow Druskelle leave the oil-slick feeling of dread in his gut, made worse by the older boys who come to walk beside him.

“Have I done something wrong?” Matthias asks. Demands. In a man’s voice. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Calm down,” one of them snaps.

Matthias watches his feet the rest of the walk. He radiates the warmth of humiliation. Too hot-headed. Foolish enough to speak out of turn. 

That anxious nausea only grows as Jarl Brum stands upon his arrival, the greeting he pays to an equal, not to one of his soldiers.

Certainly not to Matthias, lest the others think he’s receiving special treatment.

But here is he, Brum patting him on the back. 

Something is very, very off.

“Leave us,” Brum says. 

He feels each curious gaze like a blow, his brothers leaving him with just Brum and the log fire he has burning.

“You’ve been selected for a special assignment,” Brum tells him, leading him to stand in front of the fire. “Drink?”

“Uh,” Matthias says. “Is that allowed?”

“This is an exception,” Brum says. 

He pours that horrible, clear stuff Matthias has to choke down whenever they’re celebrating. 

“What’s happening?” Matthias asks. Out of turn. Again. Idiot. 

“You recall that we have entered a… period of peace. With our southern neighbors. Yes?”

“Of course, sir,” Matthias says. He still hears the Druskelle complain about it.

“And you know that royals are…” Brum pauses on his sentiment. “Our king and queen are good people. But they must sometimes make… gestures. In times like these. To show good faith to our…” A small sneer. “Allies.”

Dear Djel. They’re going to burn him alive on a pyre. “I’m aware, sir,” Matthias says, his voice younger-sounding and smaller than he meant for it to be.

“The Tsar of Ravka has asked for a union,” Brum says. “Between a Fjerdan and a Ravkan. Originally to be held in Ravka, but that was negotiated.”

“We’re training Ravkan soldiers?” Matthias asks.

“Not quite,” Brum says. “Come here.”

If he notices that Matthias hasn’t touched his drink, he is at least considerate enough, in this moment, to not mention it. 

“Read this,” Brum tells him, handing him the most extravagant looking document Matthias has ever seen.

He wrinkles his brow. “This is in Ravkan.” A new bloom of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m learning quickly, but-“

“Skip to the bottom,” Brum says.

“Ah,” Matthias says. “This is the same as the top?”

“It is,” Brum says. “To my understanding. You know my Ravkan’s not very good either.” 

A shared joke. This must be extraordinarily bad.

Matthias tries to keep his hands from trembling as he reads, “By order of Emperor Alexander III of Ravka, as a show of good faith between Ravka and her neighbor, Fjerda, The Little Palace sends Antoinina Zenik to be wed to Matthias Helvar.”

After that, he forgets how to read.

His head snaps up, meeting Brum’s gaze with more shock than seemed to be expected. “Me?”

“You’re the best man for it,” Brum says. “Your piety. Your service. We needed to present a good candidate.”

He should take the praise. He should let himself have it, if only for a fleeting moment. “What’s she like?” Matthias asks.

He thinks again of her name, at the top. Antoinina Zenik. He tries to sound it out. Ayn-toy-nee-na. Or is it An-twah-nee-na? 

So impressive that he barely notices the two names at the bottom, signing off on her fate. General Aleksander Morozova. General Zoya Nazyalensky.

Names that would’ve given him chills.

But they’re not Antoinina.

“She speaks Fjerdan,” Brum interrupts, giving Matthias a look.

He hadn’t been enunciating quietly enough. “She does?”

“I’m sure that’s why they’re sending her,” Brum scoffs. “Djel forbid any of those Ravkan vultures try to learn another language.”

“Sir,” Matthias says.

“Right,” Brum says, shaking his head. “Right. I’m sure she’s fine. The best woman Ravka will have to offer. Perfectly normal.”

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Matthias asks. His thumb stays over her name, right where it’s next to his. 

He’s been wondering about that, too. A soldier and a woman. The idea is as foreign to him as sounding out her name. 

“But what is she like,” Matthias presses. “Has General Naz-ah- General Na-zah-lent- Gen-“

“The woman’s a nurse,” Brum says. “So she has good patience. Useful skills.”

“Not a soldier?” Matthias asks.

