Page 1 of The Impossible Princess
1
Royal Crush
CLARA
The shoes are a mistake.
I rush down the marble stairs of the Summer Palace, skidding to a stop on the black and white tiles with seconds to spare. My heart is racing in my chest as low chimes sound from a massive clock, carrying across the grounds and filling the Grand Hall.
Bong, bong, bong.
“That was cutting it close,” Ella whispers, leaning around Freja and sliding me a look. Her eyes widen at my ensemble and she lets out a whistle. “Who did you get dressed up for, little sister?” There’s a wicked glint in her expression, and if I didn’t think it would disarrange my outfit, I would kick her in the shins.
I know what the rules are, and I know I’ve followed them. I’m wearing a nicely tailored coat dress that will photograph well, and I’ve had weights sewn into the hem of the skirt so that the frisky wind gusting off the North Sea won′t send it flying over my head. The cut of the dress is conservative. It won’t draw more attention to me than to the job at hand. I’m wearing stockings, tasteful make-up, and an unfussy hat.
But within these narrow, unyielding confines, I know I′ve never looked better.
Bong, bong.
Ella’s twin, Freja, glances sideways, giving me a cursory perusal. ”She looks fine,” she tells Ella, her words perfunctory but welcome.
Bong.
“It’s her shoes,” my oldest sister Alma diagnoses from further up the line, not stepping a millimeter out of place. Her hands are folded neatly in front and her eyes are fastened straight ahead. I mimic her pose and see our images reflected in one of the massive antique mirrors lining the Great Hall–the four princesses of Sondmark lined up according to rank, our brother Noah towering above us at the head, looking faintly bored.
“They’rereallysexy shoes,” Ella points out, as the last of the chimes dies away.
I wonder if she knows how much dithering I did about my footwear this morning. I must have spent the last hour balancing on a basic brown leather pump and then switching feet to balance on a brushed velvet shoe in a shade somewhere between blue and violet, the heel curving down to a tight stiletto. I finally made the decision to choose something that looked like it belonged on the feet of a 24-year-old princess with a shoe obsession instead of the footwear that looked like it belonged on her mother.
Freja tilts her head. ”They’re close-toed and not outrageously high. Those are the only rules. Anyway, they match her hat. Clara’s shoes are fine.”
Freja is as wise as she is beautiful.
“Fine?” Ella laughs. “Mama’s sure to find them inappropriate or immodest.”
I shake my head. ”There’s no such thing as an immodest shoe.”
My tone is decisive, but even as I straighten my posture, my throat tightens when I hear the steady clip of footsteps heralding Mama’s arrival. Too late to change now. I am perfectly still, but my eyes dart around, looking for anything to calm my nervous energy. The Great Hall was constructed during the 17th century when Sondish cloth merchants robed every monarch in northern Europe, and my gaze fixes on the exquisite painted ceiling. Then I remember that the riot of angels and apostles was rumored to have driven Oppeger the Elder insane in its creation.
So much for calm.
Her Majesty enters, trailed by her private secretary, and I dip into a curtsey along with my sisters, my shoes performing the function with as much elegance as a basic pump. Noah bows. On some level, I know it’s ridiculous to curtsey to one′s mother, but she is also the Queen, and when we are inspected under her exacting eye, we all feel the tension.
She gives Noah a brief, official nod and moves to Alma. A twinge of envy tightens my stomach as I anticipate Mama’s smile of approval. Sometimes I think that if I could look as perfect as my sister,beas perfect, then I might finally feel like I belong in this family of bracingly smart, modern royals.
I frown at the thought, my wish just another kind of mirror to check my likeness against. Being the spitting image of Mama tells me I′m no changeling. I do belong here. I only need a chance to prove it.
Freja gets another cursory check. Though her ensembles aren’t as conventional as the rest of ours are, a history of childhood illness means that Mama allows Freja a long leash.
“Is that one of my dresses?” Mama asks.
“Yes. You wore it to a rose show in 1983.”
As ever, I am impressed at what Freja manages to make look chic—this time, lace insets and unnecessary flounces.
Mama glances at Ella. ”Pinch,” she says and Ella bends, plucking the thinnest, most-invisible nylons between her thumb and forefinger, proof that she’s actually wearing the hated stockings.
“Satisfied?” Ella asks.
