He picked up an apple and took the peel off in one long strip. When he was done, he set it on the counter and picked up a different knife. “Pidäveitsi näin,” he said, pointing to the way his fingers held the handle. “Pidäomena huolellisesti.” He turned his other hand into a claw, tucking his fingers away as he held the apple. Then he started cutting.

Even with my inexperienced eyes, I could see how he was using the minimum amount of force to do his work and how his simple stance protected his hands.

“You,” he said, passing me the knife.

“Okay. Like this?” I curled my hand up like he had.

“Good, good.”

I wasn’t nearly as fast as he was, and my slices weren’t half as uniform, but by the way he grinned, you’d have thought I made an entire feast by myself.

He worked with the dough and mixed cinnamon and sugar and prepped one of the fryers along the wall.

I wondered if he was in charge of desserts at home or if they were simply his favorite.

I helped toss the apples and stuff the dough, and though I was terrified of the hot oil, I did sink one of the baskets. I squealed when the oil came alive, popping and dancing all over the place. Henri only laughed at me a little, which was kind.

When he finally placed the tray in front of me, I was dying of hunger and nearly too excited to wait. But I did, and he gestured that I should try, so I plucked up one of the fritter-doughnut-pastry things and bit in.

It was heaven, even better than the rolls he’d made the other day. “Oh, yum!” I exclaimed as I chewed. He broke into a laugh and picked one up himself. He seemed pretty satisfied, but I could see in his eyes he was evaluating what he’d made.

I thought they were perfect.

“What are these called?”

“Hmm?”

“Umm, name?” I pointed to the food.

“Oh, omenalörtsy.”

“Ohmenalortsee?”

“Good!”

“Yeah?”

“Good.”

I smiled to myself. I’d have to tell Kaden I was seriously mastering the names of several Swendish desserts.

I ate two, feeling a little sick once I was done, and then I watched as Henri passed the plate around to the cooks, who all praised his skills. In the deepest core of myself, I hated that he didn’t understand the words they were using.

Delectable. Flawless. Perfection.

I got the sense that if he had understood, he’d have said they were being too generous. It was hard to be sure though. That was just my assumption about who he was. I really didn’t know.

And, I reminded myself, you don’t want to.

There were times when it was getting harder and harder to remember that.

When Henri finished his rounds and the plate came back with hardly a crumb left, I gave him a shy smile.

“I should sleep.”

“You sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.”

“Um. Tonight? The Report?” I asked, trying to keep things simple.

He nodded. “Report, yes.”

I placed my hand on his chest. “You were so sweet.”

“Sweet? Umm, the sugar?”

I laughed. “Yes. Like sugar.”

He brought his hand up to cover mine as it was still pressed against his heart. His smile dwindled as he looked at me and swallowed. He shrugged as he held me there, seeming only to want to make the moment last. He held my hand for the longest time, and I could see he was sorting through words in his head, trying so, so hard to find one that he knew I might understand. . . .

But there was nothing.

I wanted Henri to know that I saw what he felt. I could tell in every smile and every gesture that he really cared about me. And, despite my best efforts, I cared about him, too. I worried about how much I would regret it, but there was only one way to express that feeling.

I closed the distance between us and placed a hand on his cheek. He stared into my eyes as if he’d discovered something truly valuable, something rare that he might never see again. I nodded slowly, and he lowered his lips to mine.

Henri was scared. I could feel it. He was afraid to touch me, afraid to hold me, afraid to move. I didn’t know if it was because I was a princess or because he’d never done this before, but that kiss was so vulnerable.

That made me love it even more.

I pressed my lips into his, trying to tell him without words that this was okay, that I wanted him to hold me. And finally, after a moment of hesitation, he responded. Henri held me like I was delicate, like if his grip was too tight, I’d crumble. And his kisses were the same way, only now, instead of being driven by fear, they were motivated by what felt like reverence. It was an affection almost too beautiful to endure.

I pulled away, slightly dizzy from the kiss, noting that his eyes looked pained, but he wore the tiniest smile.

“I should go,” I said again.

He nodded.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

I moved slowly until I was out of his sight, then I ran. My head was swimming with thoughts that I didn’t understand. Why did it bother me so much when Gavril picked at Henri? Why did I have to keep Fox when he should have left? Why did Kile—for goodness’ sake, Kile!—keep popping into my mind?

And why was it so terrifying even to ask those questions?

When I got to my room, I flung myself into bed, feeling disoriented. As angry as I was at Gavril for bringing it up, it did bother me that I couldn’t speak to Henri, that I couldn’t communicate anything intimate to him because of how uncomfortable it would be to go through Erik. As unnerved as the thought made me, if I was going to tell anyone something personal, it would probably be Henri. I felt safe around him, and I knew he was smart, and I admired his passion. Henri was good.