Page 59 of The Impossible Princess
“Permission to speak, sir.”
“Hell no, you don’t have it. Enough of these hippie drum circles, Andersen. They give their reports, and they get out. There is top brass,” he shouts, pointing at his collar, “and there’s everyone else. Know the difference.”
He storms out again, and I unclench my hands.
After work, I take a long run, jogging around the nature reserve, the water dotted with a few boats. I get in late and pick up my phone, checking my messages from my secret girlfriend. A slow grin lifts my mouth.
Cousin Helmut is already trying to set me up with his son.
I tap back.
Age? Financial position? Title? Look out for your interests, Clara.
Three dots bounce and I reach into the fridge for a drink.
22. Loaded. In line for a duchy. Also, BURIED THE LEDE, he’s my cousin’s son. Ew.
So we’re just going to pretend that King Malthe II never married his aunt?
Your store of historical knowledge is unhelpful. Also, for legal purposes, Rome declared them unrelated.
Okay, liefje.The endearment comes easily but this distance is killing me.
At the end of the week, I get a text.
Are you up for a drive?
If it means seeing Clara? Hell yes, I am. I look at the clock. Two hours to the hunting lodge, two hours back. I grab my keys before another text stops me. It’s a map, tagged in a location along a rural route located approximately halfway between the lodge and my cottage. An hour there. An hour back. Lots of time in between.
I make it in record time, pulling into a wide spot on the road that serves as a trailhead for the eastern forest footpaths. I get out and lean against the hood of the car, waiting. There are a couple of hours of daylight left, and the air is soft and full of the sounds of the forest. A few minutes later, a car passes. A green Ciprio. Ever since spotting one tailing me into base all those weeks ago, I see them everywhere. But there must be thousands of them in Sondmark.
Clara’s Fiio pulls in and she hops out, squealing a little as she flings herself into my arms. We’re standing where any passersby can see us, but there’s hardly any traffic on this road. I let myself go and kiss her up against the car.
“It’s only been a week,” I gasp.
“A long week, full of familial matchmaking.”
I laugh. “If I’d known you were going to miss me so much, I would have made myself scarce before.”
She pulls me towards the forest, and I see now that she has some old hiking boots on.
“A kilometer up and there’s a waterfall,” she says.
My heart feels like it sprinted a marathon. I wonder if we’ll make it that far. The path narrows in places, giving me an opportunity to lift her over obstacles; to thread our fingers together.
“How’s your family?”
“I don’t want to talk about my family.” I tug her hand and she clarifies. “It’s a little tense. The House of Wolffe could teach a masterclass on having things to say and not saying them.”
“Is something going on?”
She pauses.
“I don’t know if it’s because I have you that I’m seeing things through a different lens. It just feels like things are changing for us even if I can’t put my finger on how.”
I grunt, recalling the captain bawling out his subordinates, throwing his weight around the ship. It puts me on edge, forcing me to brace myself against a storm only I can see.
“Change doesn’t make an appointment.”
