Page 39 of The Impossible Princess
“No.” I draw the word out. No one spills tea like my godmother.
“They called itToffee-Nosed Dameand kids used to do a swivel-hipped dance to it.”
She stands, the cards forgotten, and juts her arms out in front of her, snapping her fingers as she, indeed, swivels. I rise and try to mimic it, laughing.
“What else about Max?” Lady Greta asks, dropping into her chair with a happy sigh.
“He doesn’t seem bothered by my title.”
“Why should he be? Being the Queen of Sondmark and the Sonderlands is something to be proud of. What are his titles, compared to that?”
I ignore the fact that she thinks I’m my mother. “Max only has his naval pay and a cottage.”
“A cottage?” Godmama catches me by the wrist, her blue eyes bright. “If he’s not noble,elskede, better let him go. The people won’t stand for it. Bad enough when your eye was on that homeless princeling, it would be far worse to marry a commoner.”
I smile. “He’s only a friend.” A super-hot friend I can’t stop thinking about.
Godmama snorts, muttering about handsome sailors being no friend to any maiden, and lays down a jack of hearts, a six of spades and a ten of clubs.
“Better luck next time,” she says, scooping wrapped caramels into her pile of winnings.
I return to the palace to shower and dress, presenting myself for my mother’s inspection before we leave. She runs a cursory glance over my person, gives a nod, and leads me to the car.
When we arrive at the Guild Hall, members of the press snap pictures as I emerge from the Bentley behind my mother, but it’s nothing like the night at the ambassador’s house. No one is shouting questions about Max. Having given it no fuel, the tiny scandal has fizzled out. A nine days’ wonder. My smile widens with secret knowledge.
We accept the small curtsies and sober half-bows of men and women who have surely been practicing for weeks and make light conversation in the dusk before we move within the hall. I try not to allow thoughts of Max to distract me. Dusk is our time. And dawn. Hours stolen away from our duties.
I am paired with a grey-haired gentleman for dinner and find, to my surprise, that he is a Naval officer—a submariner.
“What was the longest period you ever spent below the surface?” I ask, peppering him with questions.
“Sondmark doesn’t have nuclear subs that stay under for months at a time. We’ve got fast-attack subs. I stayed under forty days. As long as Noah rode the flood, seeing neither land nor sky. You should have seen us,” he laughs with the memory, “running into the arms of wives and sweethearts, blinking against the sun, skin as pale as newborn babes.”
I giggle and my mother shoots me a bland smile—the best she can do under so many eyes—and I apply myself to the chicken breast, cutting microscopic pieces and chewing discreetly.
“There is nothing like it—of being gone and catching the first glimpse of my wife in the reception area, ringed about with babies in the old days. Kissing, kissing, kissing. Touching each small head and wondering if they grew. Of course, every time we returned, the mariners all caught colds,” he says, eyes twinkling.
My brow furrows. “Why ‘of course’?”
“Those kisses introduced the first new germs we’d seen in a month, and we kept going back for more.”
I have to bite my cheek to prevent myself from laughing out loud. My shoulders are shaking from the effort at control. Has Max had such meetings—a girl lifted off of her feet and kissed until she couldn’t breathe? An eruption of jealousy coats my insides, splashing through my limbs and shocking me in its intensity. Jealousy is an emotion I have no business having, and mine is like eyeliner on a 13-year-old girl—strong, dark, and messy. I refuse to imagine him kissing anyone else when he comes into port.
“…invite Princess Clara to say a few words.”
I jerk from my focus back in time to hear my mother, magnificent in sparkling white, introduce me at the podium. I get to my feet, taking one slow, cleansing breath, praying that my preoccupation doesn’t show on my face. Standing with a glass of champagne half-raised in my hand, I recite Caroline’s precise, appropriate phrases in a clear, carrying voice. Noble service. Innovative work.
“To the men and women who dedicate their time to so great a cause.” I lift my glass, and others follow suit. I take the tiniest sip. It is done.
As a rule, Mama tries not to speak until the Bentley swings through the gates of the palace on the principle that the press employs lip-readers and photographers that make one look “as though one has been scowling mercilessly at a peasant.”
It doesn’t help that she has resting ‘Scowling Mercilessly at a Peasant’ face.
“You did well, Clara. The speech was flawless.”
But. I wait for it.
“You were having a rather voluble conversation with Admiral Raukema.”
