Page 42 of The Winter Princess
On the other end of the room, Père, Noah, and Ella cluster near the mantel, loudly discussing the last Dragons match and employing a lot of hand gestures.
Clara makes a beeline to join them, but my gaze lands on Alma, standing in front of a flower arrangement and staring down at her phone with an unnaturally rigid set to her shoulders. It’s my habit to be private and to leave others their privacy, but this business with the museum has forced me out of my customary reserve, involving me in problems beyond my scope. I see Alma’s distress. I can’t unsee it.
I search my mind for any relevant details, ashamed to recall so little about what’s going on in my sister’s life. Her fiancé, Pietor, has been rowing across the Atlantic for some charitable, awareness-raising cause but the couple is supposed to be meeting Parliament this week to begin hearings about their forthcoming marriage—a formality, but a necessary one for a Sondish royal bride. No one in Parliament is going to object to Alma’s advantageous alliance.
I glance around the room. Isn’t Pietor supposed to be here?
“What’s up?” I ask, pitching my voice low.
Alma looks at me, bewildered, but I persevere.I’m trying something new here.
She tips the phone showing me a Pixy post from Pietor’s account, @HereditaryGrandDuke_Himmelstein. He’s taken a selfie on a tropical beach, the curve of white sand behind him dotted with sunbathers and elegantly bowing palm trees. I’m offended by his straw hat, which has the tiniest brim all the way around, and by the way the camera is strategically angled to capture his bare shoulder and tanned upper chest.
The caption reads, “Inspired. Resolved. Fighting for change. #noplastics.”
I stifle an eye roll. Nothing says “fighting for change” like standing your fiancée up on the most important week of her life. I hope Pietor spends the next month picking sand out of his dense mat of chest hair.
“Did he miss his flight?”
Alma lifts a rigid shoulder. “Plans changed. He says in the comments that he’s flying back next week.”
Communication via pretentious Pixy post? No.
The thought is sharp, unequivocal, and cold with fury. I haven’t spent any time ThumTac-ing the perfect wedding, but I know with sudden clarity that I will not take this garbage when it’s my turn to beg Parliament for the privilege of marrying the titled man of my mother’s choosing.
“He’s not rowing back to save on fossil fuels?”
Alma snorts a laugh, and when it’s time to line up for our entrance to the gala, her chin is up.
The event tonight is going to highlight the contributions of Sondmark’s immigrant communities, and Père, Sondmark’s most famous immigrant, takes his place a step behind Mama. “I like this event, Helena,” I hear him murmur. “Torbald’s protectionism needs one of your famous rebukes.”
I hold my breath, wondering if I’m watching a thaw. Please. Please.
Mama’s response comes straight from the blast chiller. “The Crown doesn’t do politics.”
Vede.
The doors swing wide, we are announced, and I’m swept into the formalities. Social situations are difficult, but being an attentive listener smooths the worst of my path. I join a group and begin asking questions, my stomach in a high state of “desperate for a cookie.”
A quarter of an hour in, I glance across the crowded room and choke, turning the sound into a polite cough.
Oskar Velasquez. Oskar Velasquez in evening clothes. I lift my eyes to a row of mirrors and spot him again, calculating angles and distances, dredging up all I know of geometry. He looks up and catches me staring. His chin bumps a greeting and I blink, swinging my attention back to Hafsa, who’s telling me in excellent but accented Sondish about her first year in the country and how she and her husband saved up enough to open a small convenience store. How the business has grown into a mini empire.
“Sixteen-hour days, but it was worth it to send my daughter to one of the best schools in Europe.”
Another woman in the circle laughs. “No time to study for the citizenship test, even if you had a hope of passing.” The sound of her amusement echoes around the circle, as though she’s said one of the few things no one could possibly argue with:
There is no hope of passing the citizenship test.
Sondmark will never win the Eurovision contest.
Oskar Velasquez is mouth-watering in evening clothes.
The topic is taken up by the group, and soon they’re trading stories of near-misses and outright failure.
Hafsa’s husband shakes his head. “One question about the domestic policy of Jeroen van Vliet and—” He buzzes his tongue between his lips and slaps his hands against each other. “A question about a prime minister who served over a hundred years ago. I wonder how you would do,” he laughs, shaking his finger at me.
“I spent the afternoon taking practice citizenship tests.”
