Page 47 of The Dandelion Princess
“It was Princess Ella’s.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I recognize it as a misstep. Jang Mi may be a hardened professional, but she still needs to have her ego stroked.
I would never have thought of appealing to pop stars. It was Ella who recognized their potential as a driver of charitable donations. It was Ella who worked out the logistics of where andwhen it would be easiest for BLUSH to take a four-day halt from the tour. She spent weeks spamming me with Pixy shorts, and I dutifully watched each one, lying in my bed at the end of long days, until I finally gave in.
I give her the same smile I gave early investors. “This can’t work with anyone else. Why don’t we join my sister’s party and I can spend the day helping you make up your mind,” I add, getting ahead of an outright refusal.
Jang Mi stands, taking in the distant view of aristocrats milling about the walled garden in vintage silk pajamas and quilted robes. “I refuse to dress like a peasant.”
True to her word, when Jang Mi joins us at the stables for a group bicycling excursion, she’s wearing a mini jumpsuit and oversized jacket, paired with blindingly white high top sneakers.
She tugs on my shirt tails, shy when out of her element. “I haven’t ridden a bike in forever, Marcus-shi.”
“We’re going to ride tandem,” I say, pointing to the elongated bike.
Ella brakes next to us, tires biting into the gravel. Her hair has been caught back in a ponytail, and her clothes—a pair of cuffed jeans and a boxy top—should not be making me fight for air.Vede.
“He will go too fast down the hills and around the turns.” Ella smiles, slowing her English words, and looks directly into Jang Mi’s face. I can’t detect a speck of embarrassment or awkwardness. I could convince myself last night was a hallucination if I thought my imagination was that good.
Her nose wrinkles with silent laughter, freckles scrunching together. “If he gets carried away, be sure to pinch him.”
“Pinch?” Jang Mi echos, elegant even in her confusion.
Ella clips my waist, and I catch her fingertips without thinking. “Stop it,” I whisper. I release her, but not before the flame of attraction burns me again.
Tom, wearing a helmet like a good American, leads the party down the long drive and out onto the country road, Alix at his side. Soon, we are strung out along fields newly sewn with barley and oats, a fresh wind at our back. Up ahead, I see Mikkel flirting with Ella, making her laugh by pretending to lose control of his bicycle.
I increase my pace and Jang Mi pinches my side.
“Stop that,” I say, lapsing into Seongan.
“Slow down, Marcus-shi,” she counters. “This is not a race. What’s the hurry?”
I feel her weight shift to one side and I counter it by leaning in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking at something,” she says, rocking back into place. She pinches me again.
“Ow. What?”
“I didn’t know you were in love with someone.”
“I’m not in love with anyone.”
Jang Mi pinches me again, harder this time. “Does she know?”
We’re speaking in Seongan and there is a measure of relief when I stop guarding my tongue. Stop pretending I don’t know who she means.
“Her brother is my best friend. I’m looking out for her.”
“As you would look out for a ‘little creature’?” Jang Mi lays a palm against my back and pats slowly. “Doessheknow?”
Sunlight touches Ella’s hair and the ridge of her cheek when she turns her gaze on Mikkel, a man famous for smoldering in high definition. When she glances back at me, something shifts. Her chin dips and she swallows, looking away.
“It’s not love,” I insist. “Maybe.”
Jang Mi reaches for my waist but I bat her hand away before she can do me any more violence.
“Maybe, Marcus?” She drops the honorifics but I let her get away with it for once. “‘Maybe’ is not the language of the HanayaClan,” she says, calling forth my ancestors whose rites I perform each season. “‘Maybe’ is not a word used by people whose ancestors buried their enemies up to their necks in the sand and waited for high tide. Tell me then, do you like her?”
