Page 27 of The Impossible Princess
“Hey,” I type. “You should know I only have one oven. You might have to bring that seven-course meal down to four.”
Half an hour later, she shoots back, “I’ll take theSpicy OstepopsPork Rolls off the menu.”
“I must have those.”
“Lost. Lost forever.”
“How dare you dangle sketchy processed foods in front of a military man?”
It’s late now and I’m lying in bed, hitched up on one elbow as I read. The lamp casts a small pool of light, and I can hear frogs out near the lake. This is why I live here—the solitude, the silence—but here I am, reaching for her company.
Three little dots drum on the screen and I grin.
“Quick Q. You have a sterling silver shrimp peeler, yes?”
“Do I look like a man without a sterling silver shrimp peeler?”
“And a pair of shark-mesh oven gloves?”
“What have you been googling?”
“Only 52maarkewith shipping!” The message comes with a picture, and I enlarge it. Clara’s excited face, her finger pointing at the sidebar of her computer screen. There’s a photo of a shark biting on the hand of a smiling chef who is also somehow holding a hot roasted chicken. In the background, I can make out an antique table and lots of soft green and creamy white.
I roll onto my back and touch the phone to my forehead for a moment. Now I have somewhere to imagine her, which should help me sleep.
“How was your day?” I type.
“Research, online shopping for a few events. You?”
I snap a picture of my scraped knuckles. “Working on the cottage. We’re still on for tomorrow night?”
There is a longer pause this time. “See you then.”
13
Blurry Abs
CLARA
His knuckles look bad, but the blurry abs behind them look very, very good. For a second, I’m tempted to call Ella in so she can work some of her computer magic—sharpen the lines, clear up the cloudy graphic, project the image on the massive palace wall like some tourism advert.Visit Hot, Hot Sondmark.
I’m still thinking of them in an unfriendly way an hour later, and I kick off the covers, grabbing a robe. I could press a button. Someone from the night staff would answer and bring me a snack, but this kind of wide awake, overheated restlessness can only be assuaged by digging through the freezer and stumbling on the ice cream bars at the back myself.
The kitchen is down a couple of flights of stairs, and my fingers brush the polished mahogany handrail. Unlike the chipped and rusted metal railings at Stanford, these probably won’t leave a swipe of dust across my backside. At the head of the last stretch of stairs, I crane my neck, eyes narrowing on the dark hallways. I see no security guards. There are no disapproving courtiers. I hop on, and in a whoosh I’m bumping off the bottom and landing on my feet. I’ve still got it.
Lights flicker to life in the kitchen, and I bend over the icebox, grasping a box of fudge and hazelnut chocolate bars, when a laugh spins me around. Alma. My oldest sister appears regal even in her nightclothes.
“What got you out of bed?” she asks, her blue silk robe billowing behind her like a cape. If only the paparazzi could get this picture. Slay, queen, indeed.
I shrug and lift the box, tipping the opening to her.
To my surprise, she nods, and I toss one over the silvery workbench. She catches it neatly, though I’m puzzled by her presence. Did she hear me creeping down the hall and follow after me? Were there worries keeping her up as well? Alma is easily the most self-contained of my sisters, and it is difficult to imagine her indulging in tears or contemplation or midnight chocolate, but here we are. We drag a couple of stools across the tile floor and sit side by side, eating our ice cream—me licking steadily at the drips and her taking dainty bites. I finish before she does and I drop my wooden stick in a nearby bin.
“What bringsyouto the dungeons on a night like this?”
“Nothing,” she answers, quickly. I sense her breathing shift, her shoulders relax. “Nothing. I have a long week coming up, and I can’t get out of my head.”
“Nightmares of pickled herring getting you down?” The Vorburg state visit this February will demand a lot from the House of Wolffe, requiring events and study for months ahead. The whole autumn and winter filled with choking down their treasured national dishes, training herself to tolerate them without a grimace, will be enough to haunt the dreams of any self-respecting princess.
