Page 114 of The Dandelion Princess
To keep myself out of trouble, I wrapped up that old, episodic story. My readers have been waiting for years and deserved some kind of resolution. My throat tightens as I mount a brilliant defense. “That fanfic has nothing to do with you.”
He nods, casually, easily. “It’s a coincidence that your Elf Prince is Asian-coded and has my forehead scar—and he’s better at kissing than your red-haired heroine imagined he would be.”
I squeak, but I don’t have an answer. The Elf Prince is definitely Marc.
“Wait.” Freja’s soft voice cuts through my mortification. “Wait. When Alma came to us with her genuinely insane theory that you and Marc might be a thing, I thought maybe, just maybe, your old crush had resurrected itself. I was prepared to feel sorry for you,” she says, her words vibrating with outrage. She aims an accusing finger down at our brother’s oldest friend. “Have youbeen dating Marc van Heyden? Is that what’s been happening all this time?”
It doesn’t feel like the right time to explain that it wasn’t really dating. “We were keeping things low-key,” I grit, shooting a glare at Marc.
“You were keeping things secret,” she shouts, loud enough to drive the bats from the attic. “You yap about everything. You have dragged secrets out of me I wouldn’t give up under torture, but you didn’t breathe a word about Marc this whole time? You pushed me out of your life for a man?” Freja appeals to Alma to settle our dispute. “I came to smooth things over and she practically shut the door in my face.”
Alma slides me a “For shame, Ella” look.
“I didn’t have to loop you in because this wasn’t ever going to go anywhere,” I protest.
I look down at Marc, who slides me a “For shame, Ella” look. Then his eyes shift with subtle intensity, and I shiver with the effort of holding his gaze, every nerve humming with some promise, not yet satisfied.
What game is he playing?
“She shoved me into the closet, Freja,” he says, never glancing away from my face. Arrogant. Taunting. “Forgive her, though. She wasn’t thinking straight. I’d been kissing her senseless.”
How long have we been keeping our secrets—our hands grazing in the fullness of my gauzy dress, our eyes meeting across an ancient pool, our lips— There have been more kisses than a whole decade of lonely nights. Now he’s telling everyone.
“This is my great-grandmother’s ornamental garden,” I blurt. “You’re being inappropriate.”
His mouth tilts with a dangerous smile. “Freja, I’ll bring her around when she’s ready to grovel,” he calls up to my sister, “but we’ve got some things to work out. Are you coming down,elskede, or am I coming up?”
“Stop calling me that,” I shout, curling my hands around the wrought-iron railing. I can’t survive this if he doesn’t mean it. I can’t. The sheer terror of not knowing bubbles up as fury. “Send me a cat meme if you want to talk. A chirpy littlewhui-ho.”
His brows gather. “How can you be upset about cat memes, woman? I was busy this week and I couldn’t chance saying too much over text. I wanted to be encouraging. I hoped you would understand—”
“Understand what? That we’re definitely friends still?” I give him two aggravated thumbs up. “We’re definitely that.”
“Ella,” he scolds, crossing the terrace to the base of the palace walls. Thick vines curl up the ancient structure and he tugs on them, testing his weight. What is this? I shake my head. Marc has a profound respect for the monarchy and an impeccable public image. He’s bluffing.
My certainty evaporates when he lifts his foot.
“Any news from the prime minister?” he asks, hauling himself onto the first string of foundation stones.
Still bluffing.
“He’s going to get his daughters into Saint Sissela’s,” I say. “That’s what he really wanted.”
“Your doing?” Marc hauls himself to the next string of stones, his hands gripping a mass of vines. The upper branches quiver, but he’s going to stop any second. He doesn’t have a safety harness and he can’t mean to climb all the way up.
I swallow away the dryness in my throat. “I only gave him some contact info.”
“What did you get in return?” He leans away from the walls with one arm, testing and rejecting several handholds, and looks up at me in a way that sends heat through my veins.
My voice is thick. “A standardized immigration test. I’ve been turning my app into a general quiz about Sondish culture andhistory which should boost the pass rates. It’s an elopement gift.”
Marc tips his head back, craning his neck. “You could use some help with the interface and roll-out. Your involvement would be untraceable. When you commit your crimes, I’ll always clean your fingerprints off the glass.”
I inhale suddenly. Hope hurts. Time without number, it has splintered through my heart with the swing of its sword. Stomping in with heavy boots, ransacking, destroying. If I let it in again—
Marc holds my gaze, and the seconds stretch between us. This time, hope comes as a friend.
Freja makes a strangled sound in her throat. “The immigration thing? Ella, I love you for this. Oskar will love you for it, too.” She leans over the balcony. “Be good to her, Marc, even when she’s beastly.”
