Page 81 of The Dandelion Princess
How do I tell her that my loyalties have shifted so decisively that Noah hasn’t entered my mind? He hardly ever does anymore. “I’m as secure as a Swiss bank.”
“I’m looking into the prime minister,” she admits. My breathing checks, but she continues. “I was leading aSquadRuncampaign this morning.” Oh, I know. I’ve been sneaking into her sessions. My avatar has been a lone wolf, grinding for experience. “We were shedding life points until this little runt on our team realized the final boss was so focused on protecting the treasury that he was leaving his flank open. We found his weakness.”
I wish my worst enemies the singular experience of having the woman they love describe them as ‘this little runt’.
“The prime minister is only after Freja because her husband is an immigrant,” Ella continues. “If there’s any hope of getting him to change his focus, I need to know what he would lay his life down to protect.”
I turn Ella around. “You don’t think his political opponents have tried to find his weakness?”
Her jaw hardens and her eyes narrow until I see the medieval queens she descended from. “I think they aren’t me.”
Why is it that the more murderous she looks, the more irresistible she is? “It’s dangerous, getting involved in politics. Someone is going to find out who you are.”
“No one knows who I am online,” she says, like I haven’t been tracking her progress as trashpandaprincess fromBRIxtoRunaway WagontoEldritch Crown. If someone else finds out and exposes her...Vede.I’m so worried about her that I don’t even think about the monarchy.
“I’m careful,” says the girl who has been sharing her Friction server, her voice, and her expertise without hesitation for the last month to someone she assumed was an anonymous internet stranger. “I’ll lay so many red herrings over my tracks that they’ll think they stumbled on a fish packing plant.”
“I don’t like it.”
Her smile wobbles then firms. She goes on her toes and gives me a quick kiss. “I’m not asking permission.”
25
Deliberate Kiss
ELLA
Nothing has changed. Yes, the old crush has returned, damn it all to hell, but it will go away. It always has before. I just need those old, homespun virtues Mama is always talking up—diligence, grit, better posture. As I practice these qualities, I’ve been distracted by days of dangerous headlines.
“May I Have the Honor? How Princess Freja Popped the Question”
“The Queen Caught Flat-Footed on Christmas Eve”
“Lies, Royal Lies, and CCTV Cameras”
“The Guest List: The Security Guard, The Photographer, The Secretary, and The Intern”
Even Alma’s as-yet-hidden love life gets a look in.
“Vorburg’s Crown Prince Spotted Crossing Border”
The palace is a hive of activity. Mama’s staff crafts strategies that get discarded and statements that never go out, busilywinnowing the words down to their most essential, potent elements.
I stay out of it like the agreeable princess my mother needs me to be, but it’s time to get serious. The hour has arrived to make the prime minister pay for destroying my sister’s peace.
I can be diligent when my mind is bent to something I’m passionate about. I wake early each day, hastily brush my teeth and shower, bowing to the knowledge that I’m one of those people whose mental focus correlates with how wild her hair is on any given day. Opening a brand-new laptop, I check the VPN connection, check it again, check it thrice, and take a deep breath. No more idle threats.
There’s no such thing as being incognito when you hold the title to your own personal duchy, own a bright orange Mini, and appear in the press wearing jewelry sourced from your mother’s underground vault. Online, however, I am a shadow.
“Okay, loser,” I say, flexing my fingers. For hours I dive into the life ofNeerJakkon Torbald—the nineteenth prime minister of Sondmark—following his rise from a posh private school and into public life as a backbencher for the Blue-Greens, a political party best defined by its electoral flexibility rather than any deeply-held policy goals.
Along the way, he entered into a marriage to Gerda Raukema, the daughter of a political benefactor. The birth of two daughters, now aged eleven and nine, followed.
The family—blond, matched, and wrangled—gives off a cyborg quality in official portraits, although informal pictures paint a softer image. There’s a snap of Torbald walking his girls off to their first day at school, scooping the younger one into his arms to dart across a busy street, while listening to the older one who looks like she never shuts up.
Relatable.
I wheel through a cascade of photos captured by the press pool photographer, where he is seen glad-handing constituents, hobnobbing with heads of state and oligarchs, and kissing babies. I read articles and follow footnotes, discoveringNeerTorbald’s station within a vast network of connections.
