Page 28 of The Impossible Princess
She stifles a laugh. “Something like that.”
“Is Pietor coming for the state dinner?” It’s the least he could do. A less attentive fiancé would be difficult to imagine. Pietor is currently spending weeks rowing across the Atlantic with a crew of schoolmates in aid of heaven knows what. The Society to Prevent Plastics Pollution, maybe.
She nods and then her wooden stick follows mine into the trash. “Don’t let Mama make you feel bad about that officer,” she says, and the blurry memory of super-hot manly abs clouds my vision for a second. Just dinner, I remind myself with a mind’s eye spinning and whirring the dials to get them in focus. Nothing serious.
I’m happy where I put him—in a box labeledFriends of Clara—but I am anxious about the packing tape securing the box. I’m worried that it rattles and claims my attention. Everywhere I look, there are scissors to slice it open.
Alma is still talking, and I jerk my focus to her. “It’s that she imagines a scandal hiding around every corner.”
“Can you blame her?” I ask. “All those notorious uncles. The House of Wolffe came very late to the respectability party.”
“And brought the gin,” she laughs.
It’s only then I realize how rare the sound of her laughter is these days. I pick up her hand and examine the antique opal monstrosity that is her engagement ring. I wonder if she’s happy about the choices she’s made—the careful engagement with a wealthy scion of a noble house. The amount of space he gives her—whole oceans, sometimes. I wonder if Pietor has any abs worth losing sleep over. Maybe a few after all that rowing, but Himmelstein is known for dense facial hair. There are national songs about it. I wonder if Alma cares.
A long silence stretches between us, and my sister stands, tugging me along and out of the kitchen. “You don’t need to worry about finding your place in the family. Jump through Mama’s hoops and it’ll come.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, the glow of hall lamps making golden lily pads of light against the crimson carpet. When she turns to her room, the blue robe is billowing again, and it’s hard to remember I wasn’t walking with a queen. I return to my room and lie awake all night.
On Friday, I wake early, going on a run through the wooded grounds of the Summer Palace. Too many white-tailed deer dot the misty parklands, and I enjoy the sight with a little twinge of guilt. The herd is due to be culled, the venison sold with the Royal label in upmarket grocery stores—an idea thought up by Noah. Unlike in the days of Harald Dragonslayer, the Royal family doesn’t use the massive medieval kitchens or need to feed an entire court each day. The deer will remind people of their heritage as well as go to funding maintenance costs. That’s what the Bambi-slayer says.
I pop in on my godmother for a few minutes, watching her deadhead a pot of geraniums in the bright sunshine with hands that have forgotten nothing. She tells me to fetch Ansgar, and I wonder if that’s a former gardener I’m meant to remember. I spend the rest of the morning reading materials on an upcoming engagement in Vaado—memorizing the history, innovations, and pertinent facts of an auto manufacturing firm.
Her Majesty is hosting a garden party, and in the early afternoon, I present myself in a tea-length gown and Prada block heels on the steps leading down to the wide lawn as a celebrated pop star does her best to soften the national anthem. Noah gives a short speech about Mama’s dedication to Sondmark, and I notice Père’s jaw tighten. The press hasn’t caught wind of that rift, but I feel the sword swinging above all of our heads.
Courtiers and guards walk ahead of each one of us as we cleave through the crowd, guiding us to selected guests. We are introduced, exchanging a few words, and I find myself saving up impressions to give to Max. I meet an heiress in shocking headgear (a bedazzled trucker hat, complete with plastic size-adjusters at the back) who runs a charity devoted to beautifying abandoned land between the highways by planting native wildflowers. She presents me with several seed packets, and I hand them off to a courtier discreetly. Then there is the man who arrives in full court dress…from three centuries ago, his curly mane of hair almost certainly a wig. My heels manage the spongy garden grass very well, and I plan to tell Max all about that too.
The whole thing passes so quickly that I’m shocked when a courtier whispers in my ear that it’s time to retire.
“You did very well, Clara,” Mama says, slipping the gloves from her hands and striding through the great hall, slightly ahead of the rest of us. Père is ignoring the pace that she has set, and he is strolling along on Ella’s arm, laughing at some joke she’s told. Mama’s clicking heels halt, and I catch her watching my father with an intent, almost stricken, expression. I feel my hand lifting to touch hers in silent sympathy, and then she blinks, hardening her gaze and turning it on me. She looks fully in command again. “I like to see such single-mindedness.”
My smile doesn’t reach my eyes, my hand drops, and my insides squirm with guilt. Single-minded? Yes, I am exceedingly single-minded.
Visit Hot, Hot Sondmark.
14
Lutheran Babies
MAX
When she arrives at six I want to lean up against the door frame and kiss her until her shoes come off. Six is exactly on time. She can’t know what punctuality does to me.
“I thought you brought dinner,” I say, craning my neck to look behind her.
She pushes a button on her key fob, and the trunk pops. “Help me with the boxes?”
I expect to see pre-packaged dishes—pressed sandwiches and salad with hand-carved carrots, purchased from Bette’s food hall—but I lift my box, inspecting the contents. “Are we making paella?”
She looks over her shoulder as she goes up the garden path, the sun turning her hair into the color of one of my mother’s Glorious Grains of Sondmark, and gives me a smile. “Something like that. It’s a dish from Pavieau. My father taught us all to make it when we were children.”
Pavieau. There is no good response when she brings up her father’s family. The history is well-known. The small country on the Mediterranean coast was ruled by a military dictatorship for the better part of thirty years when the generalissimo reversed course and reinstalled the old king to the throne. Protests and riots broke out in Handsel when young Queen Helena honored the marriage contract with his second son, Prince Matteo, making him her consort. Even now, you’ll hear old people mutter that they thought they were getting a homeless prince and got a fascist puppet instead. Poor Queen Helena, they said, and the parliament made an addendum to the ancient coronation oath.
Talking about my grandparents is not so complicated. They live on two sides of the same city, giving each other grief about opposing football teams when they meet for weddings and baptisms.
Clara sets her box on the counter and busies herself with unloading it, not meeting my eye. “The food there is good.”
Her words rush from her mouth, and I feel guilty, wondering if she felt the need to justify something as simple as love for her father. I shift the box and set it down beside hers, eyes widening.
