Page 57 of The Dandelion Princess
Arne arrives, unveiling a dish of fresh cod with fennel, buttery smashed potatoes, and coarse mustard. “You are a delight,” he tells me, his expression one of beatific pleasure. “If there is anything else you desire, Your Royal Highness…”
“You will be the first to know.” I sniff, inhaling the sharp tang. “Have a potato, Yasmin. You remember potatoes, don’t you?” I say, sliding it off my fork and onto her plate.
She succumbs to temptation. “We’ve been helping,” she says between chews. “Have you seen?”
I’ve seen. My old friends have been speaking nonstop about the Seongan Crisis to anyone with a microphone.Oh, you wanted to talk about runway fashions? Just a sec. Here’s a hashtag you can follow to make donations! Peace sign. Pose. Pose. Pouty lips. Philanthropy is sexy.
“I can’t believe you actually got one of the hotel heiresses to get a tattoo with the Seongan flag. I couldn’t have asked for more,” I tell them.
“You could, you know,” Dahlia says, suddenly serious. She bites her lip and lets it go. “If it hadn’t been for you—”
“How is the perfidious ex?” I cut in.
Several months ago, Dahlia had the girls over for a movie night. Searching for a snack, I had found a half-empty jar of strawberry preserves in her fridge—the kind that gets tossed into a gift basket without much thought. I asked her about it, knowing she doesn’t do jam—and that Edward, Prime Minister Torbald’s longtime aide and Dahlia’s weak-chinnedadelboyfriend of nearly a year, has a violent allergy to strawberries. I know this because it’s one of the details included in the bioI compiled for my Notable Public Figures of Sondmark and Northern Europe app.
Dahlia had burst into tears, and the movie was forgotten as I mobilized a team to crosscheck his socials, uncovering a curious pattern of likes and posts during times when Dahlia was out of the country on shoots. We found a girl in his ‘Close Friends’ list with a series of Xs and a row of courgettes in her Pixy name. She’d posted a photo of the breakfast tray her sometime hookup made for her—complete with preserves—on a countertop. We adjourned to the kitchen to discover that the distinct marble veining matched Dahlia’s perfectly, and that was it—Dahlia didn’t have to wonder anymore, and her sleazeball boyfriend was history.
I am wasted as a princess.
“He’s so far in my rearview mirror he’s not even a speck,” Dahlia smiles, gripping my hand.
“Nobody makes a Saint Sissela girl cry and gets away with it,” I say.
She nods and we move on, the bright sound of a fountain drowning out our gossip.
“What’s next for you?” Yasmin asks.
My lips pull in thought. I’m researching graduate programs and have real estate notifications pinging in from around the globe. “I’m determined to be a very good girl for the time being.”
“Ooh!” Yasmin half-lifts out of her seat, raises her hand, and waves. “Marc.”
Like an expensive gas range on a cold, winter morning, my nerves spark to life. Being a good girl just got a little bit harder.
19
Queen Ageltheld
MARC
When Jang Mi posted the Dandelion Tiara on her Pixy account, it broke the internet. Search results for “What is a Neerheid?”, “Lee Jang Mi dating scandal”, and “Marc van Heyden hot model pics” shot way up, but so too did “Lindenholm, Sondmark”, “Seong Crisis status update”, and “BLUSH charity concert”. We are sold out of jars of Lindenholm honey for the next year.
Though I told her it wasn’t necessary, Alix makes herself in charge of fielding press inquiries. She briefs me each evening from the gym at Lindenholm, the phone perched on a treadmill, while Tom lifts weights in the background.
I have dinner with the Seongan ambassador, and we settle on a strategy to woo the Sondish government into giving us the necessary permits and visas for the relief concert. I am stretched as thin as the silk stockings Ella abhors.
For Han Heyden, I am caught up in the final details of an acquisition, lunching at Minty’s with a husband and wife who built their business one server at a time. Though they stand to gain a fortune, I deliver soft, diplomatic reassurances that my conglomerate won’t rip the heart out of their life’s work. We were rivals, but we can be allies.
There shouldn’t be room in all this to think about Ella—but she takes time, whether I can spare it or not. There have been a few mentions of her in the traditional press detailing the odd engagement or royal function. Thin morsels, hardly enough to satiate my hunger. One of the reporters at PAPZ, however, is unhinged about her new look, inciting grass-roots social media commotion.
It has me feeling like a college-town record-store clerk, following my indie band from gig to gig—standing in the front row with my lighter when they were still playing pubs and selling t-shirts out of the trunk of a car. Now that everyone else is catching on to how hot Ella is, tickets are hard to come by. Suddenly I’m jostling elbows in the nosebleeds with fanboys who don’t know her B-sides from her deep cuts.
“I’ll send Werner the amended contract over in the morning.” One of my lunch companions breaks through my thoughts, dragging my mind back to the bright courtyard patio with the splashing fountain. To the negotiations.
“Perfect,” I breathe, smoothing my tie. I stand to send them off and type out a quick text to my office, when I hear my name.
I glance up to see one of Alix’s bridesmaids from Saint Sissela. The girl in the headlock.
“Yasmin,” I call, making my way through the densely-packed patio to greet her. A glaring sun is in my eyes, but I recognize the girl at her side. Her name is some kind of flower. Daisy? Delphinium? “Dahlia. Are you meeting anyone? Is Ella—”
