Page 22 of The Impossible Princess
“Thank goodness,” he says, stabbing another bite. I raise my brow. “I don’t have to lie.”
10
Nothing Serious
MAX
I lean against her car, the deep bowl of the night sky curving overhead. The sun set so long ago that there isn’t even the slightest rim of orange gilding the horizon, and light spills from the open door of the cottage. There isn’t any breeze at all.
She reaches for her car keys, jingling them in her hands. “I had a nice time,” she says.
I glance over at her profile and my heart rate kicks up another notch. It hasn’t been nice. It’s been hours of existing in a state of hyper-awareness and potential danger, each nerve stretched taut as all of my senses overload me with impressions and feedback. It’s been like a man-overboard drill in the middle of a squall.
And I want more of it.
For a brief moment, I try to remember how it was with Liva—if I felt this way about her in the beginning, too—and discard the thought. Liva believed that if one of us was right, the other had to be wrong. No matter how inconsequential the topic, she had been unwilling to let each of us go our own way.
In these hours, I have found that this girl has a curious mind—uncertain, exploring, persuadable, and persuasive. Attached as she is to such an entrenched institution, I expected Clara—my mind searches for a surname to attach to her—to be far more set in her ways.
“What did they call you at school?” I ask.
“What do you mean? I didn’t have an anonymous identity. Lots of people knew who my mother was. Usually, at the beginning of the semester, someone would give me a hard time when I raised my hand in class, asking for silence for Her Serene Most Precious Highness or something. But that died down quickly. It was fine.”
“No, I mean what name did you sign when you turned in your papers?”
“Oh. Clara Reike, after the duchy. It’s customary.”
“And your sisters?”
“Goodness, let me think. They are Alma Lowenwald, Freja Piskmont and Ella Sorstorm.” She tips her head to the night sky, the light from the cottage a soft glow against her neck.
I can’t take my eyes from her and my voice sounds rough in my ears. “And your brother?”
“He’s the heir, so it’s a little more straightforward. His military patch read ‘Wolffe’.”
“Was that strange? Not having a proper last name?”
She laughs, the low sound carrying in the night air. “Inconvenient for credit card applications, I understand, but a secretary sees to that.”
Secretaries, a duchy…I think of my grandmother’s recipe—of how much time and attention it requires to get just right; of how rich it is. In the Andersen family, it’s meant to mark special occasions like the birth of a baby or a job promotion. If I had it twice a week, I’d get sick of it. My eyes stray to Clara again. It should be easier to remember what my captain said about promotion boards.
“I’m glad you came over,” I say.
“I am too.”
Her hands are positioned in front of her, clasped as though she is waiting for a basket full of violets to distribute, and the thought runs through my head that my job is not simple. Sometimes I’m at sea for weeks and months at a time. I don’t draw a paycheck that allows for many luxuries, my ship is often involved in dangerous mine-detonation missions, we encounter traffickers, and occasionally come under fire. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has found it impossible.
The thoughts come faster and more insistently, and my lungs constrict. My mother, bred into this kind of life, ran as far and as fast as she could when the chance came to her. A princess would run faster.
I catch my wild thoughts, curling my hands over the window frame, and take a deep breath. It’s too soon to think these thoughts. It’s too soon. I’m already looking down the road with Clara, seeing what it could be, wanting it. If I stay on this path, it’s going to hurt.
Her hand touches my forearm. “There’s the Big Dipper,” she says, pointing to the constellation. “It’s so bright out here.”
“Big Dipper,” I grunt in mock disapproval, wishing her hand would stay where it is. “Imagine a princess of Sondmark callingKarlswagonby an American name. The scandal it would cause if such a thing got out.”
Her cheek curves with a smile. “I used to imagine Karl had his cart heaped with gold. What did you imagine it was carrying?”
She turns her gaze on me so quickly that I cannot think for a moment. “I wasn’t dreaming of gold. I was dreaming of the sea.” I lean nearer so that our shoulders touch and raise my hand, finger tracing a line from the back of the wagon until I reach Polaris.