“A woman can’t be a soldier,” Brum says. “And she is just a woman. Like any other. Pious and quiet, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Matthias says. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed. He’s barely ever spoken to a Fjerdan woman- So he supposes it’s not really a loss if Ravkan women are the same.

“I might have one other thing-“ Brum says, looking through his drawers. “If we didn’t throw it out.”

“You’ve thrown letters out?” Matthias asks.

Brum rifles through his desk. “What does it matter?” he asks, not looking up. “You’re marrying her regardless.” 

Matthias feels the precipice of another question. It’s best to mind the sharpness in Brum’s tone.

“Ah! Here,” Brum says, pulling out a small, bronze frame and a handkerchief from his desk. “Picture of the woman.”

Matthias takes the frame with too-eager hands, the thing smaller than the size of his palm.

He knows his duty. No one actually wants him to like the Ravkan woman.

Just marry her.

Brum hands him the handkerchief next. She’s embroidered their names on it. A show of wifely skill.

Matthias Helvar & Nina Zenik.

Preferred name, he assumes. “Nee-na,” he says, under his breath.

The woman in the picture, in her starched nursing uniform. Nina.

“Thank you,” Matthias says. 

“It’s just some stitch-work,” Brum says, waving off any kind of fondness in Matthias’ tone. “I suppose she’s beautiful, for a Ravkan girl.”

“She is,” Matthias agrees, still holding her delicately in his palm.

“For a Ravkan girl,” Brum repeats.

“I’ll take my leave,” Matthias says, getting up. Easier than risking another moment of moonstruck weakness. “When does she arrive?”

“If they’re on time, one week,” Brum says.

“One week?” Matthias says. “She arrives that soon?”

“But they’re Ravkan, so they’ll be late,” Brum continues. “Nine days.”

“I’m supposed to marry her, and she’s arriving in nine days?” Matthias says.

“You’re a good soldier, Matthias,” Brum says. His set jaw tells Matthias not to push his luck. “Treat this as you would any other order.”

Nina looks up at him from her portrait, and it almost feels like she thinks his embarrassment, his bewilderment, is funny. Like there’s laughter in her eyes. 

“When will we be wed?” Matthias asks.

“As soon as possible after her arrival,” Brum says. “We want this gesture of peace to go off smoothly. And quickly. So I’ve been told.”

“Right,” Matthias says. 

“I doubt you two will be the only ones made to do this,” Brum says. “But you will be the first. Try to keep her in order.”

“You said she was quiet,” Matthias says.

“I’m hoping for the best,” Brum says. “But treaty or not, that’s a Ravkan girl. Don’t let her forget where she is.”

“Of course, sir,” Matthias says.

The woman in the picture is still mocking him. He has no idea what to say back.

3. Nina

Matthias is enormous. An elk of a man. A moose, even. She’s tall, for a Ravkan woman, and still he towers over her.

He’d seemed kind enough, though she’d only spoken to him twice, once when he’d come to greet her at her carriage, and the second time as he’d shown her the lodge and their wedding clothes. 

He had already been pale when she’d met him, but the black wool coat he wears now made him look practically snow-white. Like the undead.

He seems like he’ll be a rather difficult husband to get rid of.

A morbid thought, but one that crosses her mind as they stand there, waiting the eons it takes for a damn photograph. 

She hadn’t thought Fjerdans were evolved enough to have the camera.

But here they are.

Matthias in his black coat, Nina in her traditional Fjerdan wedding attire, feeling very much like she is not the right candidate to be this man’s wife.

For one, despite the shirt between her and the garment, Nina’s still spilling out of the bunad the Fjerdan women had shoved her into, clucking their tongues all the while at the fullness of her breasts and her hips. 

“Do your men not like large breasts?” she’d asked in Fjerdan. Her accent could be near perfect, should she desire, but these women were skinny and they were far too self assured, so Nina had delighted in speaking their language in a foreigner’s most obnoxious voice. “Surely they look for curvy women to bear them lots of children. No? Isn’t that what women do here?”

They’d turned red-faced at the mention of sex, or perhaps at Nina understanding their language. Either she’d embarrassed them or had made them mad, which Nina had considered a victory.

Now, given how heavy the bridal crown is, she’s rethinking that moment with just a little more regret.

