Page 105 of The Winter Princess
“Her Majesty sends her best wishes,” she gasps, holding out the large box.
My heart beats hard in my chest, and I begin to feel the cold rushing in on me. “That’s a tiara box.”
“Yes, I have the veil, too, ma’am.” She jiggles the other box. “And a pocket full of hairpins. If you’ll get down a bit, I can have this secured in no time.”
My heart has shifted to my throat and behind my eyes, but I do as she says. She puts the boxes in my hands and takes the tiara from its case. It’s not my usual scrolling diamond bandeau but one of yellow gold and seed pearls. Floral motifs frame a series of soft carved cameos depicting the love story of Thora and Bjarke. Because of its high level of difficulty, no one has worn this tiara in more than a hundred years.
The veil? My fingers are shaking as I lift the lid, Asger slipping around me like a friendly ghost.
Vede.I can’t cry. I’m ugly when I cry.
Five meters of Brussels lace, woven with the flowers of Sondmark along the scalloped edge. It was worn by six generations of Wolffe brides. Though she isn’t here, my mother has sent every emblem she could collect in such a short amount of time.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
I don’t blame my mother if it’s a gambit to head off the bad press, a ploy to have royal approval stamped on the images which will arise from this day even if no such approval exists. Christmas is about grace and mercy. I will understand her. I’m determined to.
“People can tell when they matter.” Caroline finishes with the bobby pins, collects the boxes, and assesses her work. “That’s what your mother said.”
I feel Mama’s hand at my back, feel a stinging in my nose, and blot under my eyes with tapping fingers. “Tell them I’m happy.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Every word and impression will be reported back to my parents within the hour.
“Yes,” she decides. “Very happy. Best wishes, Your Royal Highness.”
I hear the gentle strains of an organ, and Caroline stoops to adjust my veil so that with each step it unfurls. Wind gusts through the courtyard, Freddie opens the door, and I walk toward the blazing glow of candles.
This won’t be hard. I only have to hold onto Oskar’s hand.
35
Home
FREJA
Snowflakes fall and swirl beyond the glass, muffling the roar of the wind. Nestled deep in a down comforter, I blink the sleep from my eyes. It’s perfect weather for Christmas.
I stretch towards the ceiling, my fist finding its way from the too-long sleeve of the flannel pajama top, and feel for the other side of the bed. Finding nothing but cool linens, I sit up on my elbows and shake the hair out of my face, properly awake now.
I see the room with new eyes. There’s the dress, draped carefully over an antique armchair. The desk and bookshelf have modern lines, but I recognize them as likely purchased in a flat pack from AKAE and put together in the front room along with indecipherable instructions and swearing. Original paintings hang over the bed. Otherwise, the space is empty.
The distant clinking of dishes is enough to tip me out of bed and onto my feet, bare against the cold floor. He’s not in the sitting room, but he’s been here before me, turning on the lights of the small Christmas tree to create a warm shield against the curtain of snow outside. I can’t even see the palace. In any other circumstances, I would linger, tucking myself onto the sofa under a wooly blanket with one of those books from his well-filled shelves.
Such a thing would mark this as a different Christmas morning than any I’ve ever had. At the Summer Palace, the sound of bells would rouse me from sleep, and I would come down to breakfast to find a small pile of gifts next to my plate. Extended family visiting from France, Germany, or Tallinne would give the day a loud and festive air, and we would lapse into different languages as we tried to communicate. I wouldn’t know a moment’s peace until I climbed into bed sometime after midnight.
I rub my hands along my arms and pivot in this modest flat on the other side of the city, holding the contrast between this and the palace against my palms, trying to make them fit. Both places are part of me now.
My stomach shifts, an aftershock of yesterday’s news no doubt still shaking the palace. I feel the dull ache of how things ought to have been and weren’t, the weight of guilt. I feel, too, the kind of happiness that burrows into my bones, writing on my heart, fizzing like a bottle of sparkling water. These things are part of me now.
Another clink of dishes sends me running to the kitchen. I angle my head around the door and draw a breath. Oskar is wearing the bottom half of our pajamas, his arms braced against the counter, a wonder of human anatomy. The thin gold chain rolls lazily over the slope where his neck becomes shoulder.
My eyes close briefly. Merry Christmas to me.
Oskar reaches for the electric kettle, the muscles of his back shifting as he moves. He pours the contents over a filter, and I sniff, identifying the rich aroma of fresh ground coffee.
“French press?” I ask, and he turns, pushing his hair out of his face. The tiny medallion hitches on his skin, hanging off center. I have a good imagination, but after months of working with this man, side by side, I was not clever enough to imagine this.
I look and look and look. A blush warms my cheeks. He clears his throat, and my eyes return to his. For an anxious second, I look for signs of regret.
