Page 55 of The Impossible Princess
Noah is asked a question or two about his derelict buildings scheme and then whether he likes being a bachelor—a back-door way of asking if he is seeing anyone seriously—and he tells the reporter it suits him at present. Ella is asked about rabbit show jumping (“I didn’t expect it to come at me as it did. I would have dressed for it if I’d have known.”) and Freja fields an inquiry about the exhibition. (“It will open around Christmas. A gift for us all, I think.”)
Then the old man, hunched over in a perpetual half-bow, turns to me. “Princess Clara, the country has been charmed to watch you join your siblings as a full-time working royal,” he says, presuming to speak on behalf of all 5.8 million citizens. “Are there specific projects you hope to champion?”
An answer is ready on my tongue until my eye catches my mother’s for the briefest moment. I smile—as we have all been doing—and shake my head. “I hope to serve the Crown and the people of Sondmark in whatever capacity I am able.”
As we turn to go, the cameras clicking and whirring, I wonder if any of us have spoken the truth.
By afternoon, the storm has broken into a sheeting rain, and I find myself driving past St Leofdag’s Hospital like a jilted ex-lover, slowing to circle the parking lot. It’s the third or fourth time I’ve made this trip, and I slot my Fiio into a space, taking out a notebook and jotting down observations. The hospital grounds, laid out in the reign of Queen Magda, are austere. There are wide, sweeping lawns no one would dare wander across, and I know from online aerial photos (and a reconnaissance mission) that there is an inner courtyard covered in concrete. I imagine a fundraiser to give residents more fresh air and an enclosed, safe place to linger where it is beautiful and green. The grounds are a modest fix, but I have to start somewhere.
I flip on the headlights and the windshield wipers, shooting out onto the busy street. I’m halfway to Max’s cottage before I even realize I missed the turnoff for the palace a kilometer back. Palace security will follow where I lead, and instead of turning, I glance at my watch. Late afternoon. Max might be home if he worked early.
Fifteen minutes more and I am pulling up outside his crisp white cottage, the tiny waves on the lake rimmed in white. My arm is flung over my head, and I race to the door, rapping several times and brushing off droplets.
It swings open and I don’t think. I don’t even pause. I grip his forearms and lean up, kissing him on the mouth. I freeze but he responds, the sharp stubble of his chin scraping mine. Shock catches up to me, and I jerk back.
“Hello,” I say, ducking under his arm. But he catches me, pausing us in the tiny hall. I wipe the rain from my face.
“Hello?” His eyes dance. “I see how it is. Royals having the run of the country, pillaging kisses from peasants—”
“I forgot it was you,” I laugh. His brows lower. “You know, like when you call your tutor ‘Mama’. It was reflexive.”
He lets my arm go but plants his hands, palms flat against the battered wood, on either side of me. I could escape if I wanted to. Do I want to?The answer is immediate. No. My heartbeat is racing too fast for sense to keep pace.
The distance between us shrinks and his voice drops to a coaxing growl. “We need a fair and equitable exchange of privileges…”
I roll my eyes, trying to keep things light, hoping that I fail. “We’re friends, Max.”
He nods and I smile, forfeiting to his logic by lifting my chin and closing my eyes when he dips his head.
It’s only fair, I think. And then I don’t think.
It’s good. My head shifts, moving easily between the hard wall and his soft lips. Friends? Still that. But these weeks coming here, texting him before I go to sleep or after work, the way he slips into my thoughts when I’m distracted or heedless…this is something else.
My hand lifts, suspended like a bird in a current of air for a long, satisfying while, before I place my fingertips lightly against his chest. Even now I want him to misinterpret the gesture, to think I’m holding on instead of looking for space, but he reads my gesture at once, lifting his head only to shift it, resting it on the cool paneling next to me as we get our breaths back.
“Are we still friends?” I ask, taking a long drag of air into my lungs. A mistake. The scent of him fills my nose.
“Still friends,” he responds, his voice tight. He takes another few moments before he lifts his head and pulls me into the cottage.
The day is drizzly and he’s got a Dragons game on while he eats his meal. I inspect his plate resting on the coffee table. Roast chicken and a handful of raspberries.
I look at him hopefully as I slip onto my side of the couch.
“It’s only leftovers. Do you—”
“I accept.”
He goes to the kitchen and throws a dish together for me, bringing out a cloth to lay across my lap. The meal is nothing special. The game is hardly engrossing—Mallok is injured, and the ref is practically breathing with his whistle. I eat with my hands, wiping my mouth and setting the plate on the table. I curl up next to Max, happy to make the same exclamations as he does, and hold the flat of my hand out in protest at the overzealous rule enforcement. Kepler drives towards the goal when a defender slips between his feet and punts the ball out of bounds. For a fraction of a second, the players freeze and then Kepler does what all footballers do. His face twists in agony and he falls to the ground, clutches his shin guard, and screams.
“Foul, foul,” the ref’s whistle seems to shout, his arms signaling.
Max shakes his head, amused. “That’s embarrassing.”
“You think? It’s a good performance. Look, he’s even allowing the team doctor to inspect him.”
“A dive is not manly.”
But by this time, Kepler has taken his shirt off, spinning it above his head in acknowledgment of the crowd as a couple of teammates help him limp from the field. “It’s a little manly,” I laugh, inspecting the tattoo of a dragon writhing sinuously over his chest.
