Page 4 of The Impossible Princess
After some fumbling, I jam the flowers into the hatband, half the petals scattering at our feet. Now we are supposed to chat for a few moments.
“Welcome home, lieutenant commander,” she says in a husky voice the public hardly ever hears. The richness was a surprise to me last year. Everything was a surprise last year, not least my reaction to her.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” I answer, feeling for the first time how snug my collar is around my neck. “The thought of returning to Handsel in time for Queen’s Day gave the entire crew something to look forward to.”
I’m almost finished, and just in time. My nerves are tighter than if I were piloting a ship through forty-foot swells. It has never been like this with anyone else, I think, in a kind of desperate need to justify my reaction. When I dated Liva, I used a spreadsheet to sort out my feelings. A spreadsheet. I do not need a spreadsheet now. Clara smiles. I hear the harsh klaxon of a distress signal ringing between my ears. This girl is dangerous.
“I’m happy you’re home safe,” she says.
The remark sounds as if she knows the details of the voyage. For all I know, she might. Her mother receives regular updates from the Prime Minister. I drag my gaze away from hers, reminding myself that my mother receives regular updates from NewsNook. Reverse course, Andersen. This girl isn’t even real. She’s some projection I have of what the perfect woman would be. We have nothing in common.
I bow again. My time is up. I admit to myself that I’m no better than last year. Judging by the pulse pounding in my ears, I might be worse.Stultes es.Princess Clara signals the courtiers to carry the baskets of flowers to the enlisted men. They depart and she shifts her weight.
I’m half turned from her when she catches my arm, her fingers curling around the muscle and her eyes widening in alarm.
“Max—” she gasps.
Shock freezes me in place. I heard wrong. It wasn’t my name she said. It was just the kind of noise you make when you’re surprised.
“What is it?” I feel the collective weight of the TV crew and bank of photographers; can hear how the steady click of shutters has picked up. My mother is likely shouting for Dad to come in out of the garden because her baby is on the telly.
Clara’s princess smile sets into rigid lines, and I see a flash of panic in her eyes. “Vede.My shoe is stuck.”
I can’t help it. My gaze flicks down to those world-famous legs, encased in transparent stockings. Handsel Guards are about honor, integrity, and discipline, I remind myself, forcing my gaze to continue past the inviting sight. The thin heel of her shoe is wedged between two hand-cut 18th-century paving stones.
“Maybe just slip your foot out and—”
She inhales sharply. “These stones will shred my stockings.”
Under the glare of the international media, the pride of Sondmark is at stake. I could call for a courtier and return to my company, but a Handsel Guard would never abandon his nation. That charge must explain the sudden fire that lights in my stomach.
“I’m going to kneel,” I say, taking command of a delicate situation in a way that my job often requires. “You hold onto my shoulders and I’ll ease the heel—”
She swallows hard. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“I could leave you here while I get a block and tackle, maybe rig up a pulley system…” I coax.
An unexpected gleam of amusement comes into her eyes. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, Lieutenant Commander.”
The phrase curls in my belly, and it’s hard work to keep my face expressionless. The sharp lines of my uniform crease as I kneel on one knee at her feet. A further uptick of noise greets my ears, but I tune it out to wrap one hand around a shapely calf and another under the arch of her foot. I refuse to enjoy this. It’s just one of the demands of the job. I repeat these phrases again and again until I feel her hands settle on my shoulders. Then I tell myself to shut up.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Try not to knock me off my feet,” she says.
A quick tug and the shoe is free, but when I release her, she wobbles and makes a sharp cry of surprise. She tips forward and falls across my back. Her shoes lift off the ground and I quickly wrap my arm around the backs of her knees, the other hand securing her hemline. I have my arms full of princess and only have to stand to look like we’re in one of those wife-carrying competitions where the prize is free beer for a year.
She scrambles blindly, tugging at the bottom of my coat as she struggles to get upright. I’m about to be knocked on my backside.
“Stop,” I command, and to her credit she does. I angle my shoulder forward and reach back, my hands spanning her waist. I lift her up and away, standing her neatly on her feet.
“You’re good?” I ask, slightly out of breath. She nods, shaken, and places a hand over mine, where it still rests on her waist. Oh.
I let her go and I kneel back on my heel, looking up into her face. She steps slightly away but reaches a hand to lift me. I don’t need the help but won’t turn down another opportunity to touch her.
“Regret, regret, regret,” she chants, pain tightening the edges of her smile.
I grunt. I am not filled with regret. It’s going to be another long, lonely year, I think, as we hold onto one another for that brief second.
