In retrospect, a long, hot shower was entirely unnecessary, but once I'd stepped into the steam, I lost track of time. Water was still dripping from the showerhead when a loud knock resounded through the room.  Securing the towel around my chest, I checked the peephole.

It was Marcus, carrying a bag with what I hoped was breakfast. 

"'Morning!" I exclaimed, waving him through.

Water from my hair dripped onto the carpet. As the drops sank in, Marcus shook his head and stepped further down the hall. "Finish what you are doing. I can wait."

My stomach rumbled its dismay. "Pretend we're at the beach. I'm changing in the bathroom, anyway."

He hesitated. 

"You're letting the cold air in," I continued, leaning on the door. 

Frowning, he stepped inside. 

"Make yourself at home," I said, locking the door. While he set breakfast and a medical kit on the desk, I plopped on the edge of the bed, checked my towel positioning, and pulled my hair into a damp bun.  "What'd you bring?"

"Bagels," he said.

"Fantastic." After a diet of mostly granola and dried fish, bagels sounded amazing. "Can you pass me one?"

Marc opened his medical kit. "After you are dressed."

Hungry, I waved him off and tapped the towel around my chest. "This provides easier access to my stitches."

He met my eyes in the mirror, then glanced away to rummage through his supplies and muttered, "The bed is not a place for eating."

"What's it for?" I asked in my most innocuous voice, kicking my bare foot out to brush his leg. I watched his expression carefully, waiting for his cheeks to redden and his gaze to drift politely toward his feet.

Instead, he came to sit beside me on the bed. "Allie," he began softly. "I am very competitive."

I stayed quiet and watchful, the faintest prickle of anticipation warming my core.

With slow, deliberate concentration, his eyes never leaving mine, he slid his hand from my bare shoulder to my wrist.

My heart leaped into my throat. I felt nervous, but it was a different, pleasanter feeling than the fearfulness I was used to. His touch made me happy, like I was back in Boston with Logan and...

"You are after the Prince," he continued, leaning in. His breath against my ear awakened butterflies in my stomach. "Do not tempt me into playing a game you do not want me to win."

Closing my eyes, I took a steadying breath before answering. "Message received," I said and excused myself to the bathroom to throw on more clothes.

Marc angled his head but didn't press me on a firm yes or no, and, moments later, when I emerged clad in a button-down and dug into breakfast at the desk chair, he carried on like nothing had happened.

The task at hand quickly turned to, quite literally, my hands, from Amy's bite to my knife-split palm. With a careful eye, Marc examined every stitch, pulling the old free and examining the more recent injuries for infection.

Throughout the process, I observed him with a quiet curiosity, wondering what he'd say if I invited him to play and what would happen if I asked him to take me away from all of this trouble. I knew escape at this point wasn't an option, but for a minute allowed myself the thought.

Then Marc pressed his index finger into the scratch on my collarbone and I flinched.

"Superficial," he decided, the edge of his glove pushed against a raised, red stitch. "But I am thinking you need antibiotics. Should be easy to treat. I have something topical that will help."

"Thanks." The pain in my hand subsided into mild relief once his big fingers stopped digging in. I reached out to touch his wrist. He looked up. "For everything, not just this. Seriously, I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you and your family."

He offered a gentle smile. "We are happy to help where we can, although I am not sure how much more there is for us to do. Have you decided on your plan?"

"Not exactly. I've started on a disguise, though." I nodded to my bags with the beautiful clothes Sigrid had given me. "Sneaking around is a bit more difficult with my face plastered everywhere, let alone trying to break into private property. But the Queen's zoo is public property, isn't it? If I could do something with my face, I think I could walk right in."

Disposing of his gloves, Marc sighed. "It will be closed on the day of the wedding."

"Here me out," I said. "I can hide in the palace for a couple of days. I just need to get in. Logan, Nik, and I had our breakup conversation at the zoo. I met Queen Jorunn for the first time when I was wallowing in self-pity beside a koi pond. She took me to a palace bathroom to clean myself up and make me an offer. I don't remember the way exactly, but if I can get to the right exhibit, I know I can find it."

"And then?"

"I haven't gotten that far," I admitted, shrugging. "I'm open to suggestions."

"You will find a way," he said, rising to wash his hands.

I settled on the edge of the bed once again. "Wish I had your confidence."

