Page 4 of The Winter Princess
The words are no sooner spoken than I crash into the wall and reel back. I swallow a yelp and strong hands band my waist.
The wall is Oskar Velasquez.
My palms are pressed against a remarkably firm shirt front, and I whip them off like a child playing a game of “Oskar Velasquez is lava.” As regular as the chimes of the palace clock tower, oxygen disappears from my lungs—a frustrating reaction to a man I don’t even like.
Gripping his shoulders, I put a gap between his hands and my waist. He releases me, brows lowered.
My neck goes hot and cold. It’s not too late to repair our boundaries. “I’m so—”
“Your speech was terrible.”
2
Warm Body
OSKAR
“Terrible?”
Her hands fall from my shoulders, the weight reminding me that I used to want them there, that I used to imagine kissing Freja—Princess Freja. When she would visit The Nat, fulfilling the duties of her patronage, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
I’m older now. We’ve known each other too long for stupid fantasies, and it’s easy to avoid each other when we try.
We try.
If we didn’t try, I’d see Freja every day she comes into The Nat, because we share an office.Share.The word is bitter. The very day I was promoted to Head of Restoration, Freja offered to volunteer at the museum part-time. Of course, Director Knauss found space for a princess. I’m an immigrant, often reminded to be thankful I have any place in The Nat at all, so of course, that space was mine. Though we never spoke of it, the frustrations of that day spilled through the administration wing, loud enough for a princess to overhear.
Eventually, I adapted a corner of the restoration studio for clerical work, but she remains in our office, adhering to a sharp boundary that doglegs around her desk and out the door. On one side of the room, there is her clutter—a calendar and a charging station, sticky notes, and books. On the other side—my side—there isn’t so much as a misplaced paperclip.
Though we haven’t spoken an angry word in three years, I’m as aware as she is that nothing crosses the line.
I trace my eyes along the soft outline of her collarbone to where the base of her throat works a swallow. Freja gives a shadow of a smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. I have to harden myself against the tug of her lips and the vulnerability it betrays.
“Not terrible, surely. I managed to pronounce the names of two difficult Dutch painters, which must count as a win for our national pride.”
Dimly I register that her attitude is an invitation to not take this all so seriously, but I’m trapped here at the museum, it’s October 3rd, and I’m supposed to be somewhere else.
“I expected a presentation of a serious paper. Instead, you delivered a few chopped-up generalities hardly rising to the level of a book report.” I set my jaw. “Do you know how hard it is to get your foot in the door of The National Museum? Your Royal Highness,” I say, well aware that she loathes it when we fail to pretend she’s just one of the staff, “this isn’t your dollhouse.”
Her faint smile disappears. The tendons in her neck tighten and her nostrils flare. The princess is trying very hard not to scream obscenities at me. “NeerVelasquez, be reasonable.”
I can feel my father’s spirit, holding his head with disappointment, but this frustration has been building for years without a release. “Was it reasonable to drag me into work on my day off?”
Her gaze darts to the other princess. The twin. “Go ahead,” Freja tells her.
The twin glares at me but she melts away, leaving us alone. Freja takes a deep breath. “You had other plans? There was someone else’s night you had to ruin?”
I have every reason to dislike this woman. She comes and goes from The Nat when she wants to. People bow and scrape when she passes. She gets an exhibit approved when no one else has a prayer. Yet still, I can’t keep my eyes off her when she walks into a room.
I slip my hands into my pockets and narrow the space between us. “My plans didn’t include being a warm body at your party.”
Her eyelashes flicker. “Never fear.” Her voice is level, like a finger pressing against my chest, pushing me backward. “No one would mistake you for a warm body.”
I breathe a humorless laugh, tipping my head back. “You don’t want a fight,” I say, heedless of the damage she could do if she were serious about starting one. “It’s the wrong day.”
Her eyes meet mine in a long, lingering study. “Forgive me for running into you,” she says, with no mention of wasting my night or the thin contents of her speech. “It willneverhappen again.”
“Good,” I say, leaning forward, ignoring the Sondish preference for a generous buffer of personal space. “I’m sure the whole experience was…terrifying.”
