Page 21 of The Impossible Princess
And went to chew his cud
The Crown passed down to Good King George
A prince of royal blood.
Queen Helena…
We stop at the same time, laughing a little awkwardly over the fact that, though we are sharing a bit of common history, the rhyme memorized while playing hopscotch or jump rope, Queen Helena is a real person to me in a way she has never been for him. The chasm between us opens up, but he does not let it remain wide, the wind whistling through the gully.
He taps my knee with the back of his hand and there are a series of tiny explosions under my skin, each nerve alive to his touch. “You were telling me about the family business. Do you mind the rules?”
I comb my fingers through my hair. “Not as much as you might imagine. Most have reasons for existing, and I’ve made peace with them. But the layers of protocol can be suffocating. Stand in such a way, dress in such a way, say such and such thing, don’t say such and such thing. My mother is…” I search for a word to describe my dynamic, opinionated, epic mother who might, like her grandmother, earn the epithet ‘the Great’ before she’s through. “She’s from the old school. She likes things done in a particular fashion.”
“But that isn’t how Clara would do it,” he observes.
“I’m not the queen.”
His eyes narrow. “Is there any room for innovation?”
I bite my lip, really thinking about the question. Is there room for innovation? Ella fights for it. She’s like a caged tiger, pacing along the wall of her pen each day, waiting for an opening, pressing against the bars. That’s not me. I have a chance to make a difference in my role, and I don’t want to waste it.
“I’m new to this full-time royal business,” I answer. “I should learn the ropes first, right?”
He takes a pull on his drink, and I lose track of what I was going to say, awareness of his scent and proximity narrowing my vision to just him.
“I saw you today,” he says. “At the parade.”
My stomach clenches, but I toss the pillow into his lap. “Were you skulking in the crowd?”
He points to his enormous TV. “You were impressive. That crowd was getting out of hand, and dancing with that man was clever.” At my skeptical look, he lifts several fingers and ticks them off. “You provided the crowd a locus of attention, highlighted a veteran, and gave your team time to reestablish order, all without saying a word. It was genius.”
I’m not sure he could have said anything that could please me better. Mama delivered a scold when I returned to the palace today, asking what I would have done if the man had stumbled and broken a hip. But I stood there absorbing her words, unable to believe my instinct had been wrong. Max is confirming it.
“They’re fortunate to have you.” There is a tight, expectant silence before he grabs my drink and heads to the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare wash up without me.” I kick my sandals off and curl my feet up on the couch.
He calls from the back garden where he’s scraping the plates. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I want to know what you brought.”
“I told you, pickled herringoliebollen.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I giggle. “How are you hungry already?” That roast is settling into my tummy like a hiker in a toasty mountain hut.
“I’m a Navy man. We burn a lot of calories. What’s in this box?”
I pad across the pine floor, knotted, scraped, bearing every scar of its existence, and swipe the box from him. “I wanted to make something myself, though, I warn you, if you hate it, I’m never going out with you again,” I say. Then my rigorous training deserts me and I blush to the roots of my hair. I’m supposing things I shouldn’t be.
The air between us is charged, and I wish for a time travel device that will reset the last ten seconds.
His gaze is heavy and intent. “I promise to like it.” He swipes the box back.
I cannot breathe and then I start babbling. “It’s chocolate tarts with raspberry sauce. We have a patisserie chef who huffed from the other side of the stove the whole time I was doing this, so I hope it’s worth upsetting the entire staff just for your dessert.”
I flip open the box and wait for his verdict. The tarts have suffered from the car ride and the whipped cream has completely slid off. I’ve never seen anything so ugly.
He gives me a wolfish smile and slides one tart into my hand, the other into his. He digs around in the utensil drawer for a couple of forks and hands me one. We’re standing, in our bare feet, in his kitchen, scooping chocolate ganache into our mouths, getting it all over our hands.