When he returned, he sat beside me on the comforter. "My family has told many fairytales in the cold nights of winter. I had never met someone living one until you came along. It will not be easy, but you will get your chance at a happy ending."

"I'm not seeing the fairytale," I pointed out. 

"Then I will tell it to you," he said, patting my bitten hand. "So, you are in love with the prince of a faraway land-"

I opened my mouth to correct him, considered our earlier conversation, and thought better of it. 

"-You have gone to hell and back on a quest to rescue him from his wicked mother before he can marry the wrong woman. Classic fairytale."

"They're not real, Marc," I explained, fiddling with the bear claw. "In case you forgot, Prince Charming broke up with me. No kiss can win him back. There's no storybook ending where we all live happily ever after.  There's just a nasty old woman with blood on her hands trolling her kingdom for more. And my sole bargaining chip is a ruined painting. And I killed a bear cub... Probably the Haalands, too." I collapsed back onto the bed, staring into uneven, beige ceiling tiles. "I've tried imagining a future for myself, but there's nothing beyond Nik's wedding."

Marcus stretched out beside me. "If you ask me, I would work to make your fairytale come true."

Aware his focus wasn't on the ceiling, I turned and propped myself up on my elbows to regard him. "I can't."

"I am wanting to help you, Allie." He held up a finger to stop my protest. "You are my friend, and no matter what I might think about-" he paused and apologized like he didn't know what he was trying to say. "What kind of person leaves a lady to challenge an evil queen alone?"

I cracked a smile. "Not you, apparently."

"Because I am the what?" He angled himself toward me and cupped his ear. 

Rolling my eyes, I swatted his shoulder lightly. "The best, yeah, yeah."

He reclined to examine the ceiling with a satisfied smile. "The carriage horses arrived in Jessheim this morning for transportation overnight to Oslo; you may accompany us as my stable hand. You will be needing a disguise, but there is no need to be hiding in a bathroom for days. Mama and Hanna have sent along toiletries and clothes for you. A suitcase filled with things they believe you will need is already in the bed of my truck."

That he and his family had already thought this through stunned me. The Engens had outdone themselves, all for a stranger. I sat up, wiping my eyes. "Marc, I, I...Getting in is half the battle, and this, your family and you, everything you've done... this means so much."

"I think you mean 'costs,'" he corrected, sitting up to elbow me. 

Right, this had to have been expensive, let alone the cost to their own lives if any part of this went south. I cleared my throat. "What do I owe you?"

He waved away my concerns. "Worry over your plan."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded.

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. "Your family sure is something else."

"Enthusiastic," he agreed, rubbing his neck. "They really like you."

"Yeah, they do," I mumbled, smiling at him. 

He grinned back at me. 

I'd lived my entire life never quite feeling so happy I could kiss someone, but it took every ounce of restraint I had not to kiss Marc at that moment. I pressed my hand against my necklace instead of the soft flannel of his shirt. "So what happens now?" I asked.

He stood, jingling his keys. "We arrange for papers to get you past the gates. I am needing a name and a photograph, but first,  I will bring you what Mama has sent."

"Faking papers sounds like something Queen Jorunn could do," I pointed out. I trusted Marc, but it didn't hurt to watch his expression.

"My family is an old name in Norway," he replied without missing a beat. "There are some favors I have called in."

A few minutes later, Marc returned wheeling a bulky suitcase stuffed with creature comforts: a razor, conditioner, toothpaste, even tampons, although that bloody well had dried up since Kasper had left me for dead. There were also some pretty homey wool sweaters, a pair of jeans, and a muted burgundy strapless, for the wedding, most likely. Oleanna had included a pair of heels, a little large, but with a needle from the med kit I poked a new hole in the straps. 

Brown hair dye finished off the suitcase's contents. While I opened the box and read the instructions, Marcus rummaged in his pockets. He pulled a few notes from his wallet and pressed them into my palm. "For what we forgot."

Declining was easy, but he was insistent. Denial became reluctant acceptance and quiet counting. Back home, I'd have been embarrassed, maybe even angry, to be helped this way, but if I wanted to get to where I was going, I understood I needed his help. "Racking up quite a hefty bill, aren't I?"

"I told you, it is taken care of."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Consider it an advance for your work as a stable hand."

