Page 62 of The Impossible Princess
“That must be why you told everyone in the family you were visiting him regularly. That must be why you wouldn’t dream of skulking off yesterday.” She clamps her lips together. “You knew what you were doing.”
My emotions are under a microscope, shriveling in the bright light of my mother’s inspection. “Is it so bad?”
“On its face?” She lifts an elegant shoulder. “But this royal family is one poll away from obscurity. One parliamentary movement away from having an 800-year-old tradition wrested from our hands—of having to show up to royal weddings like the Bourbons with their battered tiaras. Maybe we’ll be reduced to shilling mass-produced mustard in television commercials. It’s hard for the people to remember why they need us—to cool their partisanship, to be a healthy outlet for national pride, to ensure that some things don’t change even if the prime minister does. It’s easy to toss us aside while our foundations are…” She wets her lip, searching for a word. “Unsteady.”
My spine straightens. “That is no fault of mine. Max and I—”
Her brow lifts the smallest fraction. Max and I. She will not hear it.
“You want to know why I care that your little secret is going to give the press weeks of headlines? Because this story will become my story. Not the tariff deal or the alliances I’ve crafted. The prime minister is going to have questions about the Violet Presentation, and I wouldn’t rule out an official investigation. The lieutenant commander might face professional penalties. This is serious, Clara.”
My mouth is set, the tea cooling in its cup. I set it aside carefully, breathing in and out, composing myself piece by piece. The enormity of the mess is becoming clear, and a rock the size of the one we scaled feels lodged in my chest.
“I thought you were finally getting serious about a patronage,” she murmurs, suddenly sounding tired.
“I am. I’ve done weeks of research—”
She cuts me off with a gesture and looks around the library. at the warm wood and rich furnishings. “This was where I made my first address to the nation after my father died—at the desk over there. Twenty-four years old and scared I would botch the whole thing. My grandmother curtsied to me, you know, and I wanted to burst into tears.” Mama’s voice is distant, reflective. “I promised my subjects to serve them my whole life, and I have done,” she continues, shaking her head and brushing her cheeks.
For the narrowest moment, I see her vulnerability. She blinks. It soon passes.
“If you’re serious about your role, Clara, you’d better be prepared to make sacrifices.”
She rests her hand atop a picture of Max and me, taken only yesterday. Queen Helena holds my gaze for a long moment, but when she nods, I am dismissed.
28
Queen's Standard
MAX
It’s late, but the sun is only now dipping past the horizon. Mom and Dad have rented a small travel caravan and parked it on the drive in front of the cottage. Susi is sleeping with them, on a table that turns into a bed. I’ve given my room to Hals and Rita, and I hear the exasperated sing-song carrying on the night air as they take turns trying to persuade Ava that my house is an appropriate place to close her eyes. My two-man tent is pitched in the yard, but I’m sitting in one of the mismatched chairs in front of the fire, clutching a berrybeer and wondering how next year will be different. There’s just enough room for everyone. Where will we put Clara?
I’m getting ahead of myself, I grin, tipping the bottle back, and remind myself that it’s a two-man tent. Mom pads over the gravel drive in her nightdress and robe, her slippers kicking up the tiny rocks, and she drops into the chair next to mine with a sigh. The lake has turned a deep russet gold and the mosquitos are avoiding the smoke
A shout comes from the caravan and Mom scowls. “Dad doesn’t think we’re level.”
“Are you level?”
She gives me a glower and I laugh, taking another swallow.
“How are you?” she asks.
“I’m level too.”
She shakes her head, just as she did when I was ten, bringing her buckets of snakes to admire.
“Do we get to meet her?”
I laugh. “To find out if she’s good enough for me?”
But her answer is serious. “Of course. I want to know if she’s good enough. Princess Clara is as cute as a thimble, but you’re my boy and I’d prefer not to give you to anyone I don’t like.”
“You like everyone. You liked Liva.”
“I did not like Liva,” she says, surprising me. I knew things were cool between them, but my mom has a marshmallow heart. “You think I couldn’t tell she thought I was stupid? A plain, littlehuisvrouwwith nothing in her head but the price of carrots?”
All true. We used to leave my parents’ house and Liva would start in on how much they represented Little Sondmark.