She isn’t meant for these kinds of thick, traditional clothes and high collars and heavy crowns.

She’s sweating. Truly unglamorous for a bride to be like this on her wedding day. Her cheeks are too rosy from just how damn warm she is, and she’s hungry, too. Growing more agitated by the second.

She hates the eagles they’d embroidered on their garments. Not because they’re ugly, but because they’re beautiful, just another reminder of Ravka, where she could have the wedding she’d always wanted, one day, instead of this. Now.

“Eagles,” he had said when showing her the dress, perhaps noticing her scowl and trying to fix it. His Ravkan had been choppy at best. 

She’d told him, repeatedly, in perfect Fjerdan, that he didn’t have to try.

But he had kept at it. 

“Like Ravka,” he’d told her. “Your bird.”

How dare he. She can accept the politics of the marriage and she can accept that no one here is happy about it, but she would not take sympathy or pity from him.

“Are we nearly done?” Nina asks the photographer. “I believe I’m supposed to be getting married.”

“Another few minutes,” the photographer says, as he has all the other times she’d asked him to hurry up.

She lets out a huff.

She feels Matthias’ fingers brush her hand. “I’m sorry.” Again, the stilted Ravkan. For a moment, she thinks he’s just saying something to himself.

Her spine stiffens. “Excuse me?”

They can’t look at each other, lest they ruin the photo, but still his fingers rest on the back of her hand.

“I said I’m sorry,” Matthias repeats, mercifully in Fjerdan. “You should be happier at your own wedding.”

“It’s not really my wedding, now is it?” she says. “It’s certainly a wedding I’m involved in. I’m getting married. But it’s not my wedding.”

Silence. He doesn’t drop his hand. 

Nina lets out a huff. “I’m sure you’re a fine man, Matthias. Don’t take it personally. We just got stuck here.”

He radiates sensitivity. So she bites her tongue. If she can suck it up, why can’t he? Why did he need coddling, if she got none? 

He probably had a girl he’d wanted to marry instead, and now he’s stuck with her, instead, and he’s probably already planning to k-

“You look beautiful,” he says.

Oh, she hates this man. Is he trying to be nice to her? Does he think her precious? Fragile?

“I guess you’re lucky, then,” she says. “You could’ve married a less beautiful woman.”

“I guess I am,” he says. “Lucky, I mean.”

“Are we done?” Nina asks the photographer again, not bothering to keep the edge out of her tone. 

“Another few minutes.”

She lets out a frustrated growl from the back of her throat.

This whole thing is heinously unfair. She deserves a beautiful, cosmopolitan wedding that she’d planned herself. 

The bunad is beautiful, yes. The lodge is beautiful. Matthias, certainly, unfairly, is beautiful.

But these things aren’t hers. Their beauty only makes her resent them more.

She squeezes Matthias’ hand, not sure when his fingers had moved, when their palms had met and why she hadn’t considered it important to notice. 

It’s a tiny gesture, but it feels good. It feels like if she holds his hand tightly enough, maybe he’ll have to take on some of her stress. Maybe it’ll transfer over.

“Nina,” he asked, her name still sounding so odd in his Fjerdan accent. “Do you consider yourself lucky, too?”

She is struck by the blinding flash of the camera. Finally.

“You’re done,” the photographer says. “Go get married.”

“Thank the Saints,” Nina says. “Come on.”

He follows her by the hand.

4. Matthias

Nina regards the marriage bed with the same lack of enthusiasm he’s come to expect from her. Her distinct breed of unhappiness is potent, captured in every brief movement. In her hand as she holds it to her chin. In her eyes, as she surveys their home.

“I hadn’t expected us to be so close to civilization,” she says. Her bridal crown had come off hours ago, as soon as the ink had dried on the marriage certificate.

He’d thought it made her look regal. Almost supernatural. Like a faerie queen. 

The compliments he’d kept meaning to pay her had died many times, in the back of his throat. 

“Did you think we wouldn’t have cities?” Matthias asks her. He sheds his coat.

“No, I knew you did,” she says. “We had to memorize them, after all. If we were planning to besiege them.”

She’s looking at him as he opens the armoire. “Well, here you are,” he says. “Should I be concerned about your intent to siege?”

