Page 74 of The Impossible Princess
Ella waves it all off and says, “Group hug.” She and Alma envelop me. “You too, Freja,” Ella says, voice muffled in my shoulder. Freja’s feather-light embrace is added to theirs. We are strong, I think, the four princesses of Sondmark, standing together.
When they leave me, I make my way into the garden, heading for a wide swing under a spreading oak tree.
I did it. I actually did it. I made my stand against Mama. Maybe it’s too late to matter for Max and me, but I’m stronger for it. The press will continue to be beastly. I’m not so naive as to think insulting tabloid headlines and shouted questions about my personal life will dry up just because Max made a strong statement and the Palace reminded the press of my boundaries. But I feel like I’ve been swimming against a riptide for years and finally feel the first grains of sand under my feet.
I grip the thick ropes, my eyes trained on the ancient stone walls of the Summer Palace. All I want is to talk to Max.
32
Damage Control
MAX
I step out on the bridge wing in my cap and windbreaker, standing in the fury of an early autumn storm chasing us into port. The wind and rain are bracing, and I breathe in the smell of the ocean. The sun is setting, and my view is gray everywhere, but we’re only a few hours from the lights of Handsel.
The deployment has been a busy one, getting recruits up to speed, training away their rough spots as we patrol the waters of the Sonderlands and into the Baltic Sea. We engage in military exercises with the navies of Motovia and Tallinne, pushing our tactical capabilities to the limit. We sail by a tiny, disputed rock between Vorburg and Sondmark, sending a contingent of sailors scrambling up the steep banks to replace the Vorburgian flag and berrybeer with the standard of Sondmark and a bottle of Kurtzburg.
The rhythms of life aboard a ship are comfortable, and I anchor myself in them. Mustering with the crew each morning. Meetings. Inspections. Quick meals in the wardroom. Fresh strawberries that don’t last the first week. Fresh cabbage that does. Drills for fires and drills for running aground. Free weights in the engine room and working out until I can’t think. A Lutheran service on Sunday. Bells every half-hour. A bugle recording at the close of the day.
I look at the swelling sea, concentrating on keeping my stance loose, my knees soft. The busyness and routine haven’t been enough to keep me from thinking about Clara. The thought of her tugs at me when I’m staring at a bulkhead before drifting off to sleep. It tugs at me even when I’m knee-deep in reports. A month of missing her. I’m supposed to have begun feeling better by now. I’m supposed to forget the way she likes to grab my shirt collars when I’m kissing her. I’m supposed to want to look at other women.
A low curse forms in my throat, and I hear Moller behind me. “Sir?”
More to avoid the question than anything else, I lift my binoculars, tracing them along the gray horizon. I jerk them down, use my own eyes, and lift them again to be sure. “Small craft. Riding low.” I point to ten o’clock.
He lifts his binoculars. “Any distress calls?”
“No,” I answer, heading back to the bridge.
“Captain wants us to make port by 1900 hours.”
I watch the craft for another moment. “That’s not going to happen,” I say, calling out orders to change the heading. “Alert the captain.”
The bridge crew is quick to respond, and I feel the difference in the way the waves crash against the hull. The captain must as well because he charges up the ladder.
“What in the hell?”
“Sir, we have a ship,” I report, pointing towards it and handing him the binoculars, “three kilometers out. I don’t like the look of it.”
“Don’t like the look,” he scoffs.
“I’d like to come alongside and get visual confirmation before we sail on.”
“You’ve moved up from babysitting the crew to minding every vessel in the Sondmark Sea?” It’s a jab, but he lifts the binoculars.
The sight of the vessel sobers him. Soon he begins issuing commands in a low, intent voice, and the nearer we get to the small craft, the more obvious it is that this isn’t going to be a simple case of sailing on by. I gauge the waterline with foreboding. The ship is going down. It’s only a matter of time. I lift the com, my voice coming through every loudspeaker around the ship, “Rescue stations, ready.”
A flurry of activity breaks out below, and the captain barks to the helmsman, “Throttle back. We’ll swamp her coming in at that speed.”
I hold my breath. Navigating so near another vessel—particularly one that’s going under—is tricky. One small mistake in these choppy seas will spell disaster.
“Permission to arrange a rescue crew, sir,” I say.
Never taking his eyes from the scene before him, he nods.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I shoot down the passageways, heading straight for the helicopter hanger. By the time I’ve arrived, the doors have been raised, and gusting rain pelts my face. I brace my arm against it and take stock. It’s not dark yet but it will be soon. All this and nightfall, too.Vede.
“Moller,” I shout. He’s at my side before I can blink. “Ready the inflatable craft for deployment. Five boats. We’ll set up a processing unit with medics. Be quick about it.”
