Page 12 of The Winter Princess
Described properly, it’s a job like any other, but now I’m following a princess to a tower, and if that’s not a line straight out of one of Viggo Faxeborg’s folktales, I don’t know what is. All it needs is the addition of a clever crone and a golden ball, a mad king and a talking frog.
I straighten the knot of my tie and drag myself back from princesses and other magical things. My life–my work–deals in concrete objects. Solvents. Dutch linen. Miter saws. Staff meetings.
“Why did you turn your phone off?” Princess Freja snaps. “What was so important?”
Her back is straight as she strides up the hall, taking furious steps, and I try not to notice the irritated swing of her hips or remember the thin, pale line stretching the length of her back. I spend more time than I like trying not to notice Freja when she’s around.
Making a brisk, unhesitating turn to the left, she heads to the textiles archive and the loading dock.
I wait.
Ten meters later, she pivots, the controlled expression on her face giving no hint that she took the wrong route if her goal is the conference room. She passes me, her blouse brushing my sleeve, and I follow.
“Well?” she prods. “Why couldn’t we reach you?”
“I was in the middle of something.”
Freja stops, her hair swaying.
She wants the truth, but I was listening to an audiobook of Sondish fairy tales on my tablet so I don’t get kicked out of the country. There are too many emotions dammed up behind that bit of information to let it out freely.
Freja’s features shift, and I watch the subtle play of skepticism. I notice, too, the way the tightening of her mouth causes a dimple to appear on her left cheek. Marie says that when I’m examining a painting for the first time, I’m like a hawk inspecting a kill—unwavering and sharp-eyed, narrowing my focus to the confines of a canvas to discover the blend of art and science necessary to recover the lost image. I blink, my chin arcing away, and allow my eyes to fasten on the chipped paint of a fire alarm. I’ve seen all of Freja I need to see.
Sondish people prefer hearty friendliness to any other emotion, and it’s evident in their two favorite activities—cleaning house and getting drunk. Foreign-born as I am, I have a wider range.
“I was almost finished when Your Royal Highness erupted into the room and made threats,” I tell her.
“I made no threats.” Her eyes narrow and I note that the green irises are rimmed in blue.
Vede.
The story from my audiobook comes suddenly alive—of a shepherd and a spellbound meadow, how he was given a warning about a tree heavy-laden with fruit. He could eat all he liked until its shadow stretched across the meadow. Boys in those stories never heed the warnings, never stop filling their bags when they’ve had enough, and if they do, no one bothers to write stories about them.
For the sin of losing himself to temptation, he was turned into a rock for eternity.
I look away from Freja. “You were going to drag me to the conference room. You sounded like a member of theaudicia,” I say, the Pavian word slipping in while my attention wanders back to the spotty wash of pink on her cheeks. She does not blush gently. “Mafia,” I correct, irritated by the lapse. “Should I worry about my kneecaps?”
The pink deepens and her chin lifts. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She turns toward the stairs, and I follow, unease camping along every nerve. If my job is on the line, so is my shot at citizenship. Though I’ve worked at the museum for years and the usual rules about seniority should apply, I don’t have patience for administration games or yearly fundraising panics. If people are going to lose their positions, I’m at the top of the list.
But why is a princess getting so worked up? It’s not her job on the chopping block. Curiosity makes me slip my hands into my pockets and deliberately slow my pace.
When the distance between us is too obvious to ignore, she turns, retracing her steps. The gallery holds nothing more lethal than the paintings in their frames, a mother pushing a stroller, and an elderly man leaning hard on a cane. I’m safe unless she intends to tear me apart with her bare hands.
“Are you coming?” she asks, her hair a bright splash of color across her navy-blue blouse.
When I see Freja—when I watch her from the corner of my eye on the television or at a staff meeting—the quality that strikes me first is how calm she is. Detached. Disengaged. She isn’t calm now, and I want to reach for a palette, mixing up the exact shades of red hair and soft, peachy skin, ruby flakes in her cheeks and down her neck, to sketch out the line of her strong jaw and follow it to her chin with its gentle cleft. The artist in me has chosen a strange time to rear his unwanted head.
“After you.” My open palm sweeps between us, urging her along. I can’t help the smile touching my mouth as she glares and turns. It’s satisfying to bait the littleaudicia.
As we near the conference room, she’s a step ahead, pausing before we enter. I collide with her back, gripping her arms to steady us both.
My mouth opens to upbraid her, but she pivots, issuing a short, sharp hiss against her teeth. I know that noise. It’s a Pavian noise. My father once said it was untranslatable but means roughlyThe government men are coming along the shoreline. Shut up and hide the catch.Who knows what it means coming from a princess?
Freja drags me to the nearest cubicle. She crouches, and when I don’t, she reaches for my tie, tugging me down to her level. The workspace is tiny, and bent over, we are almost nose to nose.
“What?” I ask, my voice gruff. She can’t see how every millimeter of my skin registers her nearness.
“Did you notice the brainstorming list on the projection screen?Vede, I can’t believe they started without us.”
