Page 25 of The Dandelion Princess
Ammashakes her head, earrings flashing brilliantly in the light. “Promises,” she mutters. “He’ll come back, reeking of filth.” She gives me a kiss and checks her watch. “Run down and collect him, my Ella?”
I am at home here, so I dig out an old coat and boots by the kitchen door, roughly my size, and find a key from the row of hooks in the stables. Matching one to a quad, I am soon bumping over the muddy track, the fresh air tearing through my curls.
In the east fields, I find Marc in a ditch with local laborers, covered in dirt and sweat. I hail him from the top of the hill. After he shakes every hand and slaps every back, he makes his way to me, the wind playing through his hair up the steep rise.
At the sight of him, a length of tension spools out of my shoulders, and then I catch myself. Marc is not my lover. These worries I have—about my mother, about my sister—are mine alone. I tug them back again, tucking them under like a circle of dough.
“Climb on,” I say, when he’s close enough to smell. I should mind his musky scent but I don’t. I glance away, remembering Clara’s words, and blush hotly.He was checking you out.
If it were true that he was gripped by a momentary attraction, he had a year to do something about it. I crush the green shoots of hope, ruthlessly ripping them out by the roots. Hope hurts.
I brace myself as he mounts the quad behind me, settling his hands on my waist. Heat flares up my neck, and I thank the brisk spring wind for having already put some pink in my cheeks. I wish he looked like a troll.
Who am I kidding? Marc would make a hot troll.
I drive the quad back, but my stiff posture makes riding double a punishment. The second time I crack his jaw, he scoops an arm around my waist, anchoring me against his chest. I wish he didn’t make me feel warm and safe. As soon as I reach the old stables, I cut the engine and scramble off the quad.
“Vede, Ells.” He laughs and reaches for me. I steady myself and put distance between us, speeding along the kitchen path. If he asks me what’s wrong—
“You had to pick today to fix the drainage?” I ask, filling the silence, pregnant with his curiosity. “You have the money to hire out.”
“No one is that rich.” His eyes narrow and he closes the distance between us, raking his fingers through my hair, putting it right.
My hand chases his like a good Sondish housewife, shooing her guests away from the dishes.Don’t do that. It’s my job.Our fingers tangle and he pulls away but I am warm all over.
Han Heyden isn’t hurting for money. “I readBusinessmen’s Quarterly,” I say, turning toward the house.
“For the articles?” He winks as he takes my coat with his, hooks them inside the mudroom, and shucks his filthy boots as I shuck mine. I catch our reflection in a fly-specked mirror and see the reassuring sight of a pair of old friends with dirty faces. We will never be more to each other than we are. I have made mypeace with that. If my rosy cheeks tell another story, I shy away from reading it.
“IfAmmamoves back to Seong,” he says, his shoulder brushing mine, “I’ll have to run Lindenholm. No amount of money will replace being on good terms with my neighbors.”
I hook the heels of my shoes with my crooked fingers, slip them on, and retreat to the doorway. I pause there and lean against the jamb. “You could meet them at farming conferences and invite them over for cocktails. You don’t have to meet them in the mud.”
He pauses in the too-small doorway, too, curving his shoulders to fit against the other side of the frame. I look away. “You love our mud. I used to catch you in it all the time. This deep.” He reaches out and brushes a line under my chin, gently drawing my gaze back to his.
I look at him as long as I can—almost three seconds—before averting my eyes to the brick floor. I trace the nicks, uneven lines, and the irregularities of a surface that hasn’t been forced into consistency—training my attention on those gaps instead of the tiny one between us.
He touches my cheek, but I don’t look at him this time. “They have to trust that I will have their backs.” His hand drops and he suddenly shifts. “You remember our college days? Everyone wants to come for the party, but only your real friends will come help you move a couch.”
The quarter hour chimes with a gentle bong and he hitches away from the doorway. As he goes, his wide shoulders crowd the narrow hall. My mind travels to a Saturday morning with a tall graduate student and his vegan leather sofa. A short princess, unwisely wearing flip flops, shouts curses on his children and his children’s children as they load the truck.
8
Little Inclination
MARC
I peel out of the muddy clothes and step into the shower, allowing the hot needles of water to wash the grit away. I can’t wash away the image of Ella calling to me from the top of the hill, her wind-knotted hair bright against gray clouds, a heavy black turtleneck sweater framing her face and the old coat giving her no shape at all.
I kick the thin film of standing water, lace my fingers behind my head, and lean into the wall, breathing in and out, steam bringing clarity with each breath. She’s Noah’s sister and Alix’s best friend, and those things are too important to dismantle for…whatever this is.
Soapy water runs down the drain far more easily than it ran down the hill on the west boundary. There we trained it to flow down a particular slope, building up earthworks with the hope it will hold. These reactions, sudden and unwelcome, can be trained, too.
My costume for the party is a lucky choice, reinforcing the importance of discipline. Dressed in the long flowing robes of a Seongan nobleman, I wear a transparent, wide-brimmed hat with a high, thimble-shaped crown, secured with a loose strand of bone and glass beads hanging against my heart. A plain undergarment with a stiff white band settles across the back of my neck, and the overrobe of silk gauze is stitched with our mother’s family name,Han, along with the insignia of the Seongan national flower: a common dandelion—the first flower to return to our ravaged country in the wake of a crisis.
Alix frowns when she sees it. “You’re not wearing a costume. You’re wearing an heirloom.”
Through the wide open doors of the ballroom, I see superheroes and fairy tale princesses—an assortment of costumes wide enough to include powdered wigs of the Hannöversch Era and armored breastplates from the Ostphalians. I am hardly out of place.
