Page 94 of The Winter Princess
Unlike Adelheid Nede, I would make a terrible spy, but the sound of the sink settles the nerves in my stomach and I perform a closer inspection. Clipped to the edge of the table is a series of preliminary sketches–the fall of a bow, the curve of a brow, the pattern of a blouse. My eyes narrow. I recognize that pattern. Vintage van Brandt. Below these pages is a list, written out with red ink and black ink and pencil in various modes of Oskar’s hand. “Mid-length skirts, blouses with bows,The Winter Princess, fortune cookies, any cookies, sparkling water, scarf weather, baked goods, the V&A museum,Kyriekager…”
The sound of my breathing is loud in the lonely room. I unfold a rectangle of paper to see a series of painted squares and a few scribbles alongside. “Freja, Studio, Autumn.”
Freja? My heart beats out a deep, resonant rhythm. The noise from the kitchen gets louder and I glance up, mouth going dry. Hurry. Hurry.
I lift the last paper and clap a hand over my open mouth, pinching off a gasp.
It’s me.
It’s other things too—a portrait, the head and torso circumscribed by a frame in gold leaf, the style marrying Sondish folk art and the delicacy of an old-fashioned miniature. But it’s me, and somehow I knew it would be.
My mind splinters, half of it sounding like static and looking like the empty vacuum of space, the other half absorbing every facet of the painting before time is chased down a drain. I take in that the ornate wallpaper behind my figure hides tiny details–a dumpling and pair of chopsticks, a small but detailed reproduction ofThe Winter Princess, the earrings I wear most often, a looping river of words,You must wade into the river to catch a fish…in a tiara.
The water stops, and it takes a second to register the silence. I dive toward the ornament box, busying my hands by flattening and stacking large tissue paper squares. My flaming cheeks are the only sign I’m not just another industrious Lutheran, filling every idle hour.
Oskar halts at the head of the hall, observing. There isn’t a whisper of suspicion in his eyes. Still, my heart is charging in my chest, banging on the walls so loudly it’s a miracle he can’t hear.
“You don’t need to help me clean up,” he says, rolling his sleeves down.
Don’t do that. Don’t hide them away.Perhaps I could send up a prayer to Santo Laurenzi? Yes. The good Lord created forearms. Oskar’s hands still, he pushes his sleeves up again, leaning against the back of the sofa.
Maybe someone with a better grasp of physics would understand the way time is bending and folding within this small flat on the west end of Handsel. Perhaps they would have an answer to the questions blinking in my mind. Have Oskar and I known each other for three years? Or only properly for three months? How long does it take to know someone well enough to stake your life on it?
Frederick knew Elsa for eight days.
My eyes flick to the drafting table, and he clears his throat. “We did a good job,” he says. A distraction. What would he do if I asked him about the illustration? Lie. I know this because I know him. He’ll tell me it’s a Christmas gift, something he tossed together in an afternoon. Or he’ll say it’s an exercise, a way to keep his hand in, fingers nimble for restoration work. But I know what I saw—weeks of painstaking work and a man with an intimate knowledge of his subject. I saw the effort of someone who took the time to watch and know. I saw his heart.
I try to press a piece of tissue paper smooth, my clammy hands fouling it up as astonishment squeezes the air out of my lungs. I want to excuse myself, barricading myself in the dark, close confines of his coat closet to come to terms with the fact that my entire future has been blasted to pieces and I’m not even mad. I thought I could follow Mama’s plan for us all because I was someone who wouldn’t care very much either way if a husband was found for me or if I found one on my own. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, as the British say.
No more. I bite the inside of my cheek as Clara does. My Swiss school has a lot to answer for. My training does a poor job of cooling my skin and steadying my heartbeat.
“This is the last Saturday feature before Christmas,” he says.
“Right,” I answer, brisk like a Sondish housewife sweeping her threshold. We have to stay focused on The Nat. “I’ll see you at the museum?”
He nods, his gaze shifting away. Why hadn’t I seen it before—the extraordinary care he takes to hide himself from me? A line of ants, each scurrying a burden of rice in the other direction, adding grains to another pile. Now that I’ve seen them, it’s impossiblenotto see them, and I want to follow the parade, discovering what’s at the journey’s end.
“We should schedule a time to study,” I say.
“After Christmas,” he answers. “You deserve a break.” He rolls his forearm and checks his watch.
Of course. It’s been a difficult day for him. I pick up my phone and type out a text. “Freddie is waiting to pick me up,” I say, hopping to my feet. I fumble for my scarf and coat.
He takes the coat and holds it out, hands gripping the collar. I walk into it, and he clears his throat.
“What?”
“Nothing. I like this on you,” he allows.
I think of the illustration, the careful notes. I wonder if he’ll make a study of this. Freja in a Winter Coat. We could hang it in The Nat and charge a fewmarkketo see it. I might finally get satisfaction when the entire world reads the words we can’t speak, filling column inches of newsprint, torrents of digital commentary, to repeat the truth that Freja loves Oskar and Oskar loves Freja.
I struggle with the zipper and want to laugh. There’s nothing short of spending my life loving Oskar that will give me satisfaction. My hands freeze and the realization lands with all the subtlety of a nuclear warhead.Vede.My tastes have always been specific, but not wanting anything more in this life than a taciturn Pavian art restorer in a dress shirt on a Saturday is more than specific.
I tug the zipper and feel it catch on the fabric, only adding to my frustration. Loving him is one thing. Being ruined for anyone else is another. Ruined after, what, two kisses? He hasn’t even asked me on a date. What if it doesn’t work between us? What’s the answer then? Cats? Am I going to have to get a lot more cats?
I tug harder, anxious to be gone.
He puts his hand over mine, stilling them. “Let me do it.”