It had been meant as a joke. She just takes it with the same, tired expression. “Different lifetime,” she says. “I’m not a soldier anymore.”

“I thought you were a nurse,” he says.

“I was both,” she says.

“Women can’t be soldiers,” he tells her.

She gives him that closed-mouth, mocking smile, more a measure of her disdain than an offer of camaraderie. “And that attitude is why I thought we’d be living in the woods.”

“We are in the woods,” he says.

“In the woods near the city,” she says. “I thought you would drag me out to the middle of nowhere, the coldest place you could find. Like a good Fjerdan man.”

“That wouldn’t be a very nice place to live,” he says.

“Fjerdan men don’t like nice things,” she says. “Right? You only like iron and ice and hunting.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers, more wounded than he’d like to admit. “I’d only been told women can’t be soldiers. I’d never met one.”

She runs her tongue along her upper teeth. A crude gesture, paired with her looking him over. Sizing him up. “Okay,” she says. “Apology accepted.”

He waits for her to say sorry back. She doesn’t.

“Is this your family home, then?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I don’t have a family. I mean- I have the Druskelle but-”

“So who’s house is this?” she asks.

“Mine,” he says. “I mean, ours.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “The army just gave you a house?”

He has no words prepared for this line of questioning. He hadn’t expected her to ask. “Yes? Jarl Brum said the Barracks was no place to have a wife-”

“I suppose he and I agree on that,” Nina says. “First time for everything.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Matthias says.

She fixes him with her stare. “Calm down,” she says. “You must be of a high rank, then.”

“What about you?” he says. She’s making him blush. 

“I asked about you,” she says.

“It’s rude to talk about yourself,” he says.

“But I’m asking,” she says. With a sigh, she approaches him. “Do you not talk to a lot of women?”

“I talk to women,” he says.

“Name the last woman you talked to,” she says.

He gestures to her. “You.”

She almost cracks a real smile. “How many women do you know?” she asks.

“Well-” He looks at her. “You. One. Jarl Brum’s wife. So that’s two. The baker’s wife. Three.”

“Tell me more about the baker’s wife,” Nina says.

“I can introduce you, if you’d like,” he says. 

“No, no,” Nina says. “I’m not ready to meet other Fjerdans. I had enough today for several weeks.”

She begins to unbutton the front of her bunad. 

He gently takes one of her hands. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking my clothes off, husband,” she says. “Surely I can be naked, now that we’re married in the eyes of your god?”

His mouth feels horribly dry. The friendliness he’d found in her tone has evaporated. Again. “You don’t have to be naked for me.”

“It’s not for you,” she says. “It’s for me. I need to change.”

“Should I help you, then?” he says.

“Do you want to?” she asks.

She begins to unwrap her waist, the heavy belt coming unbuckled as she lets out a noise of satisfaction. He averts his eyes. “Do you want me to?”

“Not if you’re going to keep blushing like that,” she says. “You know, in Ravka, boys and girls fight together, side by side. There’s no time for maidenly blushing.”

“I’m not a maiden,” he says, looking at the floor.

“We’re going to have to get used to each other without clothes on, husband,” she says. Again the word husband. He likes the concept of it on her lips. Hates it as an insult. “Or should I wear a nightgown under my clothes, just in case?”

“That would be uncomfortable,” he says.

“It was a joke,” she says.

“So you aren’t getting naked?” he asks.

“I am,” she says. She places the belt on the end of the bed. Looking down at herself, she adds, “I hate to say it, but I will need a hand getting out of this.”

“Which part?” Matthias asks.

“The dress,” she says.

Without her tightly buttoned in, he has a moment to better appreciate how soft her body looks. Too inviting. Just looking at her feels indecent. “Come here,” he says. “Lift your arms.”

She does as he asks. Her fingertips just barely reach his cheeks. 

He slips his fingers under the front straps of her vest, lifting up.

That seems right. He doesn’t have the courage to tell her he’s only guessing at what he should be doing.

“Would you like me to hang this up?” he asks. Her dress is hanging on his arm.

Nina begins to pull down her underskirt. “If you’d like.”

“What would you have me do with it?” he asks.

“No idea,” Nina says. “I thought I might need to give it back. In case they need it for the next symbolic marriage.”

