Page 88 of The Dandelion Princess
Marc taps the screen and watches the snippet, running through it several times. “You have no way of knowing that. This is a ten second video of his face and a bit of pavement.”
“Watch and learn,” I say. “He claims to be in the Nordoest district, but he walks by a sidewalk cafe.”
“We see a few tables and chairs,elskede,” he counters with a laugh.
“Don’t call me that.” The words snap from my lips like an icicle in a high wind—unexpected, shattering.Elskede.Beloved. Myreaction to the most common endearment in Sondmark freezes the air between us. If he doesn’t mean it, I don’t want to hear it.
I hitch a breath. “There’s also a flash of a little sandwich board.”
He takes a beat then follows my lead, zooming in on the image. “It could be anywhere.”
I’ve already done much of the legwork for this. Still, it looks like magic when I lean into the keyboard, navigate a series of images, and cross check them against online reviews. “The crack in the sidewalk matches up,” I say, toggling back and forth from a still.
A review from JohnnyMarrsThirdFret declares thatLe Pain Kathas, “The best washrooms in Frederickplatz.” Further digging reveals an American tourist and a travel influencer who tagged the cafe for that day. One of them posted a photo of the sandwich board with the same font. Special of the day: Pankedruss pancakes.
“We got him,” I say, flashing a look of triumph.
Marc leans back, his hand sliding to my waist. “Impressive. What does this prove?”
I tap the screen. “He went to all that effort to make it look like he was in Nordoest. There has to be a reason why.”
“You think he’s going to tell Princess Ella?”
“I don’t care for this tone,” I reply, wiggling out of his grasp.
His face sobers even as he redoubles his hold. “I’m worried about you.” I feel the lowness of the ceiling, the wandering plink of a piano, and a storm outside the windows close in on us. Time slows, glimmering as softly as the lighted votives dotting the room. A kiss. This time, I’ll let myself mean it—
“The weather is inclement,” Arne murmurs, setting a tower of desserts on the table with a flourish. “The lounge has become full of people who know your mother, ma’am.” His smile is all lemons. “A happy thought, is it not?”
Arne is hardly a fussy man but he arranges the tower with unusual care. “I would not wish Your Royal Highness to be made the subject of gossip.”
When he leaves, words slip through set teeth. “You have got to keep your hands to yourself.”
I can’t blame Marc. I have lost my sense, too. It’s increasingly difficult to keep things light. If I forgot myself in his arms, he would feel the change—and then he’d feel responsible. For a man on my mother’s spreadsheets, bound to Noah by chains of ancient duty and deep friendship, that could only take one form. Marriage. He’d be trapped. Both of us would be.
Not that Marc would ever admit to feeling trapped. He might even see an alliance as convenient, formalizing his ties to my family with a bride he knows isn’t interested in his money. I know he’d work to make me happy. Is that enough?
Not even a second passes before I dismiss the dangerous idea. I could never tolerate a marriage with that much math, balancing a long list of pros and cons like a game show where contestants attempt to slice a soft pretzel into two identical pieces and weigh them up at the end. My parents are evidence enough that a marriage of convenience is convenient to no one.
Marc lifts his palms, but there’s a playful curve on his lips. He likes kissing me, but his exits are plentiful and clearly marked. One of these days, he’s going to take one.
“What are you going to do with the prime minister’s information,elskede?”
I press my lips. Challenging that word again will only lead to questions. “Now that I know he’s hiding something, my investigation is about to get serious.”
He looks at me for a long while, takes a breath, and brushes a kiss on my cheek which Arne couldn’t possibly disapprove of.
When I return to the palace, I have just enough time to throw myself into a cocktail gown—glittery sequins in a rosy mauve—and present myself in the salon for Mama’s inspection.
Clara intercepts me. “You look just right,” she decides after a long look, nodding over to our mother.
It’s not exactly a compliment to my beauty. Clara’s boyfriend, along with the entire crew of his naval vessel, is receiving a special commendation for the heroic rescue of foreign nationals (and two goats) on the high seas. Her nerves are probably in shreds and she wants to make sure I don’t cause a scene.
“It’s a big day for Max’s big boat,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Ship, Ella. You won’t—”
I giggle. “I’ll be as good as a saint.”
