Page 3 of The Dandelion Princess
I ignore her negativity and begin to race across the boggy ground in the direction of the massive abbey grounds.
“I wanted to ask you something,” she says, shooting a flaming arrow into a grove of trees. “My mom and Marc have been in Seong for ages.”
His name is like a tiny, pale sliver under my skin. Marc has been gone for seven months and thirteen days, but who’s counting?
“I need your help.”
“What is it?” I answer, swinging a grappling hook from the base of a tower wall.
“I’m getting married on July 12th,” she says, cutting off my scold. She already knows I think it’s insane to plan a massive wedding in three short months, and her voice is determined. “If you’re not going to be my maid of honor, I just won’t have one.”
I vault over the top of the tower wall, slashing through a couple of waiting sentries. Their blood splatters in elegant arcs. Alix is my best friend, but she has no real idea of how stressful the last year and more has been. My family is in disarray and she’s only seen glimpses of the mounting pressure.
I would love to be her maid of honor, showing up for more than a group photo on the big day, but—
“You know it’s impossible,” I say. Mama will never say yes. “We’re stretched thin. There’s the Ragnar Prize banquet coming up as well as a couple of royal tours, and Freja has practically abandoned us.” I swallow away the knot in my throat. My twin’s sudden elopement last Christmas made everything harder. “Alix, you have a million friends.”
“Only onebestfriend,” she reminds me. I can hear from the tone in her voice that she’s all big eyes and quivering lips, but I can’t see a way to say yes. “Just think about it, will you?”
We grab a relic—the sacred elbow joint of an evangelical saint—fending off attacks from a dozen lethal monks on our way back to our ship. As we push into the current, I review our new stats and stretch hugely. This session was ugly, but our team has been saved to fight again another day.
Mid-stretch, my eye catches the time on the screen.10:13.Stultes es.
With a yelp, I rip off my headphones and dive into the closet. Hasty hands clatter hangers together as I fumble for clothes. In a saner world, Mama would be glad I haven’t run away from this royal prison, but I don’t live in a sane world. I live in the heart of my mother’s kingdom, behind the high, gated walls of the Summer Palace, and she demands perfection.
I’m leagues from perfect when I stumble into the family meeting, smelling of hastily-applied deodorant wipes and wintergreen gum, but I aim a brief curtsey towards my mother—my queen—and drop into my seat with a thump.
“Thank you for blessing us with your presence,” Mama replies, her voice dry. She checks her wristwatch with a frown. “We expect,” she says, employing the majestic plural, “to be blessed, hereafter, with your punctuality.”
I adjust my glasses and send her an affable smile. “Punctuality from the personality hire? That’s a big ask.”
“That will do, Ella,” she bites.
I shoot Clara a look and mouth the words, “What did I miss?”
She picks up a red leather portfolio and tips it discreetly. “Crown Estates.”
Ugh. Time for Noah’s quarterly financial report from the Crown’s agricultural concern. I flip past tabs reading “Media Mentions” and “Marriages and Succession Act (1798)” to locatemy brother’s precious pie charts. One of the pages contains a graph showing how many more kilos of free-range venison were sold under the House of Wolffe label than last year. A red line on a chart shows an uptick. An orange line moves sharply down, and I consult the key.
Oh. Pity about the sugar beets.
My mind wanders as Noah drones on. If he were reporting on the state of our family, what would he say about our lines careening in every direction? My gaze slips to Mama at the head of the table and Père on her right hand. Has she apologized for commanding him to skip his father’s funeral on political grounds? Has he agreed that Grand Père’s tolerance of a fascist regime was problematic? My parents are so correct in public, so careful of their image as a well-oiled machine, but everyone knows that they haven’t shared a bed in more than a year. Still, the Great Hall has stopped echoing with their shouts, so that’s a win.
What of Clara? Last year our youngest sister took up with a naval hero and launched a privacy lawsuit against a tabloid. Only time will tell if her surprising knack for performing her royal duties will make up for the headache she is causing my mother on other fronts.
My gaze slides along to Alma, my oldest sister. Mama got her most dependable child to agree to an arranged marriage, but then everything blew up when her fiancé, Pietor (lying scum of Himmelstein), cheated on her. Now she’s secretly seeing the future king of Vorburg—Sondmark’s nearest neighbor and oldest rival—and no one knows what to expect.
The next chair is empty and belongs to my twin, Freja, who performed a swan dive into royal irrelevance by eloping with an immigrant on Christmas Eve. Officially, Mama was thrilled to welcome Oskar to the family and said so in her yearly broadcast. Unofficially, she’s probably grinding her teeth in her sleep fromthe effort of dealing with the fallout of a princess who got married without asking anyone for permission. There are strict laws about that kind of thing.
Where is the legendary discipline and deep bench of reliable working royals the House of Wolffe has been known for?
I glance at my brother—at home in his suit and tie, dark hair waving from his brow as he warms to the subject of cost-cutting like a total loser—and grab my phone, typing out a chirp from my secret alt account.
@trashpandaprincess: The Wolffe princesses could breathe if Crown Prince Noah would finally get married and have babies. Round up foreign brides of distinction! Throw a ball!
I smother a wicked grin. If I’m lucky, the chirp will find its way into our next family meeting under “Media Mentions”. Mama, frowning, will use it as an example of how fickle public opinion is, but the subtext to my brother will be, “Just say the word and I’ll hire a DJ and order the booze.”
Mama would love the positive press of a royal wedding. Alas, Noah’s pulse is as flat and bitterly cold as the Sondish lowlands, apparently unmoved by the dozens of models he cycles through each year. I am convinced that getting him to the altar will require an act of divine intervention.
