Page 67 of The Impossible Princess
Ella’s tone is scathing. “It can be done by any of us.”
True, but there’s something Ella doesn’t know. I run a tongue along my lip. “Mama is talking about sending me on a royal tour. By myself.”
This is big news, and even Ella is surprised. We’ve all been on royal tours but as pairs and trios. Only Noah and Alma have ever been by themselves.
“Where?”
“San Sabao, Tzeke, Kleingeshaft. I know they aren’t large countries, but I have to begin somewhere, and I’ll be expected to manage the engagements on my own.” There is no detail too small to matter on a royal tour. I’ll be expected to reflect the will and strength of the monarchy in my mode of dress, my choice of jewels, my selection of activities. The preparation will absorb my time for months.
I expect Ella to be interested, but she is rubbing the bridge of her nose. There is a sustained silence, and she flops backward on the bed, crossing her hands over her stomach and narrowing her eyes.
“Have you done any research yet?”
Though she sounds unexcited, I take the question as an olive branch.
“Some. San Sabao is known for its olive groves, and I thought that a visit to—”
“San Sabao is ruled by the Mirabaldi family. Grand dukes. The current heir to the fabulously wealthy country is twenty-three and unattached.”
I am thrown off my stride. “Oh? I’ll include that in my notes.” I grab a notepad and begin to scribble.
“Have you looked up Tzeke?”
I click another tab open on my computer. “Primary exports are aluminum and nuts—”
“A principality. The old prince is very, very old. But his son is thirty-five and looking around for a wife willing to ignore the paternity lawsuits that keep springing up like weeds. How about Kleingeshaft?”
“What’s with this sudden fascination with geography?” I snap.
“Divorced but hot. The crown jewels are citrine though. Pity you’re not a brunette.”
In the old days, we would be wrestling on the floor, pulling each other’s hair out by the root as soon as Nanny’s back was turned. We held no grudges but settled things like sisters—by scratching and kicking, as God intended. Ella is supposed to be my ally, but I am so furious with her that I wouldn’t stop at a few strands of hair. I’d render her entirely bald.
Ella gets to her feet, standing like a girl who has the same instincts and memories as I do; standing like someone prepared to take a running tackle. She points a finger at the Tzeke tourism board’s landing page, blue skies and blue water banding a quaint white village.
“All that”—she twirls her finger, encompassing the ocean and the aluminum and the Dialli coat dresses I intend to buy—“is not going to get you what you want. Mama loves her children, but when it comes to our service to the Crown, she has no sentimentality. She’s not sending you on this tour to add anything meaningful to her network. She’s sending you to meet some eligible men. The best thing in the world for her would be if you formed an alliance and got off her hands.” The accusation lands like a punch to the gut.
“That’s it,” I say, unclipping my earrings, slapping them on the nightstand. “That is it.”
“Are we fighting now?” she asks, dancing on her toes like a boxer. Ella is heavier than I am, but I’m taller. I like my chances. “I’m not the one who thinks so little of you. I’m not the one who made you give up Max.”
“Mama didn’t make me give up Max,” I say, waiting to make my move until Ella shifts away from the hand-painted Limoges vase.
Ella narrows her eyes at me. “Not Mama. You.”
I lunge, catching her off guard. We tumble onto the bed, grappling for supremacy, and I enjoy a second of victory before she hooks my legs, flips me over, and sits on my stomach.
“Now that you are ready to listen,” she says, huffing slightly, “I have some things to say. First, if you haven’t learned yet, you’re going to now. You will never get what you want from Mama by asking nicely. She didn’t get where she is by conceding her ground. When she fights, you fight.”
“You’re so good at fighting,” I say, the breath squeezed from my lungs. I buck under her, but she holds on. “You’re still wearing heels and hose to girls’ field hockey demonstrations.”
She ignores my point. “You take her seriously as an adversary. She is not your mother when you face her across a conference table. She is your boss, and she will try to wring you for everyfennigshe can. Second—” I try again to wriggle out from under her but she’s got me fast. “Second, does this matter more than heels and hose? Is he worth fighting for?”
I don’t want to answer. It’s too raw. I keep remembering his face when I told him it was the end of us. I keep remembering how hurting him felt like twisting a knife in my own stomach.
“Ella, you are seriously killing me,” I say. I catch a reflection of us in a dressing mirror. I look defeated, broken.
“You’re not dead yet.”