"I don't mind owing you," I said, moving toward the bathroom. On my way past, I tugged his hand, aware of what I was doing, aware that maybe I shouldn't, aware that I enjoyed the feeling of his hand in mine (when stitches weren't involved). "In fact, I'd prefer it. After everything I need your help with, including this" - I shook the dye- "I'm going to repay you somehow, in some way. So, unless you lay out the cost and terms, I'll be forced to decide on a suitable payment myself."

"In that case," he said, following, "Maybe, if you survive, I could think of something."

When I caught sight of him in the mirror, there was a hint of mischief in his eyes that set the butterflies in my chest loose all over again. "Can't wait to hear what that might be," I agreed.

With my hands a bit raw, Marc helped with the dying process. While we waited for the color to set,  we went over the paperwork together. When my hair was blow-dried and sufficiently dark, I pulled on jeans and one of the wool sweaters and studied the new me.

"Oh my God," I said, turning my head left and right to take a look at my brunette self. Fatigued and pale, the sullen girl in the mirror was one bad makeup job away from starring in a high school production of Sweeney Todd.

"Not your color," Marc observed from behind.

"You picked it!" I said, whirling on him. 

He raised his hands. "To blend in with the crowd. I did not realize I was buying hair dye for a ghost." He pulled a knit beanie over my head. Petite khaki reindeer pranced around the hem. "This will help," he declared, smoothing my hair.

"A little," I agreed, casting a dubious look at my attire. "Do I at least look like I could be a Rebecca Ohlsen of Dovrefjell?"

"You know what the people are like. That will sell it." Marc tore off a scrap of notepad and with my help, wrote a list of makeup I needed to tint my eyebrows, add some freckles, and generally become more human for the photo. I put in a special request for the Avialkin perfume I used to wear. He would run out for the makeup, we'd snap my pic, and then he'd leave to oversee the transfer of horses from Nils' hands to the royal stables.

He passed me another sheet off the notepad with an address. "Johan's gate at four-thirty. If you are set with the suitcase, I will take that, and Gull, now."

"Go ahead, but I need you to do one more thing for me." I pointed to the tube containing the Rembrandt. "Take that to the US Embassy. Doesn't have to be today, I know time's tight, but please see this is delivered there. Joronn can't have it."

Grabbing my belongings, Marc headed for the door, pausing only to add, "Enjoy Oslo while you wait for me, but remember who hunts you."

I took his warning to heart and kept it in mind during checkout late afternoon. I purchased smørbrød, an open-faced sandwich of smoked salmon and egg on rye, at a small café. The time remaining was spent in an older bookshop, where I could find a quiet corner with little foot traffic and hide my nose behind a book while I tried to figure out a plan for inside the palace.

Niklas was a necessary part of the imminent showdown, I was sure, but, confronted with streets lined with royal wedding decor and souvenir platters and mugs featuring my ex and his fiancé, I wondered how I would feel seeing him again, and how he would greet me.

*

In high school and even college, I was too chicken to use a fake ID at a bar, let alone at a high-security palace, but, come sunset, there I stood, at the head of a long line of white carriages and patient horses. Guards had taken our paperwork, with my forged docs bundled together with more than thirty other members of staff that Marc's family had hand-selected to accompany the horses requested for the wedding ceremony and cock-tail hour carriage rides through the garden for guests. Marcus had flashed the procured papers like he'd done it a hundred times before, and maybe he had; the more I learned about his family, the more respected I realized they were.

I squeezed Gull's reins tightly, eager to return to the horse's back, where I felt, maybe not safe, but somehow secure. Anxious, I reached up to stroke her neck. She was, as always, a calming presence, observing her surroundings with a relaxed muzzle and pricked ears.

As we waited, Marc came around to check on me. He set his hand beside mine on the mare's honeyed neck. "Different from Dovrefjell, eh?" 

"I miss the mountains," I whispered, relaxing my hand against his. "Oslo makes me nervous."

He leaned in. "If it helps, you look a little better in the dark."

Laughing, I whacked his chest. "Wow, thanks."

He grinned and was about to say something else when one of the guards rounded the corner with our paperwork. The gates opened and our party was waved through.

Gull walked in like a queen behind Stryke, her neck arched, ears relaxed, hide awash in the splendor of twilight; meanwhile, I moved head-down and held a death grip on her reins as we led a miniature herd and carriages under the iron claws of the palace's ursine archway.

