Page 50 of The Impossible Princess
“Go,” he says, crossing his wrists and leaning over to look at me. “I’ll finish up tonight.”
I fight the longing to climb up and steal a kiss from him. I have to run now, or I’ll be late.
I fight heavy afternoon traffic, and by the time I’m waved through the palace gates, I have to race for my suite, my progress so swift that I don’t have to answer awkward questions about why I’m wearing these clothes. I jump into the shower, scrubbing the sweat and grime away and stepping into a silky cocktail gown in pale peach. My skin is practically glowing as I descend the stairs and meet my family in an anteroom outside the long gallery.
Père kisses me gently on the cheek. “Lovely,Clarita.” His Pavian accent is faint but unmistakable, and though his Sondish is excellent, I always wonder if he has held himself back from perfect proficiency just to remind his adopted people that he doesn’t belong to them entirely.
I hold his hands and step back, inspecting his magnificence. He’s in his favorite tuxedo, an azure sash forming a bright line across his shirtfront, and two ribbons—orders of merit—are pinned to his breast. One of them has my mother’s regal face painted on a miniature lozenge of ivory over his heart, but the real Mama is in deep discussion about last-minute details with Caroline, notebook and pen at the ready, and hasn’t spared us a glance.
“You are dashing, as ever,” I tell him, going up on my toes to kiss his whiskered face—first on one cheek and then the other. Heisdashing. Not yet sixty, the years have been good to him. I can see the young prince in him still, who stood so straight next to his young bride and made answers which were clear and calm in the face of strong public outcry.
“I wish I could wear peach.” Ella joins us, instructing me to turn around. Mama has forbidden that color for her because her curly red hair is not friends with peach.
Friends. I almost giggle. Max has filled that word with such shade and nuance that each reminder that we are friends is enough to make me laugh.
We kissed, sensibly setting that aside, but what we’ve reverted to is not the chummy, shoulder-punching friendliness of a platonic relationship. Instead, we are having an intense, unspoken flirtation—a dangerous, unsustainable game that feels like walking an impossible tightrope between friendship and love. This sliver of space can’t last forever—at my most self-reflective, I know that. If we linger on it too long, there won’t be any going back to “just friends”. No return to what we pretended to be before.
I’ve spent the last hour racing to get here, but Max’s words, the ones he spoke to me as he lay on the dock, soaking in water, warmed by the sun, have followed me.Why don’t you ask for that?
I meet Mama’s basilisk eye and wonder. Why can’t I ask about a patronage to do with memory patients? There is a rightness to Max’s suggestion which is making my fingers tingle.
Caroline rings a small bell, and we line up in order. I step into the last position, mentally scrolling through the list of patronages I know about, wondering if there’s already one made to order. The doors at the end of the room swing back, Mama is announced, and we enter, ready to mix with artists and entrepreneurs, leaders in our country.
Mama gives a few brief remarks, and I go from group to group, welcomed so easily, the circle widening to include me, guests leaning forward a little to answer my questions. Any one of these people deserves what I have—the palace suite, the lovely clothes, and attentive company—far more than I do.
I speak with a man who started one of the largest toy companies in the world and discover that my brother has talked him into donating classroom supplies for every primary school in the country. Another entrepreneur speaks about how Noah got him to start sponsoring wheelchair basketball teams for wounded vets.
Making connections and highlighting causes are some of the things the royal family is supposed to be good at, and I’m pleased to see evidence of it. If I get to practice this skill with something I care about—again, I feel my fingers itching to grab up the nearest pencil and sketch out some of my ideas.
The thoughts and questions follow me into my suite at the end of the night. I unzip the lovely gown and step out of it, replacing the priceless earrings in their case. I glance at my phone with a smile. It’s a message from Max.
Home, sweet home.
There’s a picture in the deepening gloom, gold rimming the horizon. He’s standing in front of his cottage, arm outstretched. Finished.
I look over the palace suite I’ve occupied for several years, fitted and decorated by the best artists and craftsmen in their line. Odd that I should prefer his cottage. Odd that I should feel more content within its stone walls. Odd that I wish I could hear the sounds of the lake. It’s a thought which sends me off to sleep.
A couple of days later, we have another family meeting. I arrive early and find Noah sitting at the table already, staring at the landscape painting, his mouth set in hard lines. Who put the galliwasp down the back of his business suit?
Then it dawns on me. Caroline is pottering about the room, straightening portfolios, tidying away her notes. Back and forth she paces, and Noah’s unblinking eyes bore into the painting as though he would light it on fire if he could. My brother is not known for his constancy, and I thought his interest would have faded by now. I wonder how long it’s been going on. I wonder what could ever become of it.
“Am I early?” I ask, a glimmer of amusement in my eyes. Whatever my brother is gripped by, he’ll have to get over it. My mother does not countenance HR violations, and if it’s a choice between her right-hand woman and her heir, Noah might find himself pitched out of the family.
Caroline glances at me. Is that relief I see on her face? I have inadvertently stumbled upon this sinking lifeboat with my rescue helicopter.
“You’re right on time,” Noah says, getting to his feet and pulling out my chair. His manners are courtly and old school, and I should rise to meet them.
But before my manners rise, I ask, “Who was that you were out with last night? The one with the startling brows. I can’t remember seeing her before, but there are so many.”
He glares at me, tucking his tie against his shirtfront as he takes his seat.
“I liked her dress…” I lift a shoulder. “I mean, I liked the half of it she was wearing.”
Caroline retreats into the anteroom and my brother leans to me, voice low and intense. “Stop it.”
At his rebuke, it’s as though he’s taken my football and drop-kicked it into the ocean. Still, I nod. It is a great pity that Noah is not as fun as Ella.
I leaf through the itinerary until the others arrive and the room is filled with a murmuring family bustle as Caroline returns and sets the refreshments out.
