Page 16 of The Winter Princess
Rik smirks. “The best bargaining chip we have is offering to cancel the exhibit led by a member of”—he drums his palms on the table, a crescendo of expectation and suspense—“the royal family.”
With that Rik throws my exhibit under the treads of his tank, backs over it, and roars off again as the room erupts with crosstalk, department heads and assistants debating the merits. I read the projector. I knew this was coming. It’s what tempted me to form an alliance with a grouchy misanthrope in the first place. I exhale, wishing I’d had more time to prepare, but it’s no time to begin worrying about the state of your armory when the enemy is at the gates. One must simply pry the rusty broadswords off the wall and wade into battle.
“The exhibit is already half-launched,” I begin, my voice drowned out by infighting. “The British art arrived last week. Surely—”
Time stretches as I search the room for signs that someone is listening. Some of the most beautiful and transcendent works of art in human history are down on the gallery floor, but up in the administration offices, we’re making sausage. My stomach gurgles again and I frown, clapping a hand over it. Amid the noise of the room, I feel Oskar’s gaze, intent, warm. My breath slows.
Stultes es. Stop noticing.
He gives a sharp, low-toned whistle, looking away when silence presses into every corner of the room. “The Romantics is probably the only exhibit we can stage.”
My warrior has arrived.
“How can we afford to stage any exhibit?” Agnes asks, holding her copy of the budget report over her head. “We’ve all seen the numbers. It’s a terrible expense.”
Oskar’s eyes shift to mine, and even though I detect no measurable warmth in his expression, I take heart. “Ma’am,” he asks, “how much does The Nat pay you?”
Ma’am. He must be five years older than I am. “I don’t draw a salary.”
I wouldn’t know what to do with the relatively small sum The Nat could scrape together, but I’ve often wondered if even a nominal amount would regularize my position here, protecting my right to have a voice in a way that doesn’t depend so much on respect for the monarchy.
Oskar glances around the table. “The Romantics exhibit is less expensive than anything else we could put on. Far from being a liability, as a member of the royal family, she has connections no one else in this room has. Isn’t that so?”
I don’t like this line of questioning, but I have to trust him.
“I didn’t pull strings as a member of the royal family,” I say. Agnes rolls her eyes, but I persevere. “One of my old professors works for The British Museum and convinced them to lend four works. Getting three more paintings from Vorburg was simply a matter of understanding the political situation. They’re desperate to put Sondmark in their debt before the upcoming state visit, and I had some letters drafted on behalf of Director Knauss. Vorburg’s royal family approved the loans without any connection to my position.”
Oskar is impressed, I can see it in the way his brow gently curves ever so slightly above its habitual line, but Lynda leans forward, reading glasses slipping down her nose. “Even if cost projections are low, there’s advertising, leaflets, banners, temporary insurance, transportation, installation. It’s not an insignificant amount to be spending right now. The financing for this project came from the prime minister’s grant. Is that correct?”
Lynda delivers this with a deadly smile. I slide a hand over the hilt of an imaginary broadsword, hardly expecting someone who wears singing Christmas tree earrings for half of November and every day of December to be this good at deductive reasoning.
“Correct,” I acknowledge. “The cost represents a tiny fraction of this year’s budget, but if you’ll turn to the graph on page seven—”
She tosses the packet on the table and it spins. “Every cut we’ve been talking about represents a fraction of what’s needed. Cutting the exhibit, at least, might carry some symbolic weight for the government. Maybe we could get a show of hands?”
“Stop the vote,” Oskar whispers.
I shoot him a glare. We’re supposed to fight together, and he’s left me like the last deserted island in the Sonderlands archipelago. Alone and under disputation.
I cast about for a brilliant, painless plan to satisfy everyone.
Pool our money and win the lottery? No. Too unlikely. Rob the museum and sell art on the black market? Too risky. Find sunken treasure? Clara’s got that new boyfriend, but the seas are rough in the autumn. So, again, no.
I stuff my pride into a deep, dark hole and hiss threats to keep it in its place. It’s time to make the most of the connections Oskar spoke of and it’s going to hurt.
“Her Majesty the Queen has her weekly meeting with Prime Minister Torbald tomorrow, and I’ll ask that we make the museum an agenda item. It might prove an opportunity to smooth some feathers.”
Roland slaps the table. “Yes. That’s it. That’s what we need.”
Marie looks uneasy. “Are you sure?”
I give a series of tiny nods like it’s no big deal that I’m deconstructing the tallest, thickest boundary wall I have in my life.
Oskar slides me a note and I read his precise handwriting. “Call for a vote on temporary leadership. Nominate Marie.”
The vote is unanimous, and I have to admire the way Oskar engineered the outcome. Obliquely. Behind the scenes. No one, least of all Rik, Lynda, and Agnes, objected to his plans because they didn’t know they were his.
As curators and staff begin to file out, Oskar rises and touches my shoulder. A quickening brushes along my skin and I stand, pushing the chair with the back of my knees.
