The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(41)
In the center of the broad, relatively flat expanse of this cavern is a crudely made hearth, and it’s obvious that it’s a community oven, as several women surround it, poking at dark-brown loaves of bread with sticks and wooden paddles. Children chase one another around the edge of it, their faces streaked with dirt, the knees of their trousers worn and holey. Men gather close to a large fire nearer to the front of the cavern, playing their games of cards. Some are working near their own shelters, oiling traps and untangling fishing lines. One man nearby is skinning a hare, peeling its fur from its flesh with brutal efficiency. I swallow hard and look away.
“And here’s the main cavern,” Oskar says in a low voice, leaning against a rocky ledge and sweeping his arm across the scene. “Otherwise known as the den of thieves. Don’t they look vicious?”
Several of the cavern’s inhabitants have noticed our entrance. One by one, they stop what they’re doing to stare at me. “They don’t exactly look friendly,” I mutter, taking a step back.
Oskar’s large hand closes over my shoulder. “They know you’re under my protection,” he says, waving at a stout, brown-bearded man standing near the big fire. The man raises his hand to acknowledge Oskar, then returns to tossing split logs onto the flames. “Newcomers make them wary. Mind your own business, and—”
“Oskar!” cries a piping voice. A young girl, perhaps ten years of age, comes darting out of a shelter on our left. Two braids of dark hair on either side of her head flap as she runs. “Is this her?” she huffs as she stops in front of us.
“No, this is the other girl I rescued from a bear trap.”
She slaps Oskar’s fur-covered arm. “You are so grumpy when the cold comes.” Her green eyes are full of energy as she turns to me. “Why is your dress on backward?” she asks, looking at my awkwardly high neckline. Raimo strikes again. “And what’s wrong with your hair?”
My left hand rises to my kerchief. “I . . .”
“Her hand is injured, and she hasn’t had the benefit of a mirror for several days,” says Oskar, saving me from revealing my ignorance. “Or of female company. That’s where you come in.” He gestures at the girl. “This little bandit is Freya.” He reaches out and tugs one of her braids. “My darling sister and a budding master thief.”
“Thief?” The girl scowls. “What in stars are you going on about—”
“Of course you’re not a thief,” I say, glaring at her big brother, who merely looks back at me with challenge in his eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, Freya. I’m Elli.” I give her a curtsy, as I’ve seen Mim do so many times.
Freya snorts and imitates me, confirming that I’ve done something stupid. “All right, Elli, come on. My mother wants to meet you, and Oskar needs to go kill some furry woodland creatures.”
Oskar touches her shoulder. “Freya, if the alarm is sounded—”
She lifts her chin. “I know what to do. I can take care of myself and her, too.”
Oskar grins, his whole face brightening, and he tugs Freya into a quick, fierce hug. She disappears into the folds of his cloak and emerges with her hair mussed and a big smile on her face. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says.
Freya grabs for my right hand, but Oskar knocks her arm away just in time. “Remember what I told you about her hand!”
“Oh! Right,” Freya says, then grabs my left and begins to pull me toward their shelter. I look over my shoulder for Oskar, but he’s already striding toward the exit to the main cavern like he’s glad to be rid of my company. I push down a strange twinge of disappointment and follow Freya, flashing a smile at anyone who’ll meet my eyes. Most of them offer hard stares in return. I’m relieved when we duck into a shelter, which is sectioned into three small areas separated by walls made of animal fur. There’s a wide space at the front containing a small loom, a grinding stone with a pestle lying on top of it, a fire pit, and a large pile of tools, many I don’t know the names for. I’ve never seen such things outside the pages of the books used for my studies, and part of me wants to go over and pick each one up, just to see how they feel in my hands. The rest of me realizes that would only make me look more foolish than I already do.
The front chamber of this shelter is large enough to allow two tall men to lie head to head, and deep enough to allow one tall man—like Oskar—to lie straight. The fur walls, which are made from several different animal pelts stitched together with burlap string, are rich brown, glinting in the light of the small fire in the stone-bounded pit.
A woman about my height, her light-brown hair knotted into a bun on the back of her head, emerges from one of the smaller areas, moving aside a thick, furry pelt that’s been nailed to the tall wooden frame. She looks like she’s in her midthirties, her forehead creased and weather-worn. Her gray eyes focus in on my clearly ridiculous hair arrangement, and her lips press together. “You must be Elli.”
“I am, and you . . . ?”
“Maarika.” She’s much paler than Oskar, who clearly spent the entire summer in the sun, and her appearance is neat, not a hair out of place, the opposite of Oskar’s disheveled roughness. But they have one thing in common—they are both very difficult to read.
I curtsy again, because I have no idea what else to do, but Maarika only frowns at me. “Thank you for taking me in,” I say. “I’d like to do anything I can to—”