Page 50 of The Dandelion Princess
My nose wrinkles with theatrical distaste. “My mother would celebrate if she thought I was getting serious with Marc, but I refuse to marry anyone she thinks is appropriate.”
My delivery of this shocking lie is pretty good, but pressure builds behind my eyes. I want to run to the ladies’ room to, I don’t know, take up smoking or have a cry or text Clara to call me about a family emergency. Maybe there’s some animal shelter needing an urgent, royal dedication. The citizens will find it charming when I burst into tears while cuddling a lap-full of emotional support puppies.
But Jang Mi glances up and touches my arm.
“Marcus-shi,” she says, making herself even smaller, and dragging me closer, “sit, sit.”
Blood drains out of my face. It makes more sense to slot him on the end, but a too-small canyon opens up between me and Alix. He can’t fit. He can’t possibly—
I close my eyes as his long body wedges between me and his sister. The minimal amount of room on the window seat means that we both turn sideways and I’m backed up against his chest while he rests his arm along the back of the bench. When he releases a breath, it stirs my hair.
“How did you become a fan of BLUSH, Your…Princess…” Jang Mi is as anxious as I am to move away from the topic of how I would rather die than give my mother the satisfaction of marrying Marc van Heyden.
I tell her about hearing their debut in the trailer music forYakuza Bloodbath: Battle for the Cabaret Club, and Marc murmurs against my ear. “You shouldn’t have been playing that.”
Jang Mi begins to speak rapidly in Seongan. After a tiny pause, Marc begins to translate, his lips almost brushing my ear as he tells the story of their earliest projects.
I hold myself as stiffly as I would in a Queen’s Day parade and feel Marc’s amusement threading under his words. I’m not about to relax if it means more touching.
“I saw you when you played Gongboja Palace,” I tell her. “I had to promise my mother straight As for an entire year, but it was the best night of my life.”
“Best?” Marc whispers, reaching forward to swipe a piece of cheese, nearly enveloping me. This gets no translation and I freeze, reanimating only when Jang Mi makes eye contact.
“You will come to the Concert for Seongan Relief?” she asks.
The fan girl takes over, and I forget the complicating undercurrents, wrapping my hand around Marc’s forearm. “Has it been decided?”
She nods, gracious as a queen. “At Lindenholm in August.” She shifts gear again, switching into Seongan, making it impossible to avoid the sound of Marc burrowing deeper and deeper into my brain.
We resume our ride, and soon I’m peddling hard up rises that look like nothing from a distance. The pain in my ankle starts as a twinge and turns into a throb as we reach a trailhead, its entrance dark and cool.
A servant hands out hiking sticks and collects the bicycles, loading them onto a lorry. We are, Tom tells us, to return to Lindenholm in minibuses. He has planned our simple country outing better than some military campaigns, and I like the futureAlix has chosen for herself. She is a starter and he is a finisher. He’s never annoyed that she runs on vibes.
Jang Mi begs Mikkel to show her the proper way to hold hiking sticks, and they set off into the woods at a brisk clip. I follow more slowly. Despite the tight lacing on my boots, a dull pain grows in my ankle as we tramp over the uneven ground, and my pace drags with each step.
The nearest members of the party become distant flashes of color as the trail bends back on itself, the sound of laughter muffled against tree boughs and dense earth, and Marc falls back, following me up the path.
“What’s wrong?” he asks from behind me. I carefully step over a tree root. “You’re usually a good hiker. Is it your ankle?”
I would rather drink poison than admit it is. I’m not mad at him, I tell myself. He’s done nothing wrong, but I have spent every measure of nobility I have so he can run off with his pop goddess. There is nothing in my bank but pettiness, clinking around like loose change.
He catches the hem of my shirt. “You don’t have to go on.”
My eyes close on a tide of feeling. Sooner or later, we’ll have to talk about the kiss and my noble resolutions. I will never be more ready than now.
I toss the hiking sticks aside and lean against the trunk of a fallen tree. “Alright. Let’s talk.”
He crouches down. “You should see a doctor about that ankle. What if—”
I shake my head, dragging my boot out of reach. I can’t do this if he’s touching me. Caring. “Let’s talk about that kiss.”
Kiss. The word has a definition so broad it’s useless. It encompasses the ceremonial greetings I extend to Mama’s cabinet ministers at a state banquet, as well as what went on and on and on last night, ebbing and flowing in intensity, delivering a million data points on all the ways I hadn’t known Marc before.
He looks up. “Are you upset?”
“Do I sound—” I clear my throat, ironing out the irritation, and lie right to his face. “I’m not upset. My ankle is sore, and you look like you’ve been dying to reach for your label maker.”
“Label maker?” he laughs. He knows what I mean. When I got to Stanford, I luxuriated in untidiness for the first time in my life, tossing ready-to-wear clothes in a laundry basket in my dorm room, free at last from the rigidity of the palace. Marc’s tiny ranch house was different. Because it doubled as a living space and a start-up office, organization was key to optimization. When I got him a label maker that first Christmas, I thought he might kiss me.Vede, how long was I chasing that high?
