Page 52 of The Impossible Princess
“Oh yes, that would make it better, Ella. Illegal activity by a member of the royal family.” Noah pushes a hand through his hair. I disregard his frustration. I suspect it has almost nothing to do with me, anyway.
“It was not a problem,” Père repeats. He fixes me with a look. “Unless youaredoing drugs? Cocaine?” He runs out of ideas and snaps several times. “What else is white?”
“I’m not doing drugs. It was a little paint. I thought I’d gotten it all off.”
“Paint? I knew there was something you were hiding.” Freja looks earnest. “But art is nothing to apologize about.”
I bite my lip to stop laughing. My sister has decided I’ve got some hidden garret in the city and spend my time toiling over canvases.
“It’s hard,” Alma murmurs, “feeling like you’re constantly falling short of perfection.”
What would she know about that? Alma never puts a foot wrong, never steps off her pedestal, but I appreciate the support, and a portion of my courage returns.
“Since everyone is still here,” I say, “I’ll repeat my request. Does anyone have a patronage that fits my requirements?”
“I might,” Alma says. “You can look into it. I’ll email you the details this afternoon. Good?”
Hardly anything about this meeting has been good. Making the queen storm off in a fury has not been good. But I can’t regret speaking up for myself. I’m proud of that, and I think Max would be proud too. I feel the warmth of the sun on the dock, all over again.
I nod. “Good.”
24
Resistance Fighter
MAX
I ask Mom to pass the potatoes, and she gives me an arch look, as though I’m a member of the Resistance and she’s hiding a refugee and a ham radio in her hay barn.Your secrets are safe.
Ava scrambles onto my lap, and I smile when she shoves a glazed carrot into her mouth, another in mine, and scrambles off again.
“When is your next trip to the sea?” my brother asks, getting the terminology wrong, no matter how many times I correct him. I expect I’m no better when it comes to asking him about dental procedures.
“Late August,” I answer, a twinge of unease catching me off guard. I haven’t told Clara yet. “Though he hasn’t informed the crew. The captain likes to spring these things on us. He thinks it makes us more ready.”
“Does it?” Hals grins and catches his wife Rita’s smile.
I give an equivocal shake of the head and my mother, silent too long, pounces. “You’ll be gone for how long?”
“Almost a month.”
“A month,” she mutters, slicing into her pot roast and smearing a piece with savory brown gravy before popping it into her mouth. “A month in those metal coffins you call beds.”
“Berths.”
“How can you stand being away so long?” She gives me another arch look. The villager with the ham radio is offering to shelter the Resistance fighter, too.
“What does he have to leave behind?” Susi asks, tossing her head, patterned earrings brushing against her cheek. “Work, work, work. At least at sea, there’s a breeze.”
“Max has a very full life,” Mom insists. “Hobbies. Friends.”
Hals tosses a cherry at my head, and I catch it. “A girl?”
“Max is not seeing anyone,” Mom says a little too emphatically. The villager is blowing it for the Resistance fighter. I shake my head infinitesimally but Rita catches the gesture.
She gasps, her chair rocking as she sits up. “Max has a girlfriend.”
Now I’m too emphatic. “Not a girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t.”