“It’s yours,” Matthias snaps, without meaning to. He’d asked for the birds on it. “You don’t have to like it, but it’s not going to any other woman.”

She’s standing in a pool of skirt and has the audacity to cross her arms. “I never said I didn't like it.”

“You don’t like any of this,” he says. “You made that much obvious to me.”

“Is this really what you’d like to argue with me?” she says. “I’m not grateful enough for being forced to marry you?”

“Nina,” he says, almost desperately. “I’m sorry that this isn’t what you wanted and I’m sorry that you hate my country and I’m sorry that I’m not the man you wanted to be with but I. Am. Trying.” He feels lightheaded. “I don’t want to lay next to someone that’s going to hate me my entire life.”

She kicks her underskirt at him. “You’re very sensitive,” she says. “I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either!” he says.

“I don’t like you, though,” she says.

He picks up her underskirt to fold and put away. “Oh.”

She’s tugging her undershirt over her head. “I don’t know how I feel about you. I figured we’d be having sex, at least. And then I could go from there.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he says.

She’s naked, pacing across the floor to her trunk. He looks to the ceiling. “I don’t believe you,” she says.

He should remember how to pray. He’s been doing it his entire life. Why can’t he start? “Which part?”

“I don’t believe you haven’t thought about having sex with me,” Nina says. “How else are we supposed to make nice Fjerdan babies?”

“Fjerdan-Ravkan babies,” Matthias says.

“You can look,” she tells him. Mercifully, she’s in her nightgown, though it’s flimsy and white and outlines her breasts. “Are you always this pedantic?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“I’m going to bed,” she says.

He does not think about having sex with her. “I’ll make sure the heat stays on.”

“Good idea,” she says. She’s climbing into bed with the weariness of someone three times her age. “Matthias.” She gestures for him to blow out her lamp. “Goodnight, husband.”

He resists the urge to stroke his hand against the silhouette of her face. “Goodnight, wife.”

5. Nina

She wakes up in the middle of the night to the cold and quiet. Matthias is next to her, in his own woolen undergarments, his breathing too soft for a man of his size.

His back is pressed to her side. For a moment, she lifts her hand, like she intends to touch the outline of his spine. 

Her hand hovers there, under the blankets, feeling the warmth of him, of both of them, on her fingertips.

It isn’t right. She’s not sure why. But it isn’t.

She curses under her breath. It feels like the first of many sleepless nights. 

When her feet hit the floor, she suppresses a chill. Cold. The room is warm enough for the two of them to sleep, but barely. Everything in Fjerda is horrible and frozen and cold.

The mattress creaks.

Matthias has rolled onto his back, his right arm now stretched where her body was.

Sound asleep. That’s good. She could do worse than a husband that’s a heavy sleeper.

If she’s up, she might as well rifle through their home.

The wooden stairs leading to the ground level are too new to creak. It’s like a dollhouse. Everything is just-built, freshly painted.

It’s probably meant to be hospitable. It just feels displacing.

A more fairly-minded woman would admit that it is a good, simple house. For a man and his wife. For a woman and her husband.

The idea of children tugs at her again. Isn’t it expected of them? Isn’t it required?

Nina laughs to herself. Thinks of penning a letter Zoya, telling her of her chaste Fjerdan husband. 

Would that be bragging? To the Little Palace. You’ll never guess. The man is as pure as the driven snow. When he looks at me, it’s like I’m the only woman he’s ever seen.

When he looks at me-

Her lamp feels uncomfortably hot in her hand. She sets it down on the table, watching it cast a shadow from the pile of untouched wedding gifts.

Not a bad kitchen. A workable one. Plenty of gifted pots and pans for the new couple.

A spinning wheel. Knitting needles. She doesn’t have the heart to tell Matthias she’s never been a seamstress. Not yet, anyway.

She’s shattered his views on womanhood enough for one night. There will be plenty others.

Her eyes catch something in the corner of the room, and she stills.

An icebox. 

What do Fjerdans do, other than make ice?

A blessing. She hadn’t even noticed when they’d come in.

“You beautiful thing,” Nina cooes, like the icebox is her husband, instead. “Look at you. Thank the saints.”

She runs her hand along the side before deciding to open it.

A soft gasp. 

There’s food.

