Page 103 of The Dandelion Princess
“I took the roundabout out of Frederickplatz, shot up the E12…”
I pinch him and he grunts.
Why is he here, looking like Saint Leofdag’s gift to Sondish maidens? Was last night a fever dream? Didn’t I end it?
I press the back of my fingers against my forehead and work my tongue into the wells of my mouth. No fever.
We’re over. It happened. He can never find out I got drunk.
“What’s this?” I ask, watching as he unpacks a bento box.
“Side dishes.”
“I don’t know what it is you want, but I’m not Freja,” I say. “You can’t tempt me with food.”
He removes several lids, unveiling warmed up hangover soup, kimchi, and seasoned tofu from Lindenholm. His mother installed a Seongan chef first thing and bribed her to stay for decades.
“The assortment of fruit was ordered in from Minty’s and the rolled omelet is me. I’m an early riser,” he adds, answering the unspoken question.
I tip my chin, inspecting all the dishes, the warmth in my chest like a nuclear reactor. “You should have texted. I wouldn’t look like such a mess.”
He looks at me for a long time and silence stretches into a thin, transparent tissue.
Finally, I wind my hair away and clip it back. “If you ever wonder if I’m fishing for compliments, the answer is always yes.”
“I didn’t trust myself to comment on your appearance. You look—” he starts.
“Too late,” I reply, the words like the extension of a hand at a work college so they don’t go in for a hug. I can’t cross the same boundaries I promised to fortify. “Give me a minute to pull myself together.”
I toss on a pair of dark slacks and a blouse, brush my teeth extra well, and quickly wrangle my hair in case I’m pulled into a family discussion. We eat on my narrow balcony overlooking an ornamental garden and he leans against the railing, catchingme up on news from Seong and preparations for BLUSH. With a face like his, I’m sure he’s never been on the losing end of a break-up. I surprised him yesterday, and I suppose this is his way of wrapping things up on his own terms.
“Come out for a walk with me,” he says, pulling me to my feet.
I follow him through the hallways of the palace and watch his back as he steps into the sunshine. I can’t have him, so I shake my head and train my sights on the grounds of the Summer Palace, cultivated over centuries. We have a rookery, a couple of follies, and a copse of ancient oaks planted during a bloody reign. There’s even an ornamental English garden, dotted with statuary, and a wilderness big enough to sustain several herds of white-tailed deer.
I shy away from the wilderness. Marc and I have a track record when it comes to wildernesses. Under the bright sun, my head throbs with the after effects of cheap wine, and I walk as carefully as possible.
“How are you feeling? About Freja’s thing,” he clarifies. Not ours.
I lift my shoulder. “I’m not the main character in this drama.”
He reaches over and hooks a finger through a belt loop, catching me, and his eyes travel over my face. My heart kicks up a traitorous rhythm because I know he’s capable of seeing nearly every part of me—happiness for Freja, worry about the future, the persistent friction with royal life that has receded from a wild keening to a low hum. Progress.
He touches my face. Then he leans forward, kissing me softly on the brow, my temple, on my cheek. Still friendly locations. Just.
“Is this you fishing for compliments?” he asks, slipping his arm around my waist. He did this a thousand times when we were only friends. It’s fine. “Does your family know how miserable they’d be without you?”
The soft spring air brushes between us, and I place a hand against his chest.
His hand slides up my back, and I don’t know anymore if I’m leaning or he’s pulling. I am poised on the sharp edge of wishing I could undo yesterday, right on the cusp of going up on my tiptoes and saying things that might reverse this delicate truce. Then there comes a crunch on the gravel walk and a surprised, “Oh.”
We spring apart under the interested, amused regard of my father. My heartbeat clatters in my chest, but Père waves Marc’s bow away.
“I am fizzing with curiosity,” he says, “but I’m in no condition to be lied to.” He rubs a palm over his flat stomach, a line between his brows. “It upsets the digestion.”
I slip my arm through his. “We’ve had an upsetting few days. Marc was telling me how sorry he was.”
“With his lips?” Père asks. Marc holds his gaze when he should have the decency to look ashamed. Père smiles. “I dare say there’s not a square meter on the whole grounds where I didn’t get into mischief with my bride.”
