Page 25 of The Impossible Princess
I frown at my sister. “And that’s why she doesn’t have to know.”
Ella’s expression shifts into one of dry skepticism. “Clara, she’s the head of state. How do you expect to keep this friendly dinner club a secret?”
“I won’t be taking a table at Minty’s, waiting on the curb for the paparazzi to snap our picture.”
“Okay, fine. You hide away in your culinary love nest—”
“Friend nest.” We both grimace at that. ‘Friend nest’ needs some workshopping.
“But when you run out of things to say and meals to cook?”
I’m getting angry with her. “Then he can go his way and I can go mine. Not every relationship has to lead to booking Roslav Cathedral and getting parliamentary dispensations.”
Mama has spoken endlessly about our duty to the Crown and what we owe our position. An alliance with a commoner has never been on the table. Max does not have a hereditary title or a museum named for his family. He hasn’t saved the nation from mortal peril. Mama would never allow me to have him. I should be clear-eyed about that from the outset. I’ve done the right thing in limiting myself to Max’s friendship. It is like sensibly taking one tiny sliver of chocolate cake instead of scarfing down the entire thing in one sitting.
Ella’s brow lifts, and her mouth splits into a grin. “All right, this is a fun little game. You’re just friends and it’s just dinner. So, tell me it doesn’t mean anything more. You’ve only been to his place once so far, and it shouldn’t be hard to do.”
It’s impossible to do. I wondered if, after seeing him once a year and meeting in an official capacity for only a few moments, I would find the actual him a bit of a letdown. Imagination can run away with itself, I told myself on the drive over yesterday, only to discover, after a few hours in the homeliest circumstances, that my imagination hadn’t done him justice. Max Andersen is the whole chocolate cake. No, he’s the wholeflamenbakery.
Instead of answering her challenge, I look her square in the face.
“Don’t tell Mama or Père or Noah or Freja or Alma. Since you disapprove so heartily, forget you ever heard it.”
I stalk into my closet, and she calls after me. “I don’t disapprove, sister. I’m wild with approbation. I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. But you’re kidding yourself if you think—”
“Shut up, Ella.” I poke my head out of the closet, tugging a sports bra over my head.
After spending several miles jogging around the palace grounds, I wind up at my godmother’s cottage for breakfast.
“Come in,elskede,” the old woman calls through the open window. Lady Greta is nearly a whole generation older than my mother and served as her chief lady-in-waiting for more years than I can count. She suffers from dementia, and these days, she keeps close to her cottage. “Maren made an English breakfast for me, and I had her set aside the fried tomatoes for you, in case you came.”
I whip around to the front door and enter her morning room, sitting as primly as possible in my trainers and workout clothes. It’s Freja who likes the fried tomatoes—and the blood sausage, come to that. But I don’t correct her, only making eye contact with an apologetic Maren when she sets the tomatoes—somehow crisp and slimy at the same time—in front of me. I reach for a roll and begin to butter it.
“What are you doing today, Godmama?”
“I have an engagement with Her Majesty this morning at the—” She’s silent for a long moment, snapping her fingers. Then she laughs. “It popped right out of my head.”
It’s one of Godmama’s bad days. “That sounds fun. What are you wearing?”
“I’ll wear a dusty rose coat dress and a flying saucer hat,” she begins, eyes flashing with wicked amusement. “Not to be unkind, but Her Majesty is wearing yellow. She’ll look like an overripe banana, but you can’t tell that woman anything.”
I bite down on the crusty bread and smile. Godmama’s memory must be more than twenty years old. Mama’s royal dresser hasn’t brought the queen anything yellow in decades, and there are whole fashion websites devoted to solving the mystery—imputing political messages into the lack of that color in her wardrobe. I wonder if it’s because Godmama did let it slip—the bit about her looking like a banana.
“What are you wearing?”
“Am I coming too?”
Godmama’s utensils clatter and she gives me a fierce look. “Monarch, lady-in-waiting, security and private secretary.” She stabs the air with the last, pointing her fork at me. “All essential. You’re not trying to get out of an official engagement, Miss Hansen?”
Miss Hansen. A former private secretary. Again, Maren’s eyes meet mine and I tighten my smile, absorbing the rebuke and taking on the persona of a stranger for the duration of my visit.
I gag down a quarter of one tomato and excuse myself, returning to the main palace for a quick shower before presenting myself in the conference room not far from the Queen’s offices. It’s an awkward but necessary meeting, the one time during the week Père can’t avoid Mama and vice versa, pretending even to us that things haven’t gone very wrong between them.
Caroline places agendas at each seat, organizing the staff to bring the preferred beverage for each member of the family. Coffee for Mama. Cappuccino for Père. Nothing for Noah. Sparkling water for Alma and Freja. Vestfyn for Ella. Iced Diet Coke for me, a habit I picked up in the States.
Noah comes in from Lily Cottage wearing Armani and a sober silk tie. He has dark hair like our father. The authority that must come with being the crown prince, as well as a soldier, sits comfortably on his shoulders.
The servants evaporate, and save for Mama’s secretary taking up a seat in the corner of the room, there will be no equerries or comptrollers—only the family talking amongst ourselves.
