Page 15 of The Impossible Princess
I like that.
“Pickled herringoliebollen, it is.”
Ella squeals loud enough to shake the chandeliers, and I clamp a hand over her mouth, dragging her behind the heavy curtains. “This is a secret,” I command. “No blabbing it to every courtier and footman you meet. No rubbing it in Mama’s nose. I want your promise.”
Ella releases an irritated breath before her pinky wraps around mine. “Not a peep or I’ll spend a night in the family crypt.” That’s as good an oath as any Princess of Sondmark can make.
“What are you going to wear?” she asks, puckishness returning to her face. “The Lauza Erdo number with the hat?”
It’s my parade uniform and for that, she gets a poke in the ribs.
“It’s only dinner at home.” I lived in the States for four years. I know what actual people wear to hang out in. Sweatshirts. Crop tops with big flannels over them. Jeans or joggers. Tennis shoes.
The question is, did I get asked out on a date or a hangout? A frown must have settled on my face because Ella chuckles. “Oh, my gosh. Look at you, you’re so cute. You don’t even know what to wear.”
I shake my head. “You ought to know how important clothing is.” The war Ella has been waging with our mother over the matter of stockings has been going on for nearly a decade. Mama, as ever, is immovable.
The queen says that clothes communicate everything even before a princess opens her mouth. National pride? There’s an outfit for that. Official grief? There’s an outfit for that. Dedicating a new car park? There’s an outfit for that.
I pull Ella out of the dining room and towards the grand staircase. We pass Alma coming in from an early-morning engagement at a farmer’s market, and Ella gives her a wolf whistle as she walks backward.
“Hot date, Alma?” she asks.
“I’m engaged, infant,” Alma replies, and I drag Ella into my suite before she can draw a crowd.
I sit at my computer and pull up ThumTac, the lifestyle site. Because it has to do with computers, Ella immediately shoves me aside while I explain what I want over her shoulder. “I need something that says—”
Her voice drops into a husky whisper. “Hello, peasant. Can I sample your wares?”
“Should I have asked Freja for help instead?”
“She’d dress you head to toe in medieval garb.” Her neck twists and she looks me over. “Maybe you’d look good in a wimple. I don’t know your life.”
“I need an outfit that says, ‘Though our attraction is doomed, I want you to be haunted by this one night for the rest of your life.’”
“Tall order.” She starts plugging in keywords, and within seconds I’m presented with an array of choices.
“It would be better if it were autumn,” she says, echoing my thoughts. There’s nothing more dressy-casual than skinny jeans, boots, a button-down shirt, and a chunky scarf.
“A dress is too much, right?” I say, wondering if I possess anything that would be as light and casual as the choices I see.
“Shorts?” she asks, punching in more keywords.
Our faces contort into twin expressions of revulsion as soon as the search results pop up.
“No shorts.” In this, we are one.
8
There Be Dragons
MAX
It would be ridiculous to drive over to Podense for the parade, and it only takes twenty minutes of fidgeting with my keys before I arrive at that decision. I’m not, however, above turning on the live feed while I scrub the inside of my oven. My place is neat, but I’m imaging how it will look through the eyes of someone who lives in a palace.
The sofa is a hand-me-down from my brother, none of the lamps match, and instead of artwork, snapshots of my family line the mantelpiece. I picked up a bouquet from the grocery store while I shopped for dinner, but when I see Clara on the television accepting posy after posy as she walks a rope line I wish I hadn’t.
After lunch, I hear car tires on the gravel drive and pull my head from the broom closet and step outside to see my parents have come.
