Page 45 of The Winter Princess
“That’s a very judgemental face,” I say, standing perfectly still while he drapes it over my shoulders.
“It’s a cape.”
“It’s a cloak,” I correct, “and it’s got pockets for lip balm.”
I take his arm as we descend the exterior stairs, delighted by the gust of wind swirling the cloak in dramatic waves around my dress. The practicality of pockets has nothing to do with my choice. I can’t pass up any chance to look like I’m running away from an enchanted ball with my goblin lover.
“Is this your car?” I ask when he tucks me into a low-slung, black vintage Mazorh. I run my eyes over the sinuous wood of the dashboard. My mother’s fleet of Bentleys and Rolls Royces are more expensive, but this bucket seat is cradling me like packing material around a china teacup. And it is sexy.
“It was my father’s,” he answers, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“It suits you.”
He gives me an inquiring look and color rises in my cheeks. “I only meant—” I clear my throat. “Areyou an international spy?”
He turns the key, and the motor turns over, growling. His eyes narrow and his voice drops. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
On the expressway, he shifts the car into fourth gear and accelerates, turning east and winding into the rural foothills above Handsel. The lights of the security car shine in the side mirror, keeping pace.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask when the heavens break overhead, pounding the windscreen and the road beyond. There are few signs of civilization, and I’m already wondering if I could sleep in the bucket seats in the event of a catastrophic stranding.
Not next to him, I couldn’t.
“We’re going to an inn, but it isn’t far, and the road is good the whole way. We’ll have an excellent view of the city lights and nourishing food. Surely we can set aside being mortal enemies for a single meal?”
I nod. Mortal enemies? I said as much last week, railing to Ella about the recluse in Restoration, but it’s hard to hate someone up close. I’ve spent my days since leaning over his shoulder, the scent of his cologne in my lungs.
For the first time, I wonder what it would’ve been like to meet for the first time in the ballroom of the Summer Palace, trading introductions as an art restorer and an art enthusiast. Would I have cornered him the whole night? Would he have handed over his card and invited me to tour his studio? What would it be like without the entire future of the museum riding on our efforts to work together?
“There won’t be a crowd at this hour,” he assures me, and there isn’t. He parks near the entrance and tells me to stay put, charging into the rain and jogging around. He swings the passenger door open and holds his wool coat over my head.
“We’ll dash for it,” he says, and I lift my skirts, scurrying along like a woodland creature under his protective canopy.
We stop in the lighted entry, laughing as I shake diamonds of rain from my skirts. In a flurry of movement, he hangs his coat and my cloak on a pair of hooks and turns to me. We’re well-matched, and it takes only the slightest incline of my head to look him in the eye, absorbing the expression on his face. I can’t read it. I haven’t learned his language yet. My broken ear must be mended, as they say. He’s not as simple as a Lars Kette canvas, with clashing knights and mounted riders, that I can see once and understand it in whole.
I look so long that when my brain catches up, I jerk into action, brushing my hands over his shoulders, wicking away the raindrops.
“Freja.”
My hands still, my fractured breaths loud in the silence. We are frozen in a pool of soft amber light, and he reaches up, wrapping both of my wrists in his hands, thumbs over the beating pulse.
“Ach, Oskar,” booms a voice from the great room. “You always come when no one else dares. You want a booth?”
Oskar drops our hands, sliding one of his into one of mine, and leads the way forward. “Konrad, what’s on offer today?”
The innkeeper points to the booth with the flat of his hand. When he sees me properly, he gives a bow, and I answer with an unselfconscious nod, sliding onto the bench. Oskar settles across from me, shaking his head at the byplay.
“The missus made a tenderloin, apple, and sausage stew, fresh crusty bread, and lemon torte for after. Will you stay for a bit of everything?”
My stomach gurgles again. Oskar looks at me and I clutch his hand.Don’t you dare take me away.
“We’ll stay,” he says.
Konrad whisks out of sight and returns with a bottle of Socrè Barbaresco and a basket of cheese straws, chatting briefly about the weather. Oskar asks him about his son, the doctor, and his daughter, the legal clerk, before he whisks away again.
I pick up a cheese straw and begin to nibble. “How did you find this place?” I ask, vowing to return. If the smells coming from the kitchen are any indication, I won’t get the chance. I’ll die happy tonight, doing what I loved most.
Oskar leans against the high back of the booth, tugging his necktie loose and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. I try to make the way my gaze drifts to the column of his throat appear casual, accidental.
