Page 32 of The Impossible Princess
She shakes the short, auburn hair from her face. “I needed a walk. The final review for my exhibit proposal is tomorrow.”
Instantly, guilt shoves my worries away. Freja hasn’t been able to talk about anything but organizing an exhibit of Sondish Romantic painters for months, and I’ve been tuning it out.
“Of course the museum board will sign off on it. Who would say no to a princess?” I laugh. “Especially one who works for free.”
She doesn’t laugh with me. “You’re right.” I catch a certain wistfulness in her voice but she is half in shadow, her face hidden from me. I should drag her under the pool of light and make her talk, but she turns crisply on her heel. Then, a few paces away, she looks back. “The book stalls closed hours ago. Next time think of a better excuse for being out late.”
I make it to my suite before anyone else sees me and draws all the right conclusions. I toss my bookbag on the bed, glaring at it. Maybe if I had more girlfriends living in Handsel, I could credibly use one of them as a cover (“I’m binge-watchingFive Minutes to Marrywith Brigit tonight. Wine and cardigans…”), but all my closest friends are in America.
I flop backward on the bed. Maybe that’s all this thing with Max is—loneliness and pent-up frustration. It’s hardly surprising that I feel at such loose ends when I spent four years immersed in rigorous studies and campus events only to return home and feel under-used and itching for a challenge. Maybe this interest in Max can be chalked up to the sudden deflation of going to places whereIamthe event, meeting people who come to glimpse a tiara and look vaguely ill-done-by when they don’t.
Ping.
Like a zombie rising from the grave, I lift my phone.
“We left your shrimp peeler in the sink.” He has attached a photo.
I make the image larger, propping myself onto my elbows to get a better look.
Just as I thought. There are some nice, Sondmark-grown abs reflected in the kitchen window. I release my fingers, the image returns to its original size, and I flop backward again. If it were anyone else, I would think he was doing it on purpose. I expel a breath like an old woman at a Lars Velmundson concert. The sliver of abs was just that. A measly sliver.
“I had fun,” I type, padding to the closet for a change into my nightclothes. “No problem if Wednesday doesn’t work out.”
It’s a pleasant text. Noncommittal. I don’t want him to feel like he has to have me over. It must be difficult to navigate a relationship—a friendship, I remind myself for what feels like the millionth time this week—with a member of the royal family; difficult to create healthy boundaries when he pledges an oath of allegiance to my mother.
Healthy boundaries. I return to brushing my teeth with more vigor, a line forming in my brow. Nearly everywhere I go, people thrust bouquets into my hands, and I am treated like, well, a princess. If Max were one of theadel,it might be different. The hereditary nobles of Sondmark are the worst, most stuck-up, self-regarding club in the world. They don’t think being a princess is anything special. At a guess, I’d say they even pity me, knowing that they can splash themselves all over social media, live on a yacht for three-quarters of the year, and name their children Guava or Hum without answering to anyone.
If one of those peacocks said he wanted to spend time with me, I would know he meant it. But does Max have much of a choice? Is he thrusting bouquets at me? Metaphorically, an inner voice reminds me as I floss.
Ping.
“Soft city girl. 5 isn’t too early. I want to see you.”
I stare at the message for what seems like a long time, mechanically walking around the room and switching off the lamps, slipping between the sheets.
“Clara?”
“Go to bed, sailor.” The word is supposed to sound like a gentle insult, but it takes the complexion of an endearment and I draw a breath, knowing with sudden clarity that I’m not lonely and this has nothing—hardly a sliver, really—to do with his abs. I like Max Andersen, and I will like him in five years and ten and twenty. More, even.
I’m not laughing but an unaccustomed feeling of laughter runs from the tips of my fingers to the pads of my feet as I struggle to hold on to my intentions. Friend. Max is my friend. But my neck is warm, and I am smiling in the dark as I finish my message.
“I want to see you too.”
Morning dawns with an unseasonal thunderstorm, the sound of it rolling over the distant ocean, rippling with white-capped waves. I’ve been thinking all night, and I reach for my phone, pulling up my contacts, and prod the circle next to Madam Secretary.
“Good morning,VrouwTiele,” I type. “If possible, might I arrange a meeting with my mother today? Alone. A quarter of an hour would suffice. Regards, etc., etc.”
Though it’s shockingly early, I don’t even have to wait two minutes before Caroline pings me back with a time, accompanied by the suggestion that I arrive a little beforehand.“Her Majesty will fit you in between a meeting with the ambassador of Zouvier and a conference call with the trade commission.”
This is her code for telling me that my meeting will not be allowed to go a second over.
I spend the morning working out in the gym, keyed up and oddly annoyed at Max. He didn’t prod me into confronting my mother, but something about the way I feel when I’m with him makes me chafe against Mama’s glacial timeline for bringing me fully on board the family business. I was content to wait for her pleasure before Max came along, filling my head with ideas about my talents and gifts.
As the hour to meet my mother approaches, I arrive in the administrative wing wearing low heels, stockings, and a conservative skirt and blouse. My hair is coiled neatly, and my make-up is giving me a precise and radiant glow. I wish things were different. I wish that I could breeze into the kitchen and have a chat with my mother while I rummage through the fridge—but even at her most casual, I know that business questions must be addressed in a business-like way.
Caroline is at her desk in an anteroom—a door to her right leads to the Queen’s office and a door to her left leads to the Queen’s formal receiving room—and greets me with a pleasant smile, indicating a chair.
“Her Majesty will be a few minutes, Your Royal Highness. May I get you something to drink?”
