Page 32 of The Dandelion Princess
Stupid Games
MARC
Don’t touch Ella.
This is a recent rule I have imposed upon myself. As soon as I break it, I remember its wisdom.
All week I’ve been fighting to get away from the moment I tumbled to the floor of the library, Ella in my arms, alive at every point of contact. It comes rushing back with all the speed and punishing strength of a rugby tackle. I thought I’d achieved something—peace, stability, perspective, whatever—when I finally admitted to myself that I was attracted to her.
It was like a pagan offering to the gods, a hedge to keep them from taking more.See what I’m giving you? See how much it costs?The sacrifice was supposed to buy me something. Rest. Indifference. Critical detachment. Gripping her wrist in my hand, my thumb brushes the delicate bones.
How much would I offer for the chance to act on the attraction?
Everything.
The word passes through me like a ghost, insubstantial but chilling. Ella pulls her wrist free, breaking the connection, and I brush the prickling sensitivity from the back of my neck.
“It’s only been a few hours and Alma is all over the news,” I say.
Ella curls up on her green velvet sofa and tosses me a game controller. Firing upRunaway Wagon, she toggles past the princess, selecting the bandit as her avatar. Typical.
I don’t want to play games, but I take the floor at her feet and choose to be a melon farmer whose goal is to get my crops to market. Her skirt brushes my shoulder, her bare foot swings down, and I see the thin gold chain around her ankle within easy reach. I lift my hand, but she nudges my shoulder as the countdown begins.
Three…two…one…
“Alma is in every headline and you are cited in every article,” I say, muscle memory taking hold, guiding my hands through a rapid series of moves that propel me into an early lead.
“No one has any idea who the leaker is beyond a ReadHe handle,” she counters. “Anyway, don’t you have better things to do on a Friday evening than monitor gossip sites?”
Werner is waiting for me to review a financial statement. The rest of the night was supposed to be devoted to reading reports and contracts, some from Han Heyden, others from Lindenholm.
“I set a notification for ‘trashpandaprincess’ this week to keep up on your illicit activities,” I tell her. I set notifications for “Princess Ella” to keep up on everything else. I’m not sleeping well.
Ella swerves into the forest, overtaking my melon farmer, and I slow my progress, looking out for traps. “When the news waspicked up by the national press, I thought my phone was going to catch fire.”
“The post escaped containment,” she says, giving a little whoop when my wagon slams into her net. My cargo cartwheels through the air and shatters on the road.
Round one to Ella.
Her stomach growls, and she frowns. I head to a sleek Scandinavian sideboard, retrieving a butane stove and a gold aluminum pot from a cupboard. In another cupboard I locate her stash of ramen. “Spicy Hot Chicken or Golden Shrimp?” I ask.
“Hot Chicken,” she answers, shifting a pile of manga and a well-thumbed copy ofThe Joy of Codingfrom the coffee table. She sets out two pairs of chopsticks while I fill the pot with water from the bathroom tap.
“You want extras?” I ask, putting it on the heat and rifling through the sideboard for some bowls.
“Is this a question?” she replies, arranging the spoons on the table.
I place an order for the palace kitchens, and a servant delivers two soft-boiled eggs, a few slices ofchasu, chopped green onions, a lump of chili paste, and sheets ofnorialmost as soon as the water begins to boil. Ella slips two noodle squares into the liquid.
“You should change,” I say, my throat constricted, watching the sway of her hips and the soft lavender point where the bodice ends in a narrow ribbon. I catch one trailing strand, my hold too light to hold her. “You shouldn’t slurp ramen in something so expensive.”
When she turns to face me, the ribbon slides through my fingers. In another life, I would catch it, feel a tug and release. Narrow the distance between us.
“Dripping is for civilians,” she says, slipping around me, heading for the closet. “I was trained by a British nanny.”
“You were her worst student.” I lean against the console, crossing my arms, keeping them to myself. She returns with her phone, checking messages while we wait.
When the noodles are bouncy and translucent, I prepare the bowls and carry them to the coffee table.
