Page 15 of The Dandelion Princess
ELLA
I shoot through the funhouse maze with crisp certainty, detecting false reflections, and building up speed as I go. Light flashes across my eyes in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color, but I keep running.
I don’t see the mirror until I slam full-tilt into it, cracking my head against the surface. I reel back while the surface flexes, distorting my shape—short, tall, short, tall. Pain splinters through my brain and behind my eyes, and I sink to my knees.
“Ella? Ella!” Marc sounds far away but closing in fast.
“I’m dying,” I gasp.
“Keep talking.” His voice bounces around the glass and metal. “I’m coming. Is there blood?”
I lift my hand and groan when I see the slick surface. Mama is going to murder me.
“Ella?”
I’ve got a little cry in my throat when I admit, “I need medical attention.”Vede.There’s a goose egg rising under my hand.
Marc slips through an opening I was certain was a dead end. “Let me see,” he commands. Gentle fingers prod the skin, and when I flinch, his mouth presses into a line. “Elskede,” he murmurs the common endearment. His mouth is tense, and I think he would rather be swearing. When his hand cups the side of my face, I grit my teeth. “Let’s get you out of here.”
We make it into the fresh night air, and he consults the park map for the first aid station while I take a long breath through my nose. Hot and cold waves flash through my body in sickening succession. My head spins, but he crouches in front of me, presenting his back. “Hop on.”
No. Not that. Marc has carried me on his back when I reeked of the muddy patch in the bottom of the kitchen garden or was bleeding from some scrape with a farm animal who didn’t want to be hugged. But I’m a grown woman, or so my mother attempts to drill into my throbbing skull, and I do not ride piggyback.
“You look like death,” he says, merciless in his honesty. “Hop on.”
I grip his shoulders and he eases me up as gingerly as a blossom falling into a palm, stepping away in a swift, soft-footed stride. We skirt the noisy midway, and sooner than I hoped, he settles me into a reclining chair in the brilliantly-lit first aid station. He perches on a stool while the nurse attends me.
“How were you injured?” she asks, examining the wound, tipping my head back and forth. My brain feels like a bucket of wet sand and I want to throw up on her shoes.
“We were in the funhouse,” Marc starts.
She rips open a package, extracting a sterile swab. “Are you under the influence, Your Royal Highness?”
I groan. “Only of my own poor judgment.”
When the ointment hits the scrape, I suck in a sharp breath, and Marc’s large hand settles on my ankle, rolling the thin chain under his thumb.
“Ice for now,” she says, stripping her gloves off and handing me an ice pack. “Neerheidvan Heyden—” she murmurs, eyes lingering on Marc in clear violation of ethical standards.
“Have we met?” he asks, gently curious.
Her cheeks flush. “You were just voted the Hottest Man in Sondmark. There’s a copy of the magazine in the breakroom.” She jerks a thumb toward the doorway and I emit a sharp double cough, recalling her to a sense of duty. “Are you responsible for her?” she asks.
He frowns at my forehead, hardly sparing her a glance. “Definitely.”
The “trained” “medical” “professional” sighs. “I don’t think it’s a concussion, but let’s be on the safe side. No driving. A good night of sleep is fine, but I’d like someone to keep an eye on her for the next twelve hours. If the headache gets worse, seek further care.”
Marc’s pocket buzzes. “It’s Thor,” he says, checking his phone, “wondering where we are.”
I lift the ice pack. “Gimmie.”
He surrenders the phone and I angle my body so that it looks like Marc and I are standing side-by-side. I snap a photo and engage speech-to-text. “Ella wants to head home. I’ll drive. Can you send someone from the palace to collect her car?”
He looks over my shoulder. “Did you seriously crop your wound out? He’ll think—”
I toss him the phone. “I learned from the best.”
My head throbs all the way across town and up the hill to the Summer Palace. When we enter the Great Hall, Marc hands his keys to the night footmen while I frown at the velvet treads of the marble staircase.
