Page 113 of The Dandelion Princess
I miss Marc. My heart hurts. I can’t talk about it to anyone.
I throw the box of tissues across the room. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m not dying or anything.”
“Of course, dearest.”
“We know you’re not dying.”
“I came for snacks.”
Their words flop over each other like a net full of fish, awkward and disquieting, and I take a breath. “Why are you treating me like I’ve got days to live?” I ask, pointing to my wrist where Freja has hold of me.
“You are exhibiting an unhealthy amount of royal compliance,” Clara explains.
“I have a theory.” Alma blushes and clears her throat. “It’s a crackpot theory—”
“My favorite,” I return.
“You were upset the other night after Freja’s announcement, and when I came in I saw that you and—”
A small plink against the windowpane interrupts her.
“I saw you and Ma—”
Another plink. Another. The Summer Palace is old and emits many noises, but these are too regular for chance.
“Go see what it is.” I shove Clara off the bed, and she trots to the window, throwing back the French doors to the cool night air.
A shout rises from below. “Princess Ella Victoria Chiara Brunhild of Sondmark!”
“Ella.” Clara chokes on a laugh, turning a surprised face to us. “You’re going to die.”
I know who it is. It’s Marc. My good pal Marc. His recent text messages have been full of GIFs of Seongan actors making a fist with the caption, “Whui-ho.” I take them to mean “Hang in there, little buddy.” I take them as a daily punctuation mark to signal the beginning of Marc and Ella’s Friendship: Phase Two, Electric Boogaloo. My throat thickens with tears, and I want to tell my sisters to put a cauldron of pitch on the boil. We have to drive him off. I can’t see him when I still don’t know how to pretend I’m not in love with him.
“Ella,” Freja prods me in the back, her touch as gentle as the business end of a pike. “He’s calling for you. It’s polite to answer.”
“Thank you. I’m just learning that,” I shoot back, my tone acid.
She prods the sensitive spot on my waist and shoves me off the bed. “What do you want?” I shout, flouncing to the window in my huffiest huff.
I’m not prepared for the sight of Marc on the terrace, leaning against a balustrade. A thousand lifetimes would not have prepared me. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt and one denim-clad leg is crossed over the other. Ordinary enough. But, when he catches my eye, he pushes a hand through his hair, and the muscle of his arm strains against the cuff of his sleeve. The motion lifts the hem of the shirt, exposing a shocking amount of abs to just be flashing themselves in my great-grandmother’s ornamental garden.
I choke. “Couldn’t you find a shirt to cover you?”
“You like it better when I don’t.” He grins, lifting his arm a few more centimeters.
I clap my hands over my eyes. I know exactly what this is. Marc is recreating the cover ofSeongan Voguefrom nine years ago. August edition. I have ten physical copies just in case solarflares wipe out global data storage and civilization has to start from scratch. One of them is in the drawer of my nightstand.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, doubling my hands over my eyes when I catch myself peeking.
“Don’t pretend you don’t think I’m hot,” he says, loud enough to alert half the country.
“I don’t,” I insist, feeling the sudden rush of my sisters all around me.
“Elskede,” he says. In my thousand lifetimes, each version of me pauses, longing for that word to be said in just that way. This is your turn, they seem to say.
“Elskede,” he repeats, “the time stamp on your latest installment ofTemptation of the Elf Princewould suggest otherwise.”
My cheeks burn and my hands drop. This week has been difficult and lonely. There was noSquadRun. Alix is busy receiving her first guests. There was no Marc.
