Page 10 of The Impossible Princess
What are you doing, Clara?I could kick myself as the words launch themselves prepackaged from my mouth like a bag of pretzels. I’m not on camera now. This isn’t some ceremony.
I exhale gustily and say with a tight laugh, “I’m sorry. Force of habit. Let me start over. I’m Clara, of course, and you are—”
“Max,” he supplies, and that’s nice because now I don’t have to pretend I don’t know.
I spare an anxious glance over my shoulder. I can’t see anyone else. No press. No Queen of Sondmark and the Sonderlands to tell me how to do this—to tell menotto do this.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” I begin, hoping the right amount ofthisisnobigdealandIdon’tevenknowyouis showing. “It gives me the chance to apologize in person. I’m sure you had no idea when you woke up yesterday that my heel would drag you into an international news story. Have you seen the papers?”
Lieutenant Commander Andersen’s mouth curls into a smile half-revealed in the light spilling from the reception room. He seems to have a different smile for every occasion, and this is a very good one.
“I’ve got a better source of news than papers.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out, tapping it several times, tilting the screen towards me and scrolling through numberless text messages. “My mother, keeping her finger on the pulse of the nation.”
I laugh.
6
Ripe Berries
MAX
She laughs.
I lean back against the railing and brace my hands against the cool stone, eyes skimming the curving line of her collarbones, the heavy jewels lying against her neck. Outside of the military, I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone with better posture.
“I hope you don’t find it too awkward,” she gestures to my phone. “Most people don’t understand that the tabloid press doesn’t need any help making up stories out of thin air. They’ll have us engaged by the end of the week and married by next year.”
I swallow hard at the thought, a flare of want lighting in my chest. She’s not wrong. The stories printed in newspapers and on internet sites all over the world bear little resemblance to what happened—the bare facts of a gap in the paving stones and simple extraction. But their “facts” didn’t come out of thin air either. I did look (How did theVorburg Trumpetput it?) like “a hungry bear sighting a patch of sweet, ripe berries.”
I lift my phone, my brain receiving so many signals as it takes in every detail of her that it’s an effort to slow it down enough to speak. “It’s not too bad. My family’s giving me a bit of a hard time—asking how I hid you away for so long and if they should start bowing now or later. My superior officer had a few words. You?”
She looks back to the open doors of the banquet, the sounds of the party carrying to us. She gives a graceful lift of her shoulder, and it creates a deep shadow below her neck. I’m only a step away from her, but it may as well be a thousand miles.
“My superior, too.”
Her Majesty. I look up past the garden to the banquet hall. I can’t conceive of rating a mention by my commander-in-chief and head of state. The realization of how insane it is to be standing here is almost enough to propel me back inside where there are bright lights and noisy guests. But a breeze kicks up, and I catch the scent of her perfume, something warm and flowery. I inhale, and while I can, I want to lean in closer, recording every detail of her as carefully as newspaper clippings, the tape folded over just so.
She tilts her head, and the tiara moves with her. “I hope the publicity hasn’t upset your girlfriend or…”
Her fingers wind through the air, spooling out the question, like Sleeping Beauty coaxing a forest creature to perch on her hand. For a second, I think I sense tension beneath her easy manners.
I know what a similar statement would mean from a girl I might meet at a cafe table or in a bookstore. It would mean, “Hello, sir. I am here to scout the lie of the land in an undemanding but determined way. If uninhabited, expect further incursions on your personal space.”
But what does it mean when a princess asks?
“No girlfriend. Nobody,” I answer, voice rough.
She nods, eyes shifting towards the fairy lights in the garden. “Next year, when we’re making our small talk at the Violet Presentation, all this will be something to laugh about.”
That’s a dismissal if I’ve ever heard one. I should say something about finding my captain, tell her how she’s been generous with her time. Another bow and back to the party. But even though I’m in my uniform, I’m not under orders. I bump my chin towards the banquet hall. “We’ll be too busy talking about pickled herring next year. Do you think the entire menu has it?”
A smile, different than any I’ve ever seen in the press, tucks her cheek. “You think they’ve made pickled herring sorbet…?”
“Pickled herring medallions of beef,” I murmur.
“Pickled herring vichyssoise.”
“Pickled herring jacket potatoes.”
