Page 51 of The Winter Princess
Père laughs.
My face feels hot, and I shift slightly at this unrecognizable description of a man who seemed to know exactly how to get into trouble. Oskar’s manner is not warm. His speech is not flowery. These things he has learned from Sondish culture, perhaps. But Sondmark didn’t teach him everything.
“He is waiting for you, sir,” I say, smiling atSehorFornasari. “Shall I have a footman bring him here or—”
With a clap of his hands on his thighs, he rises. “It’s time I go.”
“You’ll come again,” Père says, surprising me. This is the most content I have seen him in a long time. Since before his father passed away and his relationship with Mama became a rock, the cracks and fissures growing deeper with each freeze. Every day I can almost hear the rock groaning, straining to cleave in two or hold together. A true son of Pavieau would prefer fire to ice. Maybe they should have done more shouting.
The men clasp both forearms in a hearty farewell. “Yes, tell me when and I will come,” Uncle Timo says, taking and receiving the three kisses.
I escort him from the room, and when he offers his arm I take it.
“I hope you had an enjoyable evening,” I murmur as we walk.
He slices across the air with his hand. “You’re the girl in the Pixy videos with Oskar. What? Have I surprised you? I follow my grandchildren on Pixy.”
I laugh. “Yes. He hates being in front of a camera, but he’s a natural. Whenever he talks about his work, it makes me want to listen.”
Uncle Timo lifts his brows.
“It—it makes the whole country want to listen,” I finish, thankful that one of Noah’s cost-saving schemes has been to dim the lights in the common areas of the palace when there are no official functions. Uncle Timo can’t see my blushes. Thank you, Noah.
On the other hand, these measures produce the wrong atmosphere for sobriety and clear-headedness. If the side entry had been glaringly bright, I wouldn’t have leaned into Oskar’s kiss like he was the last drops of iced coffee at the bottom of my straw. Thanks a lot, Noah.
I pause at the head of the last hallway. “I wish you a lovely night,” I say.
Uncle Timo chuckles. “Thank you for entertaining poor Oskar,” he says, loud enough that poor Oskar can hear him. The Head of Restoration is a forbidding figure next to Ella and looks impatient to be gone.
SehorFornasari shakes his head and wags a thick finger, calling, “Another princess and you don’t know what to do with that one either. You are hopeless,adano.”
Adano. My boy.
“You’ll embarrass Their Royal Highnesses with such talk,” Oskar counters, his face in a scowl.
Ella looks like she’d like to drag up a chair and a bag of crisps to watch the drama play out.
The old man sighs when he turns to me. “I’ll give you the kiss he should have given.”
He lifts my hand, bows, and places a courtly kiss against my knuckles. It’s delightful and gallant and nothing like Oskar’s.
When they depart, Ella jogs up the hall with a little squeal.
I hold up a hand, forestalling her effusions. I can’t do it. “Not now,” I warn her. “Not now.”
She takes a deep breath. We’re twins with a lifetime of practice in adapting to each other’s particularities—learning to be devoted, even when our characters are so different—so she puts out her pinky and I wrap it with my own.
“Later.” That’s the promise.
I nod. “Later.”
By the time morning arrives, I’ve worked out a plan. No matter how fascinating last night’s kiss was, I have to return Oskar to his place and me to mine. He is a private resident. I am a public figure. He is a goblin. I am a princess. He is Pavieau. I am Sondmark.
The country still hasn’t forgiven my parents for fulfilling the marriage contract. The populace certainly won’t be docile if one of their princesses gets serious about a Pavian.
There, I huff, pushing through the doors of the restoration studio. We have that sorted. I’ll tell him he has to work with Erik. I’ll be cool and quelling and so nonchalant they’ll have to invent a new word for it.
My eyes light on Oskar, who sits before a massive canvas of St Sebastian, the holy body riddled with arrows. A rectangular frame rests beneath the loose painting, and Oskar tugs the canvas in position, reaches for a handful of tacks, and tosses them in his mouth like peanuts.
