Page 84 of The Princess Trap
She remembered what he’d said to her—I can’t bear the idea of children.And she started to think about why that might be.
She wanted to ask him about it. She wanted to hear his explanations, now that the sting of rejection and her own damned pride weren’t ruling her thoughts. She wanted, more than anything, to forgive him. But clearly pride still played a part in her emotions, because she couldn’t bring herself to start that conversation. She couldn’t bring herself to make the first move. And he, respecting her wishes, did exactly as she’d asked.
He kept his distance. Even when they lay together in the dark with nothing between them but her own damn stubbornness.
The day before the ball, Cherry’s worry was almost suffocating. Somewhere in this palace was a woman trapped in an impossible situation, afraid for herself and her children…
And Cherry sat in a chair, in front of a thousand bright lights, having her makeup done and her hair pulled at by a group of strangers.
Magda hovered around the transformed parlour, rifling through racks of elaborate gowns, all of which seemed to be in shades of grey or lavender. A tall, slender man stood beside Magda, towering over her tiny frame, and the two chattered away in Danish, gesturing wildly between the dresses and Cherry.
They were probably discussing the fact that the gown shewas currently wearing—or rather, had been stuffed into—wouldn’t zip up. At all. Not even close.
Cherry didn’t mind. It was pretty fucking ugly.
She flinched as the girl doing her makeup jabbed at her eye with a mascara wand. “Ow!”
“Stop looking all over the place. Eyes over here, over there, bah. Look up,” the girl said sharply. “Up.”
This was the fourth makeup trial they’d done that week. If Cherry was told tolook upone more fucking time, she’d throw herself out the damn window. Especially since she knew that, just like the last three times, her foundation would be caked on and ashy as hell. Apparently, Helgmøre didn’t produce foundation darker than a paper bag.
Well. Either that, or the makeup artist—whose name Cherry still couldn’t remember—was absolutely awful at her job.
“Alright,” announced a strident voice from behind her. The hair stylist. Ana, her name might be. “I know what we will do. We will, make it, ah…glatte.”
Magda broke off from her conversation to nod approvingly. “Ja, ja. Good. And then a nice, ah…” She waved her hand around the back of her head. “Like this?”
“Oh, yes,” Ana said. “Beautiful, yes.”
Well. Cherry was glad that Ana and Magda were on the same page, but it would help if she had some idea what fucking book they were reading.
“What do you meanglatte? What does that mean?” She twisted around in her seat, looking back at the hair stylist.
The makeup artist tsked in irritation. “Come here! Lookup!”
Cherry ignored her. It was either that, or say something very impolite.
Ana was bent over her little trolley, filled with mysterious hair products. She looked up at Cherry with a smile as she produced a straightening iron. “With this,” she said helpfully. “Stijltang.”
Cherry recoiled.
The makeup girl threw up her hands and spat, “For fanden! Come here!”
“No.” Cherry stood up, clutching the bodice of her unzipped dress. “Nooo way. You’re not straightening my hair.”
Ana looked at her with obvious alarm. “It’s okay. It does not, ah… hurt?”
“I know it doesn’t bloody hurt!” Cherry snapped. “I haven’t straightened my hair since I was a damn teenager and I don’t intend to now. Do you know how long it took to grow out all that heat damage? Good Lord.” She clutched at her curls as if to check they were still there, springy and coarse and bouncing against her hand. “No.Hardno. Jesus Christ, what am I even doing here?”
It felt like someone had dashed a glass of ice water into her face. She turned to look at Magda, the little woman staring at her with a lingering distaste that, just five minutes ago, Cherry had been content to ignore. She didn’t want to make a fuss. She didn’t want to make any of this harder than it already was.
But she’d be damned if she was going to let some rude, tiny tyrant send her to a ball looking like a caricature of herself.
“Magda,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height. Being tall really came in handy at times like these. “I don’t like the direction we’re taking. I want to try something new.” Magda’s face was pinched and sour. Clearly, this speech was not going down well. But really, a woman had to draw the line somewhere. “I want to try a new stylist. And a new makeup artist. A new everything, really.”
Magda squinted up at her. “No.”
“No?” Cherry frowned. “What the hell do you meanno?”
