Page 42 of The Dandelion Princess
Very Uncool
ELLA
“The boundaries are the garden and the woods.” Alix gives me a hopeful little push toward Mikkel and closes her eyes to begin the count. “One, Dragonslayer. Two, Dragonslayer. Three, Dragonslayer…”
Dahlia darts behind a statue with a groomsman while Yasmin, in fur boots and skin-hugging athletic-wear, crouches in the middle of a path and puts her hands over her face. Two more groomsmen scramble into fruit trees, raining white blossoms as they shake the boughs.
“I know a good spot,” Marc says, dragging Sondmark’s most famous actor to a cluster of topiaries by the back of his collar.
Amateur hour. I don’t waste time on the manicured confines of the garden, but shoot through a stone gate and into the woods. I know this ground, having traveled every meter of it during my misspent youth. Still, it’s May and the ground is wet. I slip up a rise, tripping over heavy roots coiling across my path.
“Forty-seven, Dragonslayer,” Alix calls, continuing her count. “Forty-eight…”
I brush my muddy knees and take a sharp turn. It’s here, somewhere. Doubling back, I see the familiar silhouette of a particular tree, and slide into its large hollow. I stand with my back against the trunk, slip a shoe off, and shake a twig out. It’s wonderfully dark. My heart thumps with excitement and air burns through my lungs. Above the wall, the bonfire casts the faintest light into the woods.
When I hear a soft rustle of underbrush, I hold my breath and shrink against the tree. So help me, if Alix sent Mikkel my way, I’ll bribe her colorist to turn her hair lime green.
The figure passes, checks, and changes direction, eventually blotting the light out entirely. I hold my breath until I hear the hushed whisper. “Ella, it’s me.”
I grab a handful of flannel, hauling Marc into the shelter. “You know this is my hiding spot,” I hiss.
A low chuckle vibrates against my chest. “I know it’s big enough for two. Were you expecting Mikkel?”
I drum a fist against his chest. “Did anyone follow you?”
Marc lightly grips my upper arms and leans his head out. He’s been in a strange mood all night, frowning and silent. His thumbs press into my upper arms, and heat radiates from his touch as from a small pebble thrown into a smooth pond, ripples colliding against every obstacle. I shake my head. When Marc is in one of his protective moods he’s always grumpy.
“One hundred!” Alix shouts, her voice muffled and distant.
At first, Alix and Tom collect the easy prey—friends whose commitment to the game lasted only as long as it took to step behind a decorative urn. The losers return to the fire, and their conversation lays down a soothing murmur, punctuated as the minutes pass by shrieks and shouts when other guests are flushed from hiding spots.
All the while, Marc and I stand in silence, his thumbs gently brushing my arms. His breath stirs my hair and his scent is a mixture of soju and subtle cologne. I stare straight forward, resorting to an old trick to hold myself together.Harald, Frederick, Frederick II, Frederick III…
He looks up and drops his head, no sooner settled than shifting again. “You still have a trash panda account,” he says.
He can’t see my furrowed brow. “No, I don’t. I sent you screenshots—”
“SquadRun,” he cuts in.
That. My body eases. “Nobody knows about that.”
“Ella.”
It hurts when he says my name, but I want to lean into Marc, punishing myself for the sin of wanting him. I swallow thickly. I want gravity to work differently than it does—to push us together no matter which way we sway. I want to kiss him and bear no responsibility for it. It will just be one of those things that happen. One of those things that can’t be helped.
Louis, Malthe, Malthe II…I whisper my answer. “I’ve had that account for more than eight years.”
His hands begin to trace a pattern up and down my arms, slow, soothing passes. “I know. You took that handle in Palo Alto when you discovered that raccoon who liked to raid the trash bin,” he says.
I smile at the memory. “I was so freaked out that I climbed you. I had a leg hooked over your shoulder.”
He laughs, the soft sound wrapping me in a pleasant warmth. His next words bring a chill. “You have to get rid of that account, too.”
How can he ask this? The palace is a fishbowl, but against all odds, I created a community lasting a miraculous eight years. Does he think it happened by accident? Online friendships are delicate, hardly able to sustain an altered time zone or a changeof relationship status—I’ve listened to boyfriend woes, offered free tutoring, and blown off all manner of deadlines to preserve this sanctuary. If I abandon it now, my team will disintegrate, reforming in some fashion, perhaps, but never the same.
“Anything else,” I bargain. “I’ll cram myself into a tight little royal box and make myself fit. I’ll be perfect,” I say, shoving his chest, practically granite under my hand.
Instead of cool stone, he’s warm flesh, and my old crush pushes through the surface like a tulip before a hard frost. It’s the wrong time to be raising its thick head.
