Page 23 of The Impossible Princess
“The North Star?” Her breath is warm on my cheek.
“It brings every sailor home.” I forget all the things that worry me about us and speak. “Are you free on Friday?” I ask. “We could go to the—”
“Max,” she shifts away and boosts herself onto the hood of her little blue Fiio. “I can’t do this again. For one thing, going out with me in public is a circus.” She sighs and there is no breeze to carry it away; it envelops us in sudden heaviness. “We’re already in the newspapers. If we’re caught in a pub or at a game, speculation will only ratchet up.”
“You never go out?”
“When I do, the press has me married off within the week.” She smiles in a self-deprecatory way. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on kebabs and chips, and before you know it, it’s all the press will talk about. You would be in the newspapers constantly and I can’t believe your captain would approve. I have my mother to worry about. If I’m in the press every day, there won’t be any focus on the engagements the Crown is sending me on or the people whose achievements deserve to be highlighted.”
“Attention doesn’t stop your brother. He must go out with dozens of women a year. Maybe he’s got the right idea.”
“What?”
“You should make them so numb to your dalliances that they stop paying attention. I could be the man who gets you started on the right foot.”
Her eyes crinkle in amusement and then she tips her head. “I’ve been handing out violets since I was sixteen, Max. I could do it in my sleep if I wanted.” The smile shifts, and though her lips have hardly changed shape, I can see the sadness in her expression. “My mother keeps giving me these make-work assignments, and if I want more responsibility, I have to earn it. So,” she lifts a shoulder, “for the next few years, I can’t afford more stories about my personal life in the papers. Even coming here once was a risk.”
What are we supposed to talk about the next time Queen’s Day rolls around and she’s handing me flowers? The thought of being trapped into small talk on a parade ground with this particular girl is a nightmare. Silence lapses between us, and when it grows too strained she hops off the hood of her car. “I did have a nice time, Max. I don’t get many nights as easy as this.”
She fumbles for her keys and I take a gamble, unable, at this point, to calculate the cost. “What if we don’tgoout?” Her head jerks up, the keys are forgotten. “What if wehangout?”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
I hook a hand in my pocket, an arm resting along the roof of the little car. I look as casual and off-hand as a naval officer can. I gesture to the cottage with my chin. “You don’t want the pressure of being in public, but you like…slumming.”
An outraged sound escapes from the back of her throat. “I did not call it that. There’s nowhere for me—”
“I’m not asking you to complicate your personal life or do anything to get you full coverage inThe Daily Missive. I’m asking if you want more nights like this one.”
Her head tilts and her eyes shift as she considers my proposal. Her question is tentative. “Food and talking? What do you get out of it?”
“It’s isolated out here.” My eyes arc across the lake and into the deepness of the woods. I try to look unsettled by the fact, haunted. “If you come, I get some company. I get to make conversation with someone who doesn’t have to salute me when it’s over.”
She chokes out a laugh and I know I’m winning.
“Come on, Clara. I’m offering to let you put your feet on the furniture and teach you mysteries all the peasants know. We never need to go out. Just dinner. Just friends. Nothing serious.”
She opens the car door, sliding behind the wheel. The light illuminates her features and shows me a car that is devoid of even the smallest sign that it has ever been driven before. No dirty dog paw prints covering the rear seat. No wurst wrappers wadded up in the console. I have died and gone to heaven.
“No one has to know?” she asks, gripping the steering wheel. I lean over, resting my arms against the window frame.
I don’t like this. I don’t like secrets and I don’t like loose ends. I don’t like stepping into a situation with so many unknowns. But I like this girl and maybe that’s enough. For now.
“No one has to know.”
She nods once, intently. “Friday. I’ll do it, I’ll come. On one condition.”
Having won my point, I am in the mood to negotiate. “Name it.”
She looks up. “I’m making you dinner.”
“Done.” I lean into the car and brush my lips against her cheek.
Nothing serious.
11
Chocolate Cake
