Page 7 of The Impossible Princess
I try to imagine the kind of woman who would be married to Captain Dusstock. Someone dressed in a tracksuit with a strong discus throwing arm, I guess.
“She said we ought to put you in recruitment ads.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I follow his example, crossing my arms over my chest, and look grim.
He picks up a pen from the desk and rolls it between his hands. “We’ve been invited to a reception at the Vorburg ambassador’s residence tonight. Ball gowns, tiaras, that nasty pickled herring they can’t get enough of in that cursed country. I have to attend. My wife wants to meet you. You’ll be our guest,” he orders, no consideration for a waiting fiancée, if I had one. “Dress whites. You live off base?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods, tossing the pen back to the desk and standing. “Drive over with us. Ring my doorbell at nineteen hundred hours.”
I should be furious. Deployed for three months and I haven’t even stepped across the threshold of my own house yet. Now I have to go to a party. One word, however, changes my attitude.
Tiaras.
How many people wear tiaras in Sondmark? This is not the kind of thing I pay attention to, but there can’t be more than a handful. The queen, a couple of ladies-in-waiting, and a few princesses. The odds of seeing Clara again have gone way up.
At thirteen hundred hours I’ve released my men and been released from duty myself. I fight through Handsel traffic, shooting twenty minutes up the coast to a small stone cottage. Situated on a lonely spit of land, it’s on the edge of a nature reserve and there isn’t another house in sight, only the soft water of the lake rippling twenty meters from the back door. If the cottage, down-at-heel and peeling, still needs plenty of work, at least it’s snug and tidy. I hire a caretaker to look after it when I’m at sea, so the weeds are manageable and the rooms are well aired. I push open the door, hating this part of the job.
As I’ve found over the last few years, not many women are willing to put up with the Navy—the long absences, the regimented hours. Leaving is the easy part. I text the caretaker, flip the light switch, and bolt the door. I can focus all my attention on my job because I haven’t left anybody behind, and there’s no one to miss me when I’m gone.
It’s hard when I walk into an empty house.
I hang the key up on the hook and take off my jacket, slipping it onto a hanger and placing it in the closet. The tie comes off next, slotted in position on a tie rack. I know there will be groceries in the fridge to get me going (a couple of steaks, eggs, milk, bread, a bunch of grapes, and Sondmark chocolate spread—all the basic food groups covered) and I flip on the television, leaning against the counter to sort the mail.
“Watch her lips,” comes the clinical voice of a guest on the 24-hour news channel. “She’s biting them.”
“I don’t see any teeth. How can you tell?” asks the host.
“A tightness here and here in this cheek. I have no doubt she’s nervous.”
I’m lending the show half an ear, but if I had to guess, I would have said they have body language experts in to dissect the latest G10 summit, parsing out every bit of information, betting fortunes on the quivering, hairy chin of a Himmelsteinian dignitary and wondering what it might mean for cattle tariffs. As ever, it is difficult to fill 24 hours with news in Sondmark.
“She’s much harder to read than he is,” the speaker goes on. “Well, I would imagine with the training she’s received, she would be. But the princess is definitely nervous.”
My head snaps up from my task and I fumble for the remote, turning the television up and leaping over my sofa in one smooth motion.
The host is laughing. “Nervous? Oh honey, make way for a woman of experience.”
“Yes,” the body language expert continues, missing her joke. “She’s perfectly relaxed giving out violets until he steps close and…”
The video slows down like an instant replay of a goal in a football match. I can almost see the crowd rise and hear the announcer begin to shout. The guest is using a stylus and tablet. Circles appear on the larger screen, superimposed on Clara’s face.
“There’s the telltale breath, the dilating pupils, and the tuck in her cheek. Mind you, all this comes before she realizes her heel is stuck.” Bright orange arrows materialize, pointing at a pulse beating in her neck. “She’s practically hyperventilating, and it has nothing to do with the catastrophe that’s about to unfold. I would bet my career on it.”
My mouth dries and I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for more. But the host touches her ear. “My producer is telling me our time is up. Thank you, Dr. Broust, for a fascinating look into the human mind. Your bookBody Talkis available at retail outlets everywhere, I understand?”
The man laughs. “And if you like it, leave a review! If you hate it, stuff that feeling deep inside and never let it out.”
The host smiles. “I only wish we had a few more minutes to talk about the officer.”
The man was supposed to say, “Thank you for having me on. It was a pleasure.” But his parting words are, “That one? He’s a mess.”
5
Slay, Queen
CLARA
