Page 51 of The Impossible Princess
She places the sparkling water, cap removed, next to a glass for Alma.
“Do you have to do that?” Noah snaps, and I blink in surprise. Everyone in the room blinks in surprise. “You’re not a maid. We could serve ourselves for once.”
Caroline’s cheeks leach of color. He’s hurt her. But then her expression retreats into the serenity so habitual to it, and I’m no longer sure of what I’ve seen. Mama leans forward with her fingers tented together—always the lioness ready to bat down her upstart heir.
“Thank you, Caroline,” Mama smiles, her manner clearly meant as a model to her son. “You serve us so beautifully. I hope we deserve it. Now,” she says, reaching for her coffee, beginning her recap of the week’s events.
Finally, she looks at my sister. “Freja will lead us through the next item on the agenda.”
Freja’s proposal has been accepted. The National Museum will stage an exhibition of Sondish Romantics with several items to be lent from the royal collection and a few more brought over from England.
“We should keep the paintings once they’re here. The British raided our national treasures, you know—overindulged noblemen bought them on their Grand Tours,” Freja says, as heated as I’ve ever seen her. “Carried off our heritage for a song.”
“Do not press it,” Mama says, holding her hand up abstractedly, already moving on. “They will be bound to bring up the Viking raids and then where will we be?”
“Comprising six percent of their native DNA,” Ella chimes in. She raises a Viking fist and giggles, her mouth unable to hold a bloodthirsty snarl.
Arrangements for the royal family photocall is next on the agenda—a supposedly casual opportunity for the press to snap pictures of the family together. The sun will be too hot, the angles all wrong. Either we will be accidentally too coordinated (as in the picture almost a decade ago when three sisters chose a similar single shouldered top) or clash horribly (as in the Year of the Great and Terrible Plaid Pants), but the event, the last official family event before the August holidays, allows us to have more freedom than many royal houses in Europe. By giving the press a little extra access a couple of times a year, the deal is that we can walk into bookstores or attend picnics in the park with less intrusion than one might expect.
The problem is that that agreement has grown fuzzy over the years. Noah and Alma were left alone for a long time, Freja and Alma got a smaller window, and I’ve been tabloid fodder since my teeth were straightened.
“I’d like to add an item,” I say, anxiety churning my stomach.
Mama removes her reading glasses, dropping them on the table. This is an interruption, a deviation of the plan, and Mama looks at me like I’m an indelible spot on a silk blouse.
I imagine the sun on the dock, a sheen of lake water on my arms, and Max’s fingers woven in mine. I take courage.
“I’m researching patronages,” I begin.
Mama glances heavenward. “Clara, we’ve been over this.”
I resist the impulse to apologize and desist. “I’m merely researching.” This is not a lie, but the hefty stack of notes I’ve collected this week contradicts my apparent breeziness. “I wondered if anyone has a relationship with a dementia ward or works with memory issues?”
There is a flutter of interest along the table, but Mama reaches for a paper tucked lower in her stack. “As I said, this isn’t the time for reviewing patronages, particularly in light of recent scandals. The internet is currently roiling with a conspiracy theory about your fingernails, Clara.”
“My fingernails?”
She tilts her head as she puts the glasses back on. “I didn’t want to bring it up, but there are scores of ReadHe threads about ‘the white crust at the base of Princess Clara’s fingernails’. They took a poll. 56% think you’re doing cocaine.”
“That’s insane. ReadHe posters are gossip-peddling trolls.” Everyone knows that.
She gives a tight smile. “There are pictures of you from the gala event.”
My heart thuds as the paper is passed down the length of the table, and I swallow thickly when I see the nails. Sure enough, there’s a swipe of white paint along the outside of my hand—a place I didn’t even think to look—and tiny crescents of white at the base of a couple of fingernails. Barely visible. The photographer must have been part eagle.
Cocaine. Honestly. What am I supposed to say?
“I didn’t see the residue. It won’t happen again.”
The room erupts with talk until Père slams his hand down. “It was nothing. Show some mercy, Helena.”
The wrong words. Mama looks flinty. “Someone has to pay attention to these things. It takes so little to topple a monarchy, darling. You ought to know that.” Then she stands and collects her things, striding from the room with Caroline following behind like a balloon attached to her wrist.
The room is silent in her wake until I speak. “She was right. I was a mess.”
“We saw you before we went in. Ella did, too,” my father says. His smile is encouraging. “We didn’t notice.”
A growl erupts from Ella’s throat. “Someone ought to compromise that photographer’s hard drive,” she mutters, stabbing a finger at the picture.
