Page 71 of The Impossible Princess
“Come in, come in,elskede,” she gestures. She can’t remember my name, but she remembers me as one of her darlings, and I am glad for that. “What are you doing today?”
“I’m in trouble,” I say, kissing her papery cheek.
“Scandal,” she grumbles, returning to her swaying dance. “Scandal. It does us all good to have a little scandal from time to time.”
“I’ve had quite enough scandal.”
“Does your papa still insist you throw over the handsome prince?”
She hands out questions like party favors, poorly matched to each recipient. Who is Papa? Who is the prince?
“Papa never changes,” I say, playing along.
Greta snorts. “Old goat. Why does he object? You’ll have the boy in the end, I wager.” Her eyes bulge. “What on earth are you wearing?”
Only some leggings and a fitted tank top, but if Greta is trapped in the past, they must seem shocking.
“My exercise clothes,” I say and she lifts a disapproving brow.
“Like a bathing costume?” she asks. “Won’t catch a man without a bikini.”
I laugh but swallow back a sudden thickness in my throat when I recall Max tossing me into the lake fully clothed. This has to get easier. It has to.
Ten o’clock comes too soon. I shower, change into the most conservative clothes I have, and grab my computer before I depart. Freja comes upon me as I leave my suite, silently tucking her arm through mine, her vintageter Brandtwrap-dress somehow perfectly royal and personally distinctive. How does she manage to work within this system and still retain such a strong sense of self? I wonder if she intentionally waited for me in the hall, ready to lend her quiet, undemanding support.
We arrive at the conference room, and I find that, again, Noah is early. Is that intentional too? He and Caroline are not friends—they are hardly on speaking terms. Still, he arrives early and covertly follows her progress around the room. I wonder if he’s here because of excellent time management or because it affords him the chance to see her alone. The wondering occupies my thoughts, pushing aside my worries for a brief time.
“Are you dyspeptic?” Freja asks him. “I only ask because of that ferocious scowl. Mama has some pills, I think. Caroline, doesn’t Her Majesty have—”
“I don’t have indigestion,” he snaps.
“Too many late nights?” she asks, failing to read the room.
“Mind your own affairs, Freja.”
Freja shrugs and makes her way to the refreshment table, a recent innovation, and chooses a bottle of sparkling water.
Caroline places an agenda in front of me, and I glance over it.
Item: Prime Minister Torbald’s inquiry
My stomach drops into my toes and stays there until the meeting begins. At the top of the hour, Mama leans forward, tenting her fingers.
“You’ve had such a busy summer, Clara.”
I had hoped to gain her trust and confidence when I broke things off with Max, but those seem to have evaporated from her voice. I am the Party Princess again, fielding angry trans-Atlantic phone calls from my mother about what I owe the House of Wolffe and how my actions have damaged my reputation forever.
“You need to give me a clear, honest answer. Was the shoe incident staged? Yes or no.”
I suck in a breath, but I swallow away the hurt. “No. We’d hardly ever spoken before—and then only in an official capacity. It was sheer chance that my shoe became stuck.”
“You went from official ceremonies to secret meetings?” Noah is in a foul mood today. He braces his arm against the table and lifts his brow. “It looks bad—to the press, to the prime minister, to us—that you were obviously keeping it secret. Do you have something to hide?”
How dare he.
“Not everyone wants every detail of their love life splashed on the front pages of the tabloid news. I suspect even you have secrets,” I lash out. My gaze holds his steadily. Americans have a wonderful expression I am finding enormously apt. Mess with the bull, get the horns.
“What’s to be done about it?” Alma cuts through the tension with a diplomatic gesture. “The prime minister has got his hair on fire—”
