A Nordic King(52)

“Like an ancient punchbowl,” Stella remarks in awe. “Aksel, where did you get this? Please don’t tell me you bribed a museum. Indiana Jones would be very upset.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “It was obtained legally at auction.”

Auction. He bought it. I can’t imagine what it would cost. This vase is older than I can wrap my head around.

“It’s from 430 B.C.,” he says to me. “And the painting is supposed to depict Zeus, Apollo, Athena, and some other Greek gods that I can’t remember. It’s an origins story, so they said.”

“430 B.C.,” Maja says, whistling. “That’s 2,400 years old.”

“Whoa,” Clara says. “No wonder it looks like that.”

Actually, the vase is in remarkably great condition. I just … I don’t understand why he gave this to me. This is history. This is something bigger, more expensive, more important than anything in my life. It doesn’t even belong in my life. I grew up in a shack in the outback.

My hands are actually starting to tremble so I put the vase on the floor and glance up at him. “Aksel. Thank you but … I can’t keep this. This belongs in a museum.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t. It belongs to you.”

“It’s too much.”

“It’s yours. I went to the auction house specifically to get it for you. I know your love of history and ancient Greece.”

“I can’t accept it.”

“But you will.”

Meanwhile, everyone else’s eyes are volleying back and forth between us like they’re watching a tennis match.

“Aksel…”

“It’s yours,” he says emphatically. “Just tell me that you like it.”

My eyes widen. “Like it? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s … everything.”

He looks relieved, his brow smoothing, his mouth quirking up into a smile. “Good. Then you’re keeping it. That’s an order.”

“But.”

“But nothing,” he says, waving his hand. “It’s a remarkable piece of history, but it’s a dime a dozen in the world of cultural artifacts. It belongs to Aurora James now and no one else. I know you’re the best person to keep it safe.”

“Yeah, you’re a goddess,” Clara says. “You get to keep it.”

I look at everyone with my chin up, trying to keep tears from rushing to my eyes. I breathe in deep through my nose, feeling it burn, then manage a smile. I can’t believe he did this for me.

Why would he have done this?

Of course, now my present to Aksel looks lame as fuck compared to a vase that was made before Jesus was around. I mean, he’s a bloody king, he has everything he could ever want or buy. So I made Maja dig through old photos and find the picture of him posing beside his wrecked Datsun rally car, the last rally car he ever drove. Then I superimposed “Why I Took Up Sailing” on top of it, had it blown up, printed out, and professionally framed. I figured he could hang it up in his office.

But even though it’s not an ancient heirloom, I at least made him laugh when he saw the photo. And honestly, making Aksel laugh, seeing his wide smile, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, is just as meaningful as the vase and just as rare.

After the presents are all done, we ignore the mess of discarded wrapping papers and play another tradition, which is to each light a candle and stick it on the tree in a special holder. This game should be called “Fire Hazard” but the point of the game is to stay up and see whose candle burns out last.

Maja is the first to call it quits, heading up to her room. Then the girls fall asleep, curled up with their new plush toys at the foot of the tree.

“I’ll take them up to bed,” I say, about to get to my feet and rouse them.

“You will not,” Aksel commands. “You’re off duty right now.”

“I’m going to go to bed anyway,” Stella says tiredly as she gets up. “You both stay. Just make sure the palace doesn’t burn down.”

She gets Anya and Clara up, who give us a bleary-eyed goodbye, then she scoops up a sleeping Freja into her arms as they leave the room.

All at once I’m aware that it’s Aksel and I, alone. Even the copious amounts of sweet cider and wine I’ve been drinking all night aren’t enough to temper the nerves that are beginning to dance inside me, like a live wire on the ground. I’m painfully aware that the last time I was alone with him was in this very room and things got weird.

“How did you enjoy your first Danish Christmas?” he asks idly. He’s sitting back in his chair, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers. Half his face is lit by the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes, highlighting his high cheekbones and the hollows underneath. I’ve felt those cheekbones under my fingertips once.

“Better than Australian ones,” I tell him, giving him a quick smile.

“Ah yes. I’m sure eating shrimp on the barbie and going to the beach makes for a rotten Christmas.”

I roll my eyes at him. “No one says shrimp on the barbie.”

“I’ve heard you say a few odd things,” he muses. “Once you said that the square out front was choc a bloc when it was crowded. You called Clara a bludger, was it? When she wouldn’t get out of bed one morning? And another time you said I was wearing daks when I was going to the gym in my sweatpants. I had to Google everything to figure it out.”