Page 62 of The Winter Princess
I lean in and scan the list. I’ve got a lot more latitude than my siblings when it comes to royal engagements, and I’m going to need it. Erik has scheduled me out every Saturday for eight weeks, the last just before Christmas Eve.
How is Oskar supposed to study for his test if we keep eating up his free time? “I could go alone.”
Erik swivels in his chair and nods, clapping his hands on his knees. “Let me be real with you, Freja. The numbers look bad. Like, a zeppelin crashing into the ground in a fiery conflagration bad.” His voice pitches into a quiet panic. “The humanities! The humanities!”
“Humanity, Erik.”
“Yeah. A lot of people came out that first week to support the museum, but most of our base has dried up. They made their visit. So.”
I cannot overstate how profoundly I hate this habit he has of only expressing half a thought.
“So…?”
“So yours are the only videos catching serious fire—the ones with you and Velasquez. If you do this, I won’t even make you come up with an artifact interview.”
“I just gave you a segment on Belgian linen. I’m thinking of taping one on mulberry paper and another on hot tables. It’s not as riveting as—”
Erik’s hand floats in front of my face. “I could literally not care what you guys talk about. Sondmark doesn’t care. They like and share and chirp your videos because you’re pretty to look at, no offense, and you could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”
Color creeps up my cheeks. “We talk about conservation adhesives.”
“I know. Should be a snooze-fest. Doesn’t matter. People are shipping you.”
“What?”
“Oh, Freja.” Theyou poor thingis implied. “Shipping. They want you to be a couple.”
“We’re not a couple,” I insist. We’re friends. We shook on it.
“Okay. Sure. Whatever.” Erik presses his fingers to his chest. “But I just want to say that there’s an unacknowledged complexity here. When you’re on, the fire emojis flow like water, and when we get you in front of the camera, we harness that power.” I stare, trying to sort him out. “It’s like solar panels.”
“Hm.” A brisk nod and I move on, knocking on the doorframe of what was once Director Knauss’s office. In the weeks since his criminality was uncovered, Marie has worked a change, filling the shelves and bringing in comfortable furniture, turning the sterile showpiece into the hub of the administration wing. She looks up from her desk.
“Darling, you’ll give yourself wrinkles if you keep looking like that.”
I smile, probably creating more wrinkles. “You were married to Asger Hom. You never said.”
“You never asked.”
“I’ll ask now. Why did you break up?”
“He had an eye for beauty.” She tips her head and looks exceedingly wise. “He comes for Christmas Eve dinner each year and brings nut loaf.”
I slip into a ruby-red Saarinen chair, curling up like I’ve landed in a basket of pillows. “I saw Erik’s spreadsheet,” I say. “My mother’s going to have words with you about taking so much time to be with the goblin in the dungeon every weekend.”
There’s a movement at the door, and I turn to find Oskar regarding me with a cold, dark stare. A zip of apprehension travels down my fused spine.
“Erik called down and said you wanted to talk about doing some traveling,” he says. My heart drops. We are cursed.
He enters the room and leans against a console. I’d have to twist around to get a good look.
“Am I not doing art restoration anymore?” His tone is testy.
Marie waves. “Calm yourself, Oskar. We’re in an unusual circumstance, at least until Christmas. All hands are required to dig us out of this hole. Even princess hands,” she says, giving me a smile.
“Especially princess hands,” Oskar replies.
My back stiffens, and I no longer feel the delightful contours of the chair.
