Page 91 of The Dandelion Princess
“We could host market stalls, the kind that sell healing crystals and beeswax candles, and start out self-sustaining. In a year ortwo, we could afford an actual shed.” She passes me her tablet showing an image of a stone and beam structure
“That’s a lot of crystals.”
“I know the public. They’re starving for aesthetic jars with tiny useless spoons tied on.” She smiles, but her expression grows serious. “The Crown Estates is breathing down our necks, and this would be a good place to sell the Lindenholm label directly to the customer.”
There are a thousand decisions to be made, and I feel the weight of every one of them.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, not wanting to dim her smile. It dims anyway. A feather-light cloud passes over the sun.
“I can do this, you know.”
“Of course you can.” I answer too quickly.
“Ammawas a model,” she says, “same as me. She dabbled in performance art and eloped with a drug addict she met in a club. She didn’t emerge from the ether as a force to be reckoned with.”
She scoops up a thin, flexible twig and swipes the heads off several sodden dandelions, scattering her wishes with brute force rather than a soft breath. “You were a uni student when you financed your first startup. I remember telling you what to wear to the meeting.”
“You always know what to wear.”
She aims another swipe at the weeds. “I know more than that. I may not have every step mapped out before I start a project, but I know the vibe.”
I will not laugh. “I can’t run my life on vibes.”
“You should. Haven’t you ever wanted something you couldn’t explain with a task management tool? Something you felt in your gut before you ever worked it out in your head?”
She means business, but my mind slips to Ella. My brain was the last one to get the memo, and when it did, it set about putting a ring of sturdy seawalls around all the things I felt in mygut, keeping that unreliable organ out.It’s a temporary thing. Just physical. We’re just friends. Forever that.The walls are ruined now. A pressure forms in my chest, but I shake my head, bringing myself back to Alix and her aesthetic spoons.
“I know what I want—know it’s reasonable and right to want it,” she says, “and I trust myself to do the creative problem solving and collaboration it will take to get me there.”
I can’t believe this is what she really wants. “The estate isn’t your responsibility. I want you to be free to live your life wherever it takes you.” I look around. “Not in a muddy orchard, thinking up ways to bribe the local authorities.”
She shrugs the cardigan over her shoulders and stuffs her hands into the pockets. “You think you have to do it all yourself.”
“It comes with the title.”
Alix shakes her hair, turned to silk in the morning sun, out of her face. “Grandfather used to tellAmmahe was the head of the family. When dad was on a bender, shaming the ghosts of Lindenholm, Grandfather would remind her that she was under his wing.”
“As you are under mine.” I hunch against a tree and look down at the mud. My mud.
She crouches low enough to look up at me. “As you are under mine.” The reminder comes with a smile. “Grandfather tried to get her to see that the van Heydens were a family linked together. That even if a link failed, the fabric would hold. Her Seongan heart understood it.” Alix touches my arm. “You’re not alone, Marc. You don’t have to shut yourself up at Lindenholm with all your responsibilities while everyone else gets to live the lives they want. Let me help you.”
We turn back to the house, and a soft wind ruffles the leaves behind us. Alix has unconsciously added her voice to Ella’s, rooting me out of the notion that my role is to forever dispense aid and favor in my modest kingdom.
Driving into work the next morning, I give my sister the go-ahead to plan a few farmer’s markets. It’s the smallest concession but, over the car speakers, I hear her delight.
At a train crossing, I scroll through my text messages with a frown.
Ella.
My text is unread and it can’t be a matter of losing a charging cord or simply being caught up in the activity of the day. I check the House of Wolffe royal diary of official engagements. She’s not busy. In desperation, I text Noah.
Game tonight?
His text comes bouncing back.
Pass. Ella is slated to testify tomorrow. We’re prepping her.
I am uneasy all day, plowing through my workload, anxious for no reason I can put my finger on. I use that energy to burn through agenda items and wrap up a long, productive meeting. I turn from the executives to see Werner, hovering close by.
