Page 107 of The Dandelion Princess
Dahlia hasn’t checked in since receiving her assignment last night and I am chewing my fingernails.
Finally, the text bubbles bounce.
Edward didn’t get in until 2 AM. Lights out at 3. I’m uploading some screenshots now.
What I asked of Dahlia is not technically illegal. Edward was a rotten boyfriend, always using her as a chauffeur, chef, and personal assistant—and I gambled that he’d be lazy enough to leave his cell phone connected to her car’s Bluetooth. He could have disabled it at any time, but chose not to because he is a sloppy, cheating prat. You can make a fortune betting on the fecklessness of an aristocrat.
The plan was wonderfully simple, as all good plans are. Dahlia drove over to Ed’s house in the middle of the night, waited forhis Bluetooth to automatically connect—and scrolled through sensitive texts between him and his boss—the prime minister—on her dashboard screen.
You’re an angel, I tell her.
Are you kidding me?she answers.I am your faithful henchman. We ride at dawn.She signs off with a yawning emoji.
Père strolls into the breakfast room, and I navigate away from a donors list for the Blue-Greens to a webtoon calledPeach Blossom Billionaire and His Feral Fox-Bride, idly swiping through the panels.
“Good morning. What are your characters up to?” Père asks, giving my screen a glance before making himself a tiny cup of espresso.
Be normal. Act normal. “The billionaire is sleeping on a bed of leaves outside a haunted mountain shrine with his new wife. I don’t know how they’re going to keep warm.”
“Very good. Is he,” he snaps his fingers for the correct word, “tsundere?” Cold and aloof until very much not. It’s darling that Père keeps up on my interests.
“Thetsundere-est,” I answer.
Père sets his espresso aside. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee, suddenly the picture of southern European elegance.
“You’ve been remarkably civilized this spring,” he says. This is less a scold and more an observation.
I play with a stack of rings on my finger. This must be what Pavian detective work looks like. It’s not an interrogation, but merely a chat, his urbane unconcern seeping into my vulnerabilities, inviting me to talk.
“I’m trying to mind my own business.”
“Not so,adana.”My girl.“You are, how is it said, up to your barrettes in family business.”
“That isnothow it is said.” I take apart a roll and spread chilled butter on one side, tearing at the soft substance. “You always pretend your Sondish isn’t very good when you want us to be particularly attentive.”
“Why would I do such a thing?” he asks, reaching for a newspaper, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
“It makes us feel like we’re supposed to make allowances for your message and excuse the blunt speaking. I know you, Père.”
He shrugs, his suit jacket moving with his body. “And I know you.”
I glance up and feel, for the second time in as many days, a deep and unexpected contentment with my parents.
“I admire Freja’s loyalty to Oskar,” he says, shaking out the pages, turning them back. “You’ll need it when you marry. Total loyalty to your spouse.” He reads a headline aloud. “‘Royal Order: Queen Helena Shrugs off Civil Control of Monarchy’. Your Mama made her formal offer to the government. She proposes that Freja will still attend official functions as a guest and wear the tiaras, but she will not take precedence over Clara any longer. It will be an arrangement that suits her social peculiarities.”
Peculiarities? “That’s not how you should speak.”
“Yes, yes. God is Sondish and the only correct way to exist is Sondish.” Another shrug. “But Sondmark steps so delicately around some truths that they never arrive at them. Freja has to work twice as hard to feel half as comfortable doing what you do so easily.”
“Easily? I’m always fighting.”
“About the smallest details. At your heart, you take to this like breathing...just like your mother. Tell me about Marc.” Père pivots with deadly accuracy, catching me off guard.
“He’s bringing Alix on board to manage Lindenholm.”
He closes his eyes against the slanting rays of the morning sun and gives his head a little shake. “Sondmark likes to step so delicately around the truth,” he repeats, his tone bland. “Contrive to understand what I mean.”
My mouth goes dry. “I don’t think this topic is appropriate to have with one’s father.”
