Page 63 of The Impossible Princess
“No, I didnotlike Liva,” she declares.
The sound of the forest bedding down for the night enfolds us both, the crackle of the fire snapping in the cool night air.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What am I supposed to tell a grown man? ‘I’m sorry Max, but you have to break up with your girlfriend because she wrinkles her nose every time Ava cruises past her on the sofa’?”
“It would have saved me some time.”
“It would have made you mad at your mother. Will I like the princess?”
“Clara,” I say. She’s Clara.
I close my eyes and think of her popping a raspberry into her mouth, cleaning a fish on a rock outside my kitchen door, treading water in the lake. The images are so strong that I’m finding it difficult to remember the massive tiara I once associated her with.
It’s hard not to imagine her here next year.
“Max?”
“You’ll love her.”
“As much as you love her?”
I smile into the fire. “No chance.”
Rita and Hals come out, setting the baby monitor next to the wicker sofa. Dad parks and re-parks the caravan with Susi acting as his disinterested guide, glancing down at her phone and waving a hand now and then. We separate when the moon rises, and I duck into the little tent, spreading my sleeping bag on the hard ground. My phone lights up with a text.
We have to talk.
More matchmaking, I guess, getting comfortable, propping myself up on one elbow. “I’m here,” I type, sending her a picture of my cramped quarters—the tent flap opening on the star-filled sky.
NewsNook is about to run a series on us. Pictures and everything. Most of them were taken from a boat out on the lake, we think. And there’s been someone following us.
“Damn,” I murmur. It’s got to be the green Ciprio. I remember my initial suspicions, how I talked myself out of them because the idea of anyone following Max Andersen seemed ridiculous. Damn. Clara has been scared of this, and my captain is going to hang my guts from the mast. Still, there’s another part of me that welcomes the end of us being a secret.
On the upside, I can take you out to dinner.
I expect her to send me a GIF of a laughing dog or vomiting penguin.
When she makes no reply I ask, “How bad is it for you?” There’s a long pause.
Bad enough. There have been high-level talks. The Palace is crafting a reply. My mother is allowing me to use the grounds of Outingen Huis. I have to talk to you. Tomorrow? Noon?
She sends directions to the queen’s rural seaside estate. It’s not much more than a half-an-hour drive. I listen to the sound of my father’s low murmur coming from the caravan. My family is not so tied to my presence that I can’t take a few hours off.
Tomorrow, liefje.
I head out early, plugging the info into my phone, and arrive at the gates of the sprawling royal residence in good time. Though the circumstances of this meet-up aren’t ideal, it can only be a good thing that she’s invited me here to work through it together. I’m not a secret anymore; we’re not hiding away at the cottage. Ready or not, Clara is ready to take us public.
That I’m not on my own ground any longer is hammered home by the royal crest affixed to the gold-painted gates. In the distance, the royal standard flutters on the rooftop of the main house, which means Queen Helena is here, I think. I glance down at my sharp-pressed shirt and wonder if Clara means to let her look me over. Should I have come in uniform? Then I think of Mom wanting to look Clara over, and the tension eases a little. It’s not any different from that. The queen is a mother.
The guard at the gatehouse glances down at his computer monitor. “Take a left at the fork to the parking area and follow the path through the garden. It’ll take you up the rise. Your party is at the summer house. Can’t miss it,” he says before pressing a button and waving me through.
I park the car and jog up the winding trail, which is long enough to make me wonder if I’ve taken a wrong turn. Finally, I catch sight of Clara sitting alone in front of an ornate summerhouse, the air carrying the scent of honeysuckle and the sea.
I register the strangeness of Clara looking more formal than usual in a silky dress and carefully smoothed hair. Of course, she looks formal. This is a royal residence, not a cottage in the back of beyond. She doesn’t have to paint anything or wash up after.
I stop at the end of the veranda, and she must hear the scrape of my shoes on the gravel because she turns, her face wooden and eyes red-rimmed.
