Page 29 of The Winter Princess
I nod. “Rik is right,” I say, enjoying some satisfaction that the man is confused about sharing any common ground with me. “The weather will get worse, and we’ll be fighting the shops and Christmas Markets for people’s attention. No matter how good the programs are, they’ll push off their visits, planning to wait until after the New Year. But if they know what we need and why, people will be invested. Let them know how close we are to our goal…like a telethon,” I say, recalling the variety shows of my childhood.
“With one of those money thermometers?” Freja laughs, and I feel the vibration of it along my skin. I brush a hand down my sleeve.
She continues. “Social media is weird, I’m told, and the more slapdash something is, the more authentic it appears.”
“Honest,” the intern corrects.
“Yes, honest. So let’s tape some printer paper together and use a marker to show our progress.”
What were the words Lynda used earlier? Murdering my soul. I cross my arms, thumb rubbing the material of my jacket. The heart of my work is a commitment to meticulous craftsmanship. Tape and printer paper. I just—
Freja touches my back twice. Pat, pat.There, there.
I freeze and force myself to speak. “The sooner we make our pitch to the public, the better. Do we have any volunteers?”
No eager rush of raised hands greets my question. For all our planning and brainstorming, this is where the shore meets the sea. Our faces will appear on camera.
“I’m too pig-ugly,” says Rik, which isn’t true. He’s good-looking in a large, obvious way. With his lint-fair hair and Sondish frame, he could be in Viking dramas, a medieval warrior leading a raid against an ill-prepared abbey. But I’m unconvinced his fans would be natural art lovers.
It can’t be Agnes. There’s something censorious in her eyes that makes people worry that they haven’t flossed. I lift my eyes to Roland with his bushy beard and stammering excitement. Sondmark would love him.
“I won’t do it,” Roland says before I can open my mouth. “I’m too liable to lose my train of thought—start out on the museum and end up in the Punic Wars, as always. No, Oskar’s the one.” He assesses me as mercilessly as I assessed Agnes, and I feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. “You’re telegenic. Isn’t he telegenic?”
“Every maiden’s dream,” Marie laughs, adding dryly, “I’m no maiden, of course.”
Sondmark wouldn’t love me. The words lodge in my throat, and a churning panic invades my chest.
“Freja has the largest social media reach,” I say, tapping my phone and bringing up the official Pixy account of HRH Princess Freja, Duchess of Piskmont. It’s not her making the posts. I figured that out last night when I scrolled through her feed. They don’t sound like her, but she has 3.2 million followers, and most of them are bound to be from Sondmark.
She goes on her tiptoes and looks over my shoulder. I point to the number. Her breath, gently brushing my ear, catches.
“That’s an official account, nothing to do with The Nat beyond the boundaries of my patronage.”
“You said this was important to you,” I remind her, turning my head. We’re suddenly close, our conversation low and private. I hold a finger up to sayWe need a moment to settle this, and the rest of the room rumbles comfortably with talk. “You’ve got to be the public face of this.”
“Roland’s idea was a good one,” she counters, dropping into a whisper. “The camera would love you.”
Does she realize that she gave me a compliment?
“I’m an immigrant, and this is The Nat—the bastion of Sondish culture. But you’ve got 3.2 million followers. We’ll set up in the main gallery, and you can have a few minutes to make some bullet points,” I say, as though we’ve decided. I have to be ruthless.
“Marie is glamorous. She should be the one—”
“Marie is running the whole museum,” I say, “and she’s not a globally recognized figure, beloved by all.”
Freja’s glance sharpens. Her lips purse slightly, and I want to run my thumb along them, just to see.
“Are you mocking me?”
I drag my attention in line. “I would never mock a member of a cherished national institution. We need you.” Leaning forward, my mouth is just centimeters from her ear. “Enough standing on the shore, ordering everyone about. You have to wade into the river to catch a fish.”
She clicks her tongue, drawing back far enough to look me in the face. We’re too close, and I feel the tightness of my tie.
“I will if you will.”
11
Steadying Grip
