Page 72 of The Dandelion Princess
I tear through the doors of the Summer Palace like a cat emerging from an unexpected dunking. “What in the hell?” I gasp, tossing my keys to Anselm, one of our footmen. “What in the actualflamenhell has happened to Sondmark? Can we call in an airstrike on the satellite vans?”
A masculine laugh interrupts me, and I glance up to see Crown Prince Jacob, taking the stairs two at a time. He grabs me into a huge hug and I whoop in surprise.
“How?” I punch his shoulder, switching to English.
He grins. “I hitched a ride through the gates with someone in the renovation studio.” He looks me up and down, with as much interest as a customs agent. “You clean up nice.”
Over his shoulder, I see Max and Oskar sitting on the treads of the staircase.
“But why aren’t you upstairs?” I ask, fetching up in front of the others.
Max carries on a low-translation for Oskar but Oskar shrugs him away and perseveres in English for Jacob’s benefit. “She kick us out. Say tradition.”
Max points at Jacob. “That one keeps bellowing for Alma, but she bellows back that she won’t come down until you’re all ready. Go talk some sense into them?”
Not a chance. A fizzing excitement races through my veins. Getting ready with my sisters for a birthday party is nothing like getting ready for a state visit—I thought those days were long gone.
Jacob breaks in, grumpy now. “Does she not know how long I drove?” He shouts for Alma’s benefit, “Does she know I have to get back tonight?”
“Does he know he’s being a baby?” my eldest sister shouts back.
I gallop up the stairs and race for my suite, trying to smother my expectations. It might not be what I hope for. It might be—
Before it can be anything, Clara scoops me over the threshold of my room and pushes a pink martini into my hand. BLUSH blares over the speakers. Freja is wearing noise-cancelling headphones, the band extended as high as it will go toaccommodate the fat curlers in her hair, and Alma piles into the room with several dresses. Have I died and gone to heaven?
“Come see what we’re working with,” Clara says, clad in a silk robe and munching on a mini quiche. She leads me to a row of priceless tiaras laid out on the same console where I keep my ramen noodles, and runs a light finger over The Grenlaud, a multi-colored tutti-frutti tiara that was part of an inheritance donated by a social-climbing heiress who finally joined the cool kids club only after her death.
“This is mine. The sweatband is for Freja.”
The sweatband is Princess Marel’s Emerald Bandeau from the 20s. It’s art deco, weird, and meant to be situated low on the brow. No one else has been brave enough to try it out, but we can always depend upon Freja to give aesthetic exuberances a crack.
“This is Alma’s.” She points to The Emir’s Diamonds. The row of glittering stars was the gift of a Middle Eastern billionaire whose grasp of human rights is as tenuous as a gust of wind.
“Which one are you wearing?” Freja asks.
“I passed.”
Her brow furrows and I lift one of her headphones. “I passed on Mama’s offer.”
Then I lift my voice. “Paige, turn it down to two.” BLUSH subsides into background music and I watch Freja visibly relax.
For the next hour, my sisters pass in and out of my suite. We move like a bee hive—each of us acutely aware of the others. They grab tissues and borrow claw clips, pose with cocked heads while using curling wands. A fog of hairspray billows above Clara.
Alma leans over the sink, opening her eyes wide to apply mascara. “Jacob’s mom is breathtaking. She pads around her flat barefooted, talks to her houseplants, and appears to be a completely normal American mom—until she looks at you. Then it’s magic. She’s not even fifty, and I’m willing to bet hard cashthat King Otto will make a pass at her at Jacob’s investiture ceremony.”
I giggle. “Lock the cloak rooms.”
“There are not enough locks in that castle.” Alma nudges Clara. “How are things going with Max?”
Clara dimples. “I love his family, but their idea of family drama is ridiculous. The Maagensens planted sunflowers, which is going to throw the shade situation of the Andersen Garden Allotment into complete chaos. His mom wants to bake them a cake as a peace-offering, but I’m like, ‘No—war.’”
“Diplomacy will only invite future incursions,” I say with a wink. “Uproot the sunflowers and salt the earth behind you.”
Clara nods. “See? You get it.”
I slip into my closet to don my gown. It’s the color of not-quite-ripe grapes and has a wide neckline with a fitted bodice. I struggle doing up the back, but hear, “I’ve got it,” before Freja brushes my fingers aside. A tide of emotion rises so fast I almost choke. I blame it on the gin, but I know better. This feeling—anger? Grief? I don’t know—has been here all along.
“How did you manage?” I ask, cursing the tremor in my voice.
