A door slammed open behind me, and the younger prince of Asgard blew into the palace hallway, snow swirling dramatically around the ripples of his emerald traveling cloak. I rolled my eyes internally. Ridiculous, I thought, certain the snow's movement was nothing more than his magic. The small blizzard he brought with him conveniently whipped around the bare ankles of the serving girls close to the door, eliciting squeals from them as they halfheartedly tried to push down the flying folds of their skirts. Cheeks pink from the sudden cold, and eyes bright with desire for the god who had just entered, they clutched each other's hands as they curtseyed before him. He, of course, did not even condescend to look at them as he passed.
But you'll magic their skirts to fly up. What an idiot.
Loki did not impress me. I had only been at the palace a few short weeks, yet I had observed much. I had witnessed the games he played with the little maids, using invisible hands to smack their round bottoms or pinch their pink arms as he sauntered past them. They would jump, giggle, and avert their eyes in demureness, and then, in the safety of the servants' quarters, bawdily repeat everything they had heard or guessed about him, hungry in their desire for his touch. And, truth be told, more than just his touch. Of course there had been no shortage of my fellow servant girls who had tasted of the god in flesh—he was wanton in selecting the ones he found pleasing and bedding them a few times. The blushing girl would tell tales of screaming pleasure, his pale skin pressed against the pink of theirs. Whispers, caresses in the candlelight of his chambers, or heated, rapid encounters in places as random as the second-floor observatory.
He would then move on to the next stupid girl. Strangely, they did not seem bothered by this arrangement…not a single tear was shed regarding the prince casting them off in favor of another. Often several times in the same week, I noted.
Sighing quietly at the silly girls, I curtseyed as the god approached where I was working, tending to a large floral arrangement. In typical Loki fashion, he did not turn his gaze down for me, which I accepted gratefully. If I never had to meet his eyes, he would never see the contempt for him there. And as I was a servant—albeit of a higher ranking than the foolish girls he entrapped in his snares—it would not do for my prince to be aware that I did not admire him as the others did.
He moved on down the hallway, toward the great hall, where the Allfather and Prince Thor awaited him with the Queen. It was rapidly approaching the time to sup, and the kitchen servants were rushing to complete preparations. Glad to be apart from the haste, I turned back to my flowers, breathing in their soft scents, and wondering once more where the palace of Asgard—even the Allfather—could obtain fresh foliage in the dead of winter.
Several weeks later, I was on an upper floor, tending to a large wall of ivy that provided a lovely backdrop to a hallway that overlooked the frozen lake and cold, forbidding peaks around Asgard. Enjoying the quietude of the isolated corridor, I idly wondered how the ivy was even made to grow inside. Then again, this was the palace of Asgard, and no doubt all manner of things happened here that happened nowhere else.
As I fingered the leaves, I fell to reverie. My ability with plants came from my mother. She was a natural, dab hand with anything that grew (except her own daughter), and had taught me, in her rough way, how to care for the greenery of the city. Her miracle hands tended plants with a gentleness she never showed me, and it was a source of great confusion to me that those hands, so careless with my moods and feelings, could be so tender to a blossom. Her small floral shop thrived in the summer, when we could grow and harvest flowers. The winters, well…the winters were what caused me to seek this position when I heard talk of an opening at the palace one late summer day.
Surprisingly, there was much by way of plant for me to care for in the palace. Around every corner there was a tree, an arrangement, a curiosity like this indoor wall of ivy. I had spent the fall on my knees, bedding down the flowers and vegetables for the winter with the outdoor grounds keeping staff. When the freezes had come, I knew the plants would weather well.
Remembering I was not in that hallway to daydream, I descended the ladder I was using to reach the uppermost leaves of the ivy. Moving it a few feet down the wall, I took hold of my small sprayer and shears and climbed up. I began trimming the brown, deadened leaves and stems, singing softly to the green around them to help them heal from the pruning. Stroking them gently, I clumsily tried to infuse them with the same brand of small magic my mother used to help plants prosper. I was nowhere near as skilled as she with the magics, but I had learned enough to help these plants.
