Page 38 of Falling Princess
“Your countryman”—what a delightfully delicate way to describe our strange relationship—“has proposed to write his final essay on Auralia’s political structure. It’s rare that we have experts on a popular niche topic in class. In fact, I propose the two of you write a joint paper, with the possibility of revision and publication if you do a good enough job.”
Publication? My heart pounded. “You mean, in a journal?”
A proper academic credential! As an undergrad, no less!
Professor Pigeon, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the bird she was named for, folded her hands and rested her chin on them. “Yes, in an academic journal. It can’t be a puff piece. You’ll have to be direct and analytical about Auralia’s strengths and weaknesses.” My teacher actually winked. “Considering your position, Princess, one could forgive a degree of positive slant.”
What to do with this unexpected gift? I cut a suspicious glance at Lorcan. His expression was typically unreadable, but I could tell he was pleased with himself. It’s marked in the tiny lines etched at the corners of his eyes, as though he’s set a trap and is hoping I’ll take the bait.
He probably wants to ride my coattails and foist most of the work off on me.
I’m not sure whether or not I’d mind. He’ll get to put his name on my words, but my father and Cata will undoubtedly see this as evidence that Lorcan and I are getting along.
Fine. If working with him means a potential publication credit, I’m game. I gave him a wolfish grin, all bared teeth. “I can do that.”
And we did, butting heads every step of the way.
Bizarrely, Lorcan didn’t back off and let me write the paper alone. He had ideas. Many of them. He kept writing them in our shared online document. For days, we went back and forth erasing and overwriting one another’s analysis.
When I posted detailed charts showing our (abysmal) GDP and where I saw opportunities for investment in my country’s infrastructure, he edited it out, and added a section on the culture and history of our country, complete with a sketch of the Goddess Auralia, along with five paragraphs about her origins in Vucedol, Greek and Egyptian mythology.
Cute doodle, I’m sure this will impress academic editors, I commented snarkily. When he didn’t delete the picture, I did. I saved a copy to my hard drive first, though. It’s a nice drawing. I made it the wallpaper on my laptop.
Lorcan deleted my charts in retaliation, leaving a note of his own.We don’t need these; you’re off-topic. This is about Auralia’s governance, not our economy.
I put them back with a comment:Do not erase this section.
His response:You’re not queen yet, Zosia.
My head nearly exploded. How dare he call me by my given name? How dare hechallengeme?
After a full week of unspoken, typewritten arguments, our one point of agreement was that our country is threatened by pirates, which are a problem the international community refuses to do anything about.
“You two are exhausting,” Raina complained the third time I asked her to critique our work. “This isn’t a term paper. It’s an argument. You still have two contradictory thesis statements!”
It was supposed to be twelve pages maximum. The current draft is nineteen.
“It’s your fault for asking the princess to help me,” Lorcan reminded her, a bit sulkily. “I didn’t need it.”
Raina shot him the middle finger. “I have my own exams to study for, you know. I don’t need to be refereeing your ongoing debate about Auralian governance.”
Kenton swooped in at that moment and picked me up in a bear hug. “Your knight picking on you, Princess?”
“Ugh. Get off me. You reek of party.” I tried to wriggle out of his arms, but he didn’t relax his grip. I squealed and landed a feeble kick of my heel to his shin. He dropped me, laughing, onto the couch.
“Go shower. You’re gross. I don’t want to know where that shirt has been,” I ordered.
He smirked. “It’s not the shirt you have to worry about, Princess.”
Raina groaned. “Get out of here, Kenton. We’re studying.”
He’s obnoxious, but I appreciate him for the fact that he never treats me like I’m made of glass. Around Kenton, I can be what I am: an eighteen-year-old girl trying to live like a normal university student.
If I could ditch Lorcan for an hour, I might even have a chance to meet one of his or Bashir’s friends. Have that first kiss, or even the sex I’d hoped to experience while away at college. My knight remained as stubbornly attached to my side as a tick to a dog’s rump.
“Sorry, Raina. You were saying?”
“Look. Right here on page two. ‘Auralia does not permit cars. It is a self-contained agrarian society similar to Amish communities found in the United States.’ I know you wrote that part, Lorcan.” Raina flipped the page. “And Zosia, you clearly hated that statement, because you go on for four full paragraphs about the advantages of permitting vehicles on roadways, citing data points about food transportation, trade and infrastructure development. And then—Lorcan again—one additional sentence citing the lack of traffic accidents in Auralia. Which, duh. It’s hard to have accidents when you have no vehicles.”
