Page 30 of The Dandelion Princess
“The story the palace told about her broken engagement doesn’t add up. I think she was playing around and got caught.”
I inhale sharply. He’s too close to the truth, and I am boiling with rage. If I stay here another minute, I’m going to push him into the buffet. I straighten my shoulders, sending a brilliant smile to Mikkel Dorsgard.
“You called, goddess?” the actor says, crossing the red carpet. As ever, he smolders.
I manage to get through the rest of the event without doing violence, but as soon as I walk through the doors of the Summer Palace, Mama orders me to her office. I stand at attention in front of her desk as she scrolls throughPAPZupdates, pushing an aggravated finger across the screen. The headline is, “A Match for Ella?” and she lands on a picture of Mikkel lookingdown on me like I’ve been captured in the tractor beam of his personal magnetism.
“This is when and whom you choose to date?” Mama asks, the words dropping like hot irons into cold water.
I roll my eyes. “We’re not dating.”
The way Mama inhales makes me think I’m going to give her a stroke. She is tired, and I look away. “Your sisters peddled that line three times in the last year. I am no longer in the market for lies.”
“We’re not,” I insist.
She pulls up the photos. “Whatever the kids call it. Hanging out. Talking stage. Hooking up.”
I grimace. My mother shouldn’t even be in the same galaxy as those words.
She lands on a shot of my dress, the dandelions rioting over chiffon, and releases a ragged breath. “And this. This was deliberate.”
I swallow tightly. “No one was here to inspect my clothing.”
Mama closes her eyes and rubs her temple. “I don’t have time for this, Ella. I’m… just—” her hand punctuates the air as she searches for words, “stay out of the spotlight and focus on the wedding.”
When I depart, I turn and stare hard at her closed door. I knew that dress would displease her. I knew it, but I had to take the chance to help Seong one last time, even if it meant facing her wrath. I close my eyes. Evidently, she can’t even muster that anymore. She’s had enough of me.
I scurry off to my suite, and Clara is hard on my heels. “Come for dinner at Max’s cottage,” she says. “It’ll be nice.”
“Who’s coming?” I snap.
“Max and me, Freja and Oskar, Alma and Jacob.”
The name of every couple is like a giant pendulum, swinging back and forth, trying to knock me off a rickety rope bridge. I’mbobbing and weaving, but between the prime minister’s threats and Mama’s dismissal, I’m too upset for manners. “You want to turn me into a charity case? A…” I count in my head, “...seventh wheel?” I push the door of my suite open. “Pass.”
“It’s not like that. Please,” she says. “If he’s free, you can bring Mikkel.”
“I amnotseeing Mikkel,” I insist. When she scurries out, I throw a stuffed raccoon at the door.
I slouch into my computer chair, doom scrolling through rh/RoyalsofSondmark, one of the ReadHe threads dedicated to my family. Each comment throws another log onto the blazing fire of my emotions.
@RoyalWeddingRiot: The queen must be out of her mind. Discipline among the princesses has broken down completely. Lawsuit, elopement, cheating allegations…
@King_of_Fromage: Princess Alma is a crushing disappointment. I thought she was going to keep it together. AT LEAST?! Have I been stanning a family of losers?
@Morrissey_is_Murder: Ella is our only hope.
If I’m their only hope, we have drifted too far from divine light. Alma is the best of us, while I can’t wear stockings and heels without moaning that it’s a human rights violation.
I anxiously tap on my keyboard, changing my playlist in a fitful attempt to calm down, but the words turn over in my mind.Ella is our only hope.The dam holding back big feelings swells with hard rain.
Over the last year, I have pushed, cheered, and life-coached my sisters towards their happy endings, all while trying to put out this torch I’ve been carrying for Marc van Heyden. Their success made me wonder if happiness might be written in my stars, too—but no, Marc reminded me that I’m untouchable to men of his class. My mother couldn’t even waste her time correcting me, the prime minister insinuated the downfallof two sisters, and internet randos—dispensing judgment and correction for even the most upright and circumspect among us—have driven me to the edge of a cliff.
I close all tabs and open a new one. I scrutinize my login information, running a finger under the code and saying it out loud like a pilot with a preflight checklist. Remote VPN? Done. Alt account? Done. Plastic slides over all my cameras? Done.
When I feel safe, my fingers fly over the keyboard. I take screenshots from the Wolffe sisters’ group text, “No, I’m the Favorite”, lifting photos of Pietor, Alma’s one-time fiancé, with his hands trespassing the bikini zone of an Italian model. My sister never thought to delete them because she is a good person and lacks a diabolical imagination. I suffer from neither of these things.
A decorative sign hangs on the wall over my computer depicting a sword dripping with blood. In a runic script, it reads, “What Would Queen Ageltheld Do?” My royal family has held the throne of Sondmark for 800 years through merciless warfare, strategic poisonings, and more than one dagger to the throat. I was not bred to sit back and swallow the lies filthy little gossip-mongers dish out.