Suddenly, the ladder shook violently. Unable to correct my footing in time, I fell. A scream escaped my lips, and I involuntarily tensed my body and slammed shut my eyes, knowing that when I hit the rough-hewn stone tiles below me, it was going to hurt.
But there was no impact. Instead, a pair of strong arms held me fast.
I opened my eyes in surprise, and immediately saw the green and black of his clothing, the gold of his metal. Anger rushed into my veins, adrenaline pumping in one second. HE had done this. He had almost seriously injured me. And for what? A joke?
I knew I would pay for it somehow, but I opened my mouth to berate him, to speak my mind to him. As I raised my head to do so, his eyes met mine.
Oh, my gods.
They were the green of the ivy, deep and verdant. His skin, always pale, now glowed almost ethereally in the bright winter sunlight that reflected off the snow outside. He smiled at me, mischievously, right eyebrow cocked.
He was beautiful.
My mouth was still open, my resentful words choked to nothing in my throat. He must have taken it for the same awe the servant girls showed to him, because he half-whispered in a seductive caramel voice, "Are you all right, pet?"
The sobriquet, so false on his lips, shook me back to reality, but also back to my senses. I could not verbally abuse a god, my prince, no matter how worthy or deserving of it he was. I quickly averted my eyes. "I am fine, my lord," I answered, somehow succeeding at hiding my rage. "Thank you for helping me avoid a nasty fall. I am fine, you can set me down now."
"Ah, pet, seek not to command your god. I will set you down when I am good and ready to." To my utter astonishment and anger, he moved swiftly to the bench overlooking the lake, sat down, and positioned me on his lap, arms still around me. I was seething, but I could not, I must not, betray my rage to Loki. I needed my position at the palace far too much.
"What is your name, sweetling?" he said again in the half-whisper, lifting a long, pale finger to run it along my cheekbone. I quelled a shudder. Disgusting. Do you really think this is going to work on me, that I will melt into you as the maids do?
"Genevieve, my lord," I answered, determined that he wouldn't see through my false obeisance. His hand moved to my neck, tracing my collarbone. I suppressed another frisson of revulsion.
"Genevieve. What a beautiful name. It suits you," he purred, hand now moving to my hair, curling a lock around his finger, face moving closer to mine, chin tilting toward my lips.
"Thank you, my lord." I will not break, I will not break. I will not do this. I will not betray myself.
"Why will you not meet my eyes, sweet Genevieve?" he asked voice rising a bit in volume, finger pulling slightly at my hair now—out of irritation with my impudence or whether this was just how he teased women, I did not know. But now I had to lie. I thought quickly, selected a response, and prayed to the Allfather that Loki would be convinced and I could be released.
"A mouse must not look at a lion, my lord," I whispered demurely, hoping beyond hope that he was buying my farce.
He laughed lightly, letting my hair fall back as he loosened his grip on me. "Ah, you're a cheeky one," he growled, lips still uncomfortably close to mine, and my heart fell.
Damn, I thought desperately…he knows, he knows. How do I salvage this?
"You will look at me, sweetling," the command came, silken but dominating. I had known he would not let me disobey him. Sighing, I raised my eyes to his.
"Hm. You are impertinent," he said, locking his eyes with mine, peering into them and seeing no desire for him there. "I shall have to decide just how to rectify that, little mouse." He lifted me up, and, setting me on my feet, turned to walk away.
"Ah, one more thing, Genevieve," he called back over his shoulder, regal profile illuminated by that same snow-burned light from the window. "What is it precisely that you do in the palace?"
My heart falling through the floor as I saw my future slip away, I answered, voice quavering as I internally admitted defeat. "I tend the plants, my lord."
To my surprise, he hesitated slightly, almost faltering. It was the movement of a half a heartbeat, and had I blinked I would have missed it. Before I could ponder what it meant through my growing fear, he turned the corner at the end of the hall. I stood there for several minutes, watching where he had disappeared, terrified of his retaliation.