Page 48 of The Winter Princess
She looks into her cup, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Noah is almost fluent, but I think Père gave up trying to fight the tide, because by the time my sister and I arrived, he was only covering the basics.”
“The basics?”
She clears her throat and holds up one finger, saying in elegant Pavian, “Pardon,sehora, do you sell roast chicken?” She holds two fingers up. “Pardon, where might I find the nearest lavatory?” A third finger. “No,sehor, I do not care to be kissed.”
I choke, and she attempts to give me a quelling, teacher-ish look. Her mouth betrays her.
“Tomorrow, when we are mortal enemies again, you will forget that.”
“We’ll forget all of this tomorrow,” I vow.
She lifts a shoulder and I follow the line of it. “I’d like to be more proficient in Pavian. There aren’t many people for me to use it with.”
Not her grandparents? A question forms in my mouth, but I can guess the truth. They say that when young Prince Matteo came to Sondmark, he left his whole life behind—the father who placated the military regime until Generalissimo Mondegas died and the mother who refused to come to his wedding and the christening of each of his children if her husband, King Zeren, could not attend. The Sondish parliament never relented on that point.
These are details well-known and often repeated around Uncle Timo’s table when theanauis flowing. I point at her with my fork.
“Well, your accent is excellent,” I say. “No one would think you were ordering boiled peas instead of roast chicken.”
When we finish, I return her to the car, the air cool and wet, the security detail following close after us. The drive back to Handsel is quick, and while I navigate through the darkened streets, she asks, “Your father and Uncle Timo were military men. How did you end up at The Nat, working in art restoration?” she asks.
“You’re asking a lot of questions.”
She doesn’t apologize. “I am,” she says, brow furrowed. Have I confused her as much as she’s confusing me?
“My mother was an artist. She trained in Hamburg before the civil war.”
Her head tilts. “You wanted to be an artist, too.”
She’s done it again, seeing more than the careful slivers of information I dole out.
“Well,” I say, declarative, final. “I’m not enough of a genius to be a successful one, but restoration is more science than art, and it gives me steady employment,” I say, brushing past the details around the provisional residency which made a dependable paycheck necessary. “I began at The Nat under Roland, and when he moved to Curation, I took over as head of the department.” There it is. The whole story. No need for follow-up questions.
She tilts her head. “Do you like it?”
Damn her. Damn her.
“I like knowing how to work through a problem. I like making things better rather than worse.”
Her hands smooth the fabric over her knees. “Yes, but you planned to be an artist. The ideal thing is that a restorer expresses nothing of himself but always thinks of the artist and what he intended. Don’t you find it constricting?”
My heart hammers. I don’t want to be unwrapped like a Christmas present in front of anyone, least of all Freja. I don’t want to be trapped in the close, intimate confines of a car while she does it.
“I find it necessary. Not all of us live in a palace.” My tone is clipped.
She withdraws, picking up her phone, the glow of the screen lighting her face.
“Huh,” she says, after a few moments.
“What huh?”
“Erik the Up-Talker is running The Nat’s Pixy page. He’s doing quizzes. He’s got a picture of a metal device and then one of those quiz stickers below it.” She reads the text. “Is this a labor and delivery tool or a blood-drawing device?” A pause. “Stultes es. I got that wrong. Here’s another.” Now that I’ve stopped at a light, she holds the screen up. “Is this a pattern from a men’s waistcoat or a queen’s coronation robe?”
“Waistcoat,” I say, “but I’m cheating.VrouwLarsen in textile restoration worked on it last year.”
“This is really clever. Ella told me that quizzes and questions excite the algorithm. It’s going to increase engagement with our posts.”
