Page 70 of The Impossible Princess
Swipe.
A low-angled picture of Clara stirring a pot.
Swipe.
Clara at the end of the dock, wrinkling her nose. Smiling.
That smile was for me.
31
Enough Scandal
CLARA
I’m in my private sitting room working on patronage homework when I hear Max’s name on the television. My head jerks up. I check the time and the station logo in the corner of the screen. This isn’t the entertainment press. This is a respectable news program with a proper newsreader wearing serious glasses and a resolute expression. The report comes after segments on tariff negotiations and drought conditions in the inland territories.
NeerHjefdal reads his lines on the teleprompter in a restrained panic, as though he has to get through the sentence before he vomits. “The prime minister’s office is calling for an inquiry into what the press has dubbed The Flower Affair between Princess Clara and Lieutenant Commander Max Andersen of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
Then comes a clip of the prime minister’s smarmy press secretary, a young woman in a bouncy blowout and horn-rimmed glasses. “The presentation of the violets to our servicemen and women is the rare public event that unites the people of Sondmark, no matter their faith, income, orientation, age, ability, marital status, occupation, class, or political beliefs. Though Princess Clara holds the position of the violet bearer by tradition, the government calls on the Palace to assure the people that this ceremony is in responsible hands.”
The newsreader swivels to a panel of experts. The first recounts the mythology of the Dragonslayer and the Maiden, tying it to the roots of the royal tradition. “The tale never actually names what sort of flower the young princess used to bind up the soldier’s wounds, only that she found it deep in the woods.”
Another panelist speaks as a former officer who participated in such an event when Alma was the young princess doling out posies. “She was as meticulous as you could wish, even congratulated me on making rank the previous spring. So controlled, I had the impression she could pilot the ship if we ever needed a second captain.”
The last brings up the constitutional implications of abolishing the monarchy and speaks at length on my fitness as a human being. “Her Majesty has no control over Princess Clara whatsoever, that much is clear. In America, unsavory family dramas are played out by reality stars and paid for by advertising revenue. If that’s what we can expect from our royal family, why are we footing the bill?”
I rub my hands tiredly over my face.
“There is some question about whether or not her heel getting stuck was planned as a kind of lover’s joke,”NeerHjefdal interjects. “The prime minister’s office will have to content itself for the time being with this statement made by Lieutenant Commander Andersen on his way to his deployment this morning.”
“Oh no,” I gasp. If Max didn’t hate me before being hounded by the paparazzi, he’s sure to hate me after.
Then Max is on the screen, and I shove my papers and laptop aside, crouching before the television on my knees. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in days, and my eyes hungrily sweep the screen. The camera has framed him along with the gatehouse, and in his uniform, he’s all business. He doesn’t look like a man who spent the weekend licking his wounds after a breakup.
I subside on my heels with a cold knot forming in my stomach. I shouldn’t feel upset that he looks like he still has his life together, but I do.
His statement is brief, polite, and professional. Practically a masterclass of image management and leaving no room for alternative interpretations of the events.
I slowly exhale, wishing this pain and longing would leave me as easily. I have messed up, and I don’t know how to fix it.
At the conclusion of the broadcast, Her Majesty sends out a message via Caroline calling for an emergency family meeting in the morning. Sleep eludes me, and I work long into the night.
When morning comes, I run off my nerves, circling the grounds, finally popping in on Lady Greta. An old-fashioned recording of a Lars Velmundson ballad comes through the open windows.
When you were mine,
I kissed you whenever.
You stood still for me
Holding your breath
Until I lent you my own.
I skid to a stop, bite my lip, and clutch my side like I’ve got a stitch from running. My heart keeps breaking even though I keep telling myself I’m past the worst of it. I’m not past anything if this feeling—sick and sad and furious at the same time—can be triggered off by an old love song.
I sniff loudly and straighten. I can see my godmother swaying around her sitting room in a garish housecoat, her slippers kicked off. I smile, even as I make a quick assessment. She is worse today. The godmother I have always known would be more careful of appearances. Still, her dementia, something I hate so fiercely, has moments that make her brave, paring her personality back to the most essential elements—brightness, exuberance, love of sentiment. Her illness takes and takes but this is a gift.
