Page 64 of The Winter Princess
He coughs a laugh. “History teaches us to be modest about our virtues and more generous about the motivations of others. It forces us to see that people are people, whether they live across the continent or come from another century.”
Is this a truce? I squeeze our clasped hands. “This particular room shows us how medieval people used symbols on family crests, in religious rites, or in fairy tales, whether it be a dove on a triptych, a bear on a shield, or the poisoned thimble in the story of Thora and Bjarke.” More fire emojis. I stumble on. “We still use them. Consider a Dragon’s jersey, a brand insignia, or the violets handed out on Queen’s Day. Symbols are storytelling devices and when you learn to read that language, a whole world opens up.”
Oskar crowds into my frame, his head bending to mine. “Don’t let her fool you into thinking you have to know anything special to enjoy this,” he breaks in, obviously flirting with Sondmark. “Here comes a group of schoolchildren to illustrate our point. Let’s listen in.”
Oskar taps a button with his thumb and the camera flips, framing a young woman herding nine-year-old boys in suit coats and ties, shouting in a sing-song voice to manage them. “Don’t lick the glass,” she warns.
Several of the youngsters bunch up in front of a case exhibiting a suit of armor made for Horst the Invader and begin shoving each other, laughing. Oskar moves closer, but the image of what’s on the other side of the glass pops into my brain. Too late, I reach for Oskar’s elbow, scrambling after him to prevent disaster.
Cut the feed. Cut the feed!
The teacher notices the unruly boys and, loud enough to mobilize an army, bellows, “Of course, the armor looks like that. If you were a king in charge of the succession, you’d want to protectallyour bits. But especially that one.” The boys erupt in laughter, but her exhausted monologue continues as she shepherds them away. “Yes, yes, Iknowit’s prodigious, but don’t get excited. Come on, come on. Don’t dawdle.”
Oskar lifts the camera to my shocked face.
“Your Royal Highness?” Oskar says, voice as mild as a spring day. “Would you care to comment on…the succession?”
I drag him into the frame with me. “Of course, we can’t show you what they were looking at. You’ll have to come to the museum and see for yourself.”
“We’ll see you soon,” he says, eyes twinkling.
The screen goes blank, and I release his gorgeous tweed sleeve. “That was live. That waslive. Did we really capture children of Sondmark eyeballing a medieval king’s…” Words fail. “…succession bits?”
He breathes a laugh. “We only got the backs of their heads. That’s a ridiculous piece of armor.” He leans toward the glass, looking over the plus-sized armor with the massive codpiece. “Riding full-tilt at another knight, wielding a long pointy stick and thinking this tin can would offer protection.” He shakes his head. “It’s a miracle you were born.”
Adrenaline has burned its way through me, and I’m feeling exhausted. “I need a cookie,” I say.
He grips my hand. “I’ve got one in the dungeon.”
21
Sweet Dreams
OSKAR
The goblin in the dungeon. I shake my head as I make my way to the studio. I want to say I don’t care what Princess Freja thinks of me, but that’s a lie so bald even my subconscious grunts derisively.
I look down at our joined hands and release hers, dragging the drawer of my desk open with a hollow metalthunk. It used to contain stationery supplies, but over these last weeks, I’ve accumulated an assortment of snack foods, some of which I don’t even like. When was that decision made? In the check-out lane of the grocery store? The decision to take on the care and feeding of Princess Freja seems too momentous to be an impulse.
I stir the contents of the drawer with my hand. “How do you feel about oatmeal and raisins?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Raisins are the devil’s fruit.”
I file the fact away. For what? I don’t need to know this about her. She’s not a piece of art under my hands that I’m preparing for an exhibition. Still, each time I discover a new facet of her, I add it to my mental collection—a collection that has become a fat file of notes and histories with tags and addendums spiking out of the edges. It’s taking up the whole desk.
“Do you like nuts and chocolate?” I ask, holding up a tin.
“Like them? I want to give them a knighthood and a pension,” she says, reaching for the cookie and taking a huge bite. She closes her eyes and tips her head back, her face blissful. “I hate doing this so much.”
Of course, she does. I forgot. Goblin.
“It’s not easy,” I say, moving away, giving myself space. I pick up a whisk broom and begin brushing the worktable even though there’s nothing to clean. I can feel her watching me, and I spool out the activity as long as I can. But the longer I work, the more she sees.
“I meant having to be on camera.” She watches me closely.
I sweep a few nothings into a dustpan. “You’re on camera all the time.”
“You know what I’m worried about? That I’ll laugh at a joke I’m going to have to apologize for or that I’ll make the wrong simile and torpedo government talks.That brushwork is as bad as the pickled herring Vorburg keeps trying to pass off as food.” She takes another bite of the cookie. “Worrying about every possible implication of everything that enters my head wears me out.”
