Page 88 of The Winter Princess
I glance over at his papers which he tips toward me. “Ah.”
Phase Three. I turn my handbag upside down and shake. A tin of mints tumbles out and I sigh. A happy end to a desperate search.
I don’t like his slightly drawn brows. He’s thinking. I don’t want him thinking. I flip the tin open and offer him one. He shakes his head.
“We could use my place,” he says.
I drop a soft mint onto my tongue, sucking slightly on the lozenge. “Oh?” I say, as though the thought was an island so remote that I was the first seafarer to set foot on it. “We’ll have to cut the tree ourselves and find trimmings.” I begin to reassemble my purse under his heavy regard.
“I have lights and ornaments if you don’t mind some Pavian touches.”
“I don’t mind.”
On Saturday afternoon we meet at The Nat. Oskar puts his head around the door of our office, hand gripping the door jamb. “Ready?” He pauses. “You look…”
“Like a lumberjack?” I laugh, scooping my hair to the side. I’m dressed for the weather. Though I prefer wide-legged slacks, I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted wool pants and lace-up boots. I’ve topped this off with a 1940s-style cropped sweater jacket and a soft scarf.
“You look like you. I wondered how you would, in snow clothes.”
“You were expecting a crocheted poncho and balaclava?”
“I wasn’t expecting—”
He looks at the door, at his watch, and at the bookshelves. He does that whenever he’s tempted to kiss me, I think. Every time. Like my lips are a tractor beam and he’s in danger of being caught.
He’s not wrong. I do plan to catch him.
On our way out, we pass the thermometer. The ends have curled up from being frequently handled, and it looks more authentic than ever. The nearer we get to Christmas, the thinner the lines are. We need almost 30,000 more, and there isn’t enough time. I haven’t said so out loud. None of us have.
“We need something big,” Oskar says, catching my glance.
“Bigger than a 1400-year-old Viking ship?” Roland’s latest enthusiasm.
“Come,” he says, breaking me from a reverie in which I’m single-handedly responsible for the shuttering of The Nat and countless artifacts crumbling into obscurity, plunging the world into a new dark age.
He leads me to a sturdy, all-wheel drive car. “I borrowed it from Cousin Tomas.” He looks around. “No security?”
I shake my head. “There’s lots of coming and going at the palace this week—lots of guests. Security is stretched thin.”
“I wasn’t planning to abduct a princess, but the time seems auspicious.” He adjusts the rearview mirror. “By the way, I brought a saw.”
I choke on a laugh. “Driving into the deep woods with a man carrying a saw. I can’t wait to debrief with the security team.”
We pull onto the ring road, and soon we settle into our customary pattern. I fire off question after question with the aid of my sister’s app. “What was the year Viggo Faxeborg published his first collection of folk tales?”
“1835.”
I nod. “The name?”
“Fantastical Stories for Young Minds.”
“Your favorite?”
He looks over from the road, brown eyes amused. “Is that going to be on the test?”
I point guilelessly at the phone. “I just read the questions.”
He smiles without actually smiling. “‘The Steadfast Plowman.’”
