Page 63 of Prince Material
“Floris.” Laurens’s voice was gentle but firm. “You can’t make that decision for him. You need to talk to him about it, be honest about what being with you might mean. Let him decide if it’s worth it.”
My free hand clenched into a fist. “And if he decides it’s not?”
“Then that’s his choice to make. But from what you’ve told me about him, he sounds like someone who knows his own mind.”
I thought about Orson’s determination, his focus, the way he meticulously worked through problems until he found a solution. He wasn’t impulsive. If anything, he overthoughteverything, analyzed all possible outcomes before making a move. It was one of the things I loved about him, how different it was from my own tendency to speak first and think later.
“You’re right. I need to talk to him.”
“And to Mom and Dad. Sooner rather than later. They’re planning to come visit you in the spring. It would be better if they weren’t blindsided.”
My parents had scheduled a “private” visit to the United States, with a few days set aside to see me at school. Private in royal terms meant only a dozen staff members and minimal press coverage.
“I’ll call them,” I promised. “And I’ll talk to Orson.”
“Good. And Floris? For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. It’s about time something good happened in your life.”
His words sent a rush of warmth through me, mingled with a twinge of apprehension. “Thanks, Laurens. I appreciate it.”
After we hung up, I sat motionless on my bed, phone clutched in my hand. The happiness I’d felt earlier hadn’t vanished entirely, but it was now shot through with anxiety, like cracks in a beautiful vase. I had to warn Orson about what might be coming. I had to give him the chance to walk away before things got complicated.
The thought made my chest ache with a pain that felt physical. My hands weren’t exactly numb, but I felt a warmth, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as fear, fear of losing something precious before it had fully begun.
But before I could analyze that any further, my phone rang again. When I spotted the number, I frowned. Tore? Why would he be calling me?
“Tore? Is everything all right?” I asked, unable to keep the concern out of my voice.
“I’ve royally mucked things up, Flo,” he blurted out. “I need your advice.”
I pushed my own worries to the background. “I’m listening. What’s going on?”
The call didn’t take long and I saw the irony in the fact that I was telling him the exact same thing that Laurens had advised me: to communicate. In my case, with both my parents and Orson, and in Tore’s case, with the guy he’d insisted for so long he hated. Had I called it or what when I’d labeled it foreplay?
At least I wasn’t the only one with relationship trouble… though that was barely a consolation. I needed to talk to Orson about the press, and I needed to do it soon.
But how would he react? I had a feeling I wasn’t gonna like it.
20
ORSON
Snow fell thick across campus, blanketing the world, erasing it. I hurried from the grand lecture hall to our dorm room as quickly as I could, though careful not to slip on the slick surface. Even after over three years here, snow was still foreign to me, the stuff of pretty Christmas cards and Facebook posts, not my actual reality. I hadn’t made my mind up as to whether I actually liked the stuff.
I pulled my hat low over my ears, stuffing my hands in my pockets. Around me, groups of students hurried across the white fields, heads down against the biting wind, looking for cover. I was no different, feeling the sting of each flake as I trudged past the library, past a bunch of snow-covered benches, past the dining hall and finally on to the dorms. A chill crept under my layers, and I shivered.
When I turned the corner, I came to a sudden stop, my feet almost sliding right from under me. Floris stood in the center of the lawn in front of Smelter Hall, arms outstretched, open-mouthed and shocked, or thrilled, or maybe a combination of both. Like he’d never seen it, like he’d been waiting forever. Amillion white crystals covered everything, even him, turning his orange coat into an overgrown marshmallow.
“What are you doing?” I called, trying to sound casual, but my voice caught on the words.
Floris spun around, too fast, nearly slipped on a patch of ice. “Orson! It’s snowing!” he said, as if he had invented the white stuff himself and I should be impressed. He pointed toward the sky, where heavy, gray clouds twisted into strange, dark shapes. “Isn’t it brilliant?”
“It’s snow,” I said, because that seemed to cover it, and someone had to point out the obvious. “Don’t you have this back home?”
He laughed, a cloud of steam billowing around him. “Not like this! It’s so much!” He moved through the falling whiteness, his hair and lashes turning frosty, until he was close enough to touch. “Don’t you love it?”
“In moderate amounts… and not when it’s this cold. The feel temperature is, like, in the low twenties.”
He grinned. “I have no idea what that even means. Using Celsius, remember?”
