Page 36 of The Impossible Princess
But the look in her eyes. Uncertain. Unready. I can’t press her right now. I give a short nod and she slips away.
17
Historically Speaking
CLARA
I slide into my seat at the weekly family meeting with seconds to spare, damp hair curling at the ends from my hasty shower. Mama is still conferring with Caroline, sparing me a glance as I reach for my glass.
“Have you been out running?” Alma murmurs. “I’m looking for a partner—”
“Not it,” I say, touching my nose quickly.
Across the table, Ella giggles and touches her nose. “Not it.”
Freja looks confused, but everyone knows not to rope her into anything that requires a partnership of any sort. Alma shakes her head at our antics, and Mama calls the meeting to order. For the first half-hour, she covers a slate of the usual news, sprinkled with a few events in conjunction with the Vorburg Embassy.
I peek under the agenda to my calendar. Once again, my portfolio of items is thin. Mama didn’t hear a word I said this week.
Ella doesn’t bother to leaf discreetly. She paws through her papers and lets out a groan. “Lepus Leaping? You’re sending me to Lepus Leaping.Stultes es, I’ve seen that on the internet,” she says, crashing her head on the table and beating it a few times over and over. “Why does Vorburg have to be so weird?”
Mama gives a tight smile. “We don’t call neighboring countries about to drop their trade tariffs in a historic dealweird, Ella,” she chimes.
“If you can’t call rabbit show jumping weird, then the word is meaningless.”
“It’s also no concern of ours. If you feel you cannot maintain an attitude of polite interest while observing a cherished national pastime, I’ll give the engagement to Clara.”
I perk up. My schedule is certainly open even if she has made it sound like I’m the last resort.
Ella’s face is still buried in her notebook, red curls muffling her words. “They’re going to make me try to get a rabbit to jump something. At least let me wear tennis shoes.”
Mother’s smile is as smooth and tight as the series of dams holding back the North Sea. “You will wear court shoes and stockings. Now,” she dismisses my sister, “Clara, you’re slated to deliver a speech on solar power this week. I don’t have to tell you that it’s an opportunity to test your mettle.”
Solar power. It’s not my favorite topic, but I give a nod and begin to scrawl notes, ideas already forming in my mind.The sun is warm. It makes me think of coziness. I can dig up a quote from Copernicus. “I’ll write something up.”
“No need,” comes her brisk reply. “I asked Caroline to compose a suitable address. It’s quite short. You only need to read it.”
Père makes a small growl at the back of his throat, and I glance over towards him as Mama’s secretary leans forward and slips the transcript of the speech next to me.
Though I am irritated and resentful that, once again, Mama seems to be tightening the bolts on my training wheels, I’m too shocked to linger on the feelings for long because while Caroline Tiele is leaning across the table in all her beige glory, Noah is noticing her, looking at her like I admit that I wish Max would look at me. Noah. His Royal Highness Crown Prince Noah. My brother who attends international events with a rotating cast of women who model for Gucci and Dior when they’re bored and survive on a diet of cigarettes and the smell wafting off freshly-baked cookies. That brother. My mouth drops open.
He’s looking at her legs, I want to shout, running around the room and grabbing arms, shaking them. Our Bambi-slaughtering, fiscally-prudent, granite plinth of a brother is looking at the court shoe-wearing secretary’s stocking-clad legs.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Clara,” Mama murmurs, mistaking my expression. I snap my mouth shut and avert my eyes before Noah can catch me staring. I blink the shock from my face. “Don’t be upset.”
That’s right. I’m supposed to be irritated that, once again, I am denied an opportunity to show her what I’m capable of. But it’s like I’m running across a swamp. My shoes are sucking in the mud, and everything is happening in slow motion.
The harsh sound of Père scooting his chair back draws all eyes. “‘Don’t be upset.’ You may take that as a royal command, daughter,” he says, the remnants of his Pavian accent furring his words. He gives the briefest nod in the general direction of the head of the table, collects his informational packet, and saunters out without a backward look.
Such a tiny gesture of defiance, but in the restrained, mannerly atmosphere of the Summer Palace, it has the effect of a bomb detonating. My sisters and I exchange sharp, darting glances. It’s hard to breathe. Mama watches him go, lips compressed, sinews tightening in her neck. Then she, too, blinks her face into its official mask.
“I think that will be all,” she says, setting down her pen and skipping almost a third of her agenda.
“Clara,” she says as the others file out, “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.” She sweeps from the room, and Caroline, carefully juggling three binders and her laptop, follows.
I collect my papers, hurrying after Ella, wanting to drag her into my room and inform her that the man breaking hearts all over Europe is ogling our mother’s uptight secretary. My sister is going to die.
The notion of watching her face as I tell her has me walking at a brisk trot down the main hallway of the administrative wing. I take a shortcut through the ballroom and skid to a stop at the bottom of the grand staircase when one thought catches me.