Well. There are things that can be made into food. There’s butter. Eggs. Perhaps there will even be ways to buy milk.

She hops back onto her feet with a sudden vitality. The cabinets. She should check them.

Flour. Honey. 

She feels at once overwhelmed and furious and sheepish and like she’s made a terrible mistake. 

She reminds herself that this is simply a show of courtesy. A welcome gift, for the big, important Druskelle and his new wife.

But what a gift it is. And she is terribly hungry. 

Paying no mind to how much noise she makes, Nina begins to assemble batter for something resembling a pancake.

Where is the wood for the stove?

That takes finding. More clattering. She shouldn’t be surprised that Matthias comes down the stairs, his body perhaps too well outlined by his wool shirt. It stops just at his knees. Are his calves really that enormous, too? As the rest of him? 

Nina hasn’t really been looking at him. She’s been avoiding it, actually. She’s been afraid of finding something. Something to like, something to dislike.

The truth is, Matthias is just a man. Like all the others. 

A little more handsome, sure.

But he’s not particularly aggressive or expectant or even Fjerdan. He’s just… a person. Shaped like one. Breathes like one. 

Meets her eyes like one. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.

“I noticed,” he tells her.

“I’m trying to make food,” she says.

“I could smell it,” he says.

“There’s an icebox,” she says.

“I know,” he says.

“You didn’t tell me?” she asks.

“I didn’t think it was important,” he says.

She moves the pancake around in one of their new frying pans. “It matters to me.”

“Now I know,” he says. 

“Do we have plates?” she asks.

“We must,” he says. “Wouldn’t be a proper wedding if no one gave us plates.”

“Or forks,” Nina adds.

“Or forks,” Matthias agrees. He’s going through their gifts with tired eyes, but she has to almost admire his determination. “So you like pancakes?”

“I like everything,” she says. “Sweets. Not-sweets. Pancakes. Waffles. But we don’t have the proper iron.”

“You need an iron?” he asks. 

“Not like for pants,” Nina says. “For waffles.”

“Oh,” he says. “I suppose that would make sense.”

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, the reassurance slipping easily from her lips. “I’m about as good with a clothes iron as you are. I’m sure.”

“I’m good with a clothes iron,” he says.

“Then you’re better than me,” she says. 

“I can’t cook,” he says. 

“I can teach you,” she says. “A man should know how to cook.”

“A woman should know how to iron,” he says.

She grins at him. “Watch yourself,” she says, pointing with her spatula.

It’s surprising when he offers her a shy smile back. “An iron for waffles,” he says. “Strange.”

Maybe if she bats her eyes just right, Matthias will take her into the city and they can find a waffle iron.

Maybe she could just ask.

“Plates?” she asks. “Is there jam?”

“Which first?” he asks.

“Plates,” she says. 

He’s taken to looking through the standing cabinet at the far side of the room. “Plates!” he says.

“Jam?” she asks again.

“We may have to go out,” he says. “I don’t know where to buy jam.”

“I can make jam,” Nina says. “Anyone can make jam.”

“With what?” Matthias says.

She’s closing the door to the stove. Shutting the vents. Smothering the fire. It’s gotten almost uncomfortable in the kitchen. “Fruit, obviously,” she says.

“I know that,” he says. “I meant did we have any in… here?”

“The house?” Nina asks.

“Our house,” he says. 

“No,” she says. “If we go out for fruit, then I will teach you how to make jam.”

“I haven’t actually had jam in…” He lingers. “Ages.”

“Sit,” she says. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Druskelle don’t eat sugar,” he says.

“If that were a condition for the army, I think I would’ve defected,” Nina says, gesturing for the plate. She slides the pancake on, then sets the frying pan back on the stove. “That, and the no girls.”

Matthias gives her a strange look. “That’s not funny,” he says.

“Which part?” she asks. He hands her a fork. 

“Defecting,” he says. “They’d kill you.”

Nina is cutting a piece of pancake off with the side of her fork. “I’m not that easy to kill,” she says. 

He watches her have the first bite.

It’s not her best work. It’s passable. “Please,” she says. “Have some.”

He takes a tepid poke at it, the tines of his fork scraping the plate, making them both wince. “Sorry!” he says. “It looked easier to cut.”

“You’ll learn,” she says.

They eat in easy silence.