"Dad," she said as the town gate swallowed the carriage.
"Annika." His hand was rough when it closed on her sleeve. He planted the other hand on his chest like he could push his way through the years and reach her. He kept his voice steady. "Welcome home."
"Home," she echoed. The word landed simple and sharp.
"Look at you," Hans said, stepping forward with his camera already half out. "You actually grew into your eyebrows."
"You promised not to post anything without my say-so," Annika shot back, but she smiled.
Landon crossed his arms in the doorway. "No scandal, no paparazzi. Anyone near you gets a bruise. Got it?"
"You mean you won't let me walk into things on my own," she answered.
The gate clanged shut behind them. Gravel crunched under boots. A porter lugged her single battered trunk; the rest of the family's luggage glinted in clean suitcases that smelled of polish.
"Your trunk still smells like river smoke," Hans said, lifting the lid like it was a relic.
"It smells like home," she said. She moved easily through the small crush of relatives and staff, adjusting the strap of her satchel. The way she shifted a shoulder, the steady breath she took—nothing about her betrayed the time alone on the road.
"Tell me everything," their father demanded before they reached the carriage. "Why did they send you away? Where were you raised?"
Annika kept her answers short on purpose. "Riverside village. I
