Page 54 of The Impossible Princess
How would Clara fit in with this? I know what I’m supposed to think. That she would sit primly on a hard kitchen chair, a tight, attentive smile pasted on her lips. That she wouldn’t have anything in common with us. But that’s not how it would be. Clara would like them. They would like her.
“I don’t know,” I answer my brother, bracing myself against the counter and unrolling my shirt sleeves. “I keep telling myself that it’s fine the way things are. No need to complicate it.”
“Complicate it with honesty?” he says with a smile.
“Complicate it by asking for something she’s not ready to give,” I correct.
“You kissed her. That seems a little complicated.”
“She asked for it.”
“Better and better.” For that, he gets an elbow in the ribs. He rubs the spot. “You come to these dinners, Max, and I hear how you’re navigating the problems at work, treating your men well but worried about your captain. Diplomatic, not entirely straightforward. You and Clara—I can’t believe we’re talking about a princess—you and Clara are in a relationship, even if you’ve decided to call it something else. You should have that talk with your girlfriend and find out where you stand.”
“After two months? It took you a decade to propose to Rita.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Propose, sure, but I locked her down the same day Valdemar Kestler tried to come between us—I knew three weeks into autumn semester that she was it for me.”
“You were fourteen, Hals.” I shake him off.
“Affairs of the heart, little brother, are evergreen.”
I punch him in the arm. He punches me harder. I punch him harder than that. He tells me he needs that arm to perform a root canal in the morning.
25
Still Friends
CLARA
There are no plaid pants this year. Ella is wearing a striped seersucker sundress that looks amazing on her. I am certain Mama has notes. Seersucker never looks crisp or pressed, but these are the breaks of the casual Wolffe family photocall.
High, billowing thunderclouds have given the gardens of the Summer Palace good light, and we stride across the lawn to the bank of press photographers stationed near the decorative bridge. As we near, a no-man’s-land five meters wide is maintained between the camps, and Queen Helena offers the welcome. It’s friendly and laughing and nothing like how she really feels about these things.
The senior royal reporter—an elderly man with a deferential attitude—has a handful of questions he has collected and asks on behalf of them all.
“Your Majesty, what are the details of the new economic policy with Vorburg? Will the wall between our two nations come down?”
Mama beams and responds that the prime minister will be announcing developments soon. And the wall between Vorburg and Sondmark, she reminds them, is little more than a stone gate in the eastern forest.
“Prince Consort Matteo, your brother King Gilles of Pavieau has recently spoken out against the very junta which reinstalled your father so many years ago and removed several officials from that time. What are your thoughts?”
Père grows still. “I trust that His Majesty can rule his country far better than an exiled prince. I haven’t had anything new to say about Pavieau in many years. I wish my homeland the best as they work to re-establish democracy.”
It’s the line we knew he would take—indeed, the line he has taken for years—but there is a note of bitterness I haven’t heard before. Père hasn’t stepped foot in Pavieau in more than thirty years.
“Have you been in contact with the Royal Family of Pavieau since the state funeral?”
My breath checks, and Père’s mouth sets. “I have not had that honor.”
Mama interjects, “The floral tribute sent to His Majesty King Gilles included tiger lilies, a native flower of Pavieau and favorite of the old king.”
Is she saving Père from awkward questions? Or saving herself?
Mama nods, concluding the topic, and the reporter moves on. “Princess Alma, the press would like to know when Sondmark will be hosting your wedding celebrations?”
It’s strange that the date has not been set. Generally, these things are hammered out long before the public even knows they are to be anticipated. But Alma has always held her cards close to the chest.
She tips her head consideringly and tells him that a bride has so many arrangements to make that the date completely slipped her mind. It’s meant to be a joke as well as a non-answer, and the bevy of press laughs approvingly. I remind myself to get to the bottom of it the next time we’re raiding the palace kitchens for down-market chocolate.
