Page 39 of The Winter Princess
I adjust the camera so he’s in the center of the frame and drag a stool near enough to observe, setting up my laptop. As he pries out the tacks, I search “Sondmark citizenship practice tests” and find an archive. An introductory paragraph reads, “Before Prime Minister Torbald’s premiership, citizenship test pass rates approached 42%, however, these tests aren’t useful in training current students. Below are accurate facsimiles of tests administered during his time in office.”
I click on the first test.
Question one: Name the reigning monarchs of the sixteenth century. I do the rhyme, nailing the list. Still, it’s a trick question. Frederich and Frederick have almost the same spelling.
Question two: Which king forbade his wife from using thread-wrapped buttons?
My brow wrinkles. Pre-Renaissance, surely? I take a stab. Malthe II. The screen flashes red, and the correct answer pops up. Malthe III.
After I get the next four questions wrong, I receive a notification that I’ve failed. “Follow this link to Dragon Test Prep, your trusted partner in citizenship for over 50 years. We have a 17% pass rate!”
17% is something to boast about?
I’m a princess of Sondmark. These questions were about my own family tree. Maybe I’ll do better after the cinnamon bun has had a chance to settle. I turn to my phone, inspecting the settings.
I spent hours last night attempting to get to know it as well as I know my books and music, trying to understand the quick, bite-sized nature of content required to be successful on most social media platforms. I invested hours watching glossy blonde women hold cosmetics in front of their faces, palms situated behind a tube of revolutionary foundation/lipstick/mascara/primer, all talking fast.
“I’ve got the LUX Lune Eyeshadow palette on this side of my face and the Moongoop palette on this side,” they’d say, hands sweeping left and right. “It’s a total dupe.”
I’m a quick learner and realized quickly that The Nat has to have slower branding. Our strengths are gorgeous visuals and knowledgeable authorities. Oskar grunts for what seems like the millionth time, and I hide a smile. He’s furious and it’s adorable.
Lifting the camera from its base, I take shots of the growing pile of staples, of the once-rigid canvas peeling from the weathered stretcher, and the grime accumulating on Oskar’s finely boned hands.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
“Nothing.” I scurry back to my seat. No. Not scurry. Scurry implies something to be scurried from. I return to my seat with royal dignity and agreeable swiftness. I cast about for something improving to think about. The videos. This noble work. How Oskar is going to lose his job, fail his last test, be deported to Pavieau, wind up homeless, and how it’s all my fault.
He has every reason to hate me.
The knowledge gets into my head like a pungent smell, the combination of low tide and summer. I was fine when I knew he didn’t like me—we’ve spent years having to be civil to one another as seldom as possible—and I’ve never been bothered by the fact. I realize that it’s because I could tell the story about how I was the injured party or, at least, about how I wasn’t making such a bother about half an office. I can’t tell that story now.
His hair brushes forward as he bends over his work.
I can’t fix the last three years. I can’t even fix the last three days, but I can do the right thing now. I text Erik.
“Our first video will be about copper staples. Trust me.”
I plug the camera into my computer and find my handwritten notes detailing Ella’s instructions about files and windows. I breathe deeply, consider the mysteries of eternity, and address the computer gods like a supplicant in the middle of a long drought. Within minutes, I send a massive video file to Erik, watching the loading bar with fingers secretly crossed underneath the table.
Attachment sent.
I lift Ella’s list and kiss it. It’s not enough. I want to run around the room with the flag of Sondmark draped over my shoulders. I wantNeerHjefdal to thrust a microphone into my tear-stained and panting face and ask me how I did it. I want to thank my mother, my coaches, and every citizen for their unflagging support.
“What’s next?” Oskar asks, dumping a pile of staples in the trash.
He braces his arms wide against the edge of the work table, and I pinch my lips together.
“What’s next for this painting?” I manage. It’s heroic how I manage. Those forearms should qualify for a royal warrant.
“Try to control yourself,” he says, voice low and teasing, “but I’m about to brush accumulated dust and residue from the back.”
My lips close tighter than a mousetrap until I’m able to push my slipping control firmly back on the shelf. “Riveting. What tools do you use?”
He drags over a long, soft-bristled brush and a smaller one that looks like it came from a hardware store. “Come here,” he tilts his head. “This is something I can teach you to do.”
“Me?”
“We’re supposed to be creating a narrative through-line, so come here.”