Perhaps sensing my apprehension, Marcus looked back and tapped his collarbone.  My fingers followed his direction, tracing the leather cordage down to the curved bear claw. He smiled and -although the expression I returned was more of a nervous lip twitch than a grin- looked pleased.

Though it crouched like a modern beast over the bones of history, the palace grounds, what Joronn had done in a few short years since the King's death and fire, was nothing short of impressive. The road beyond Johan's gate was primarily foot traffic apart from the horses and a few medical carts and gardening utilities. The gardens twinkled off in the distance; the private zoo a dim presence further on. Palace walls of dark stone and spiraling turrets overshadowed the menagerie entrance.

We headed to the royal stables, taking the long road past the zoo to avoid some pre-wedding reception setup.  The stables themselves were like a well-funded community college in size, with a broad courtyard in the center surrounded by the stables, offices, and an indoor arena. We made for the stables. White marble pillars and walls, dark brick floors, black iron, and vibrant wooden stalls...The equipment was the finest available and every animal we passed seemed fed and content.

Palace stablehands assigned horses to open stalls, but Marcus gestured for me to follow him to an end unit, where two stalls stood empty side by side.

"This is incredible," I commented, rigging hay for Gull while he watered the pair from spigots set against the aisleway. Her floor was wooden, with a cushy stable mat and pine shavings. The ceilings were high-reaching, and the room warm. The drafty homes of reindeer herders and their nomadic lifestyle were a far cry from this upscale existence (although I felt infinitely more comfortable with Sigrid and Zakarias).

"These horses live better than some people do," I said.

"The life of a palace horse is short." Marcus examined my work with Gull.

Hanging by the stall door, I glanced toward an enormous staircase to a second floor. These weren't stables. This was a horse hotel. The Ritz. "I don't see any problems."

"The queen hobbles five or six horses every year. Weak ankles from ill-breeding, she claims, before feeding them to her hyenas for sport. She made me watch, once."

My arm slipped protectively around the base of Gull's neck. The mare bumped her cheek against mine. After a lippy search for treats, she huffed and regarded me through one dissatisfied brown eye. Lucky for her, my coat pocket held a few partially powdered sugar cubes. She crunched one as I turned toward Marcus. "You offer up horses for the slaughter?"

He looked down the hall, ensuring we were sufficiently alone, then closed us in with Gull. "After the king, died my parents presented the queen with a cherished gelding for her coronation. They did not realize what went on behind the scenes until a hand arrived with the wounded horse in tow. To this day I do not know how the horse survived the journey home."

"But he lived?"

"She sent men to our ranch to retrieve the hand and horse. I was in Oslo at the time. The Queen sent for me. She had the gelding dropped into the hyena pit alive and sent the man in to clean the mess. As he made his way through the rocks of the enclosure, he caught sight of a ring, the same ring that passed from his grandmother to his mother and, ten years ago, to his wife." Marcus touched the mare's withers with a contemplative frown. "I do not blame a single person here for sacrificing a horse over family. Not even my parents."

"Oh," I began, surprised. Before I could get closer, he stepped away. "What did she threaten your parents with?"

He whipped open the stall door with more force than I think he'd meant. "Let me show you our rooms," he said, and would not speak another word on the matter.

Three floors composed the barn layout. The horses owned the ground level; the next two levels contained dormitory-style rooms overlooking the main floor for general staff, with the third floor occupied by those of greater importance such as the equine veterinarian and barn manager. As frequent visitors, Marc and his brothers owned a shared office and bedroom on the upper level.  He unlocked a currently unoccupied room beside the office and waved me through.

"You are being listed on the morning shift the entire week. Minor jobs: stall work and other tasks you can handle, all for Gull. Direct any questions to me. It is assumed I brought top handlers. My handlers know me and my family very well, so I have been calling you my date to the wedding." He stopped at the door. "You are not, but it is a very fine line you are to be walking here."

"I'll keep my head down," I promised, setting my bags on the floor. "And I'm happy to pretend we're together if need be." Maybe a little too happy.

Marc studied me a moment and finally nodded. "Good," he said. He moved to close the door and stopped. "This may be one of the most beautiful stables in the world, Allie, but the straw here is crawling with rats."