Page 12 of The Impossible Princess
“Language, Art.” His wife shoots him a glare, and he offers her a conciliatory, apologetic murmur his crew would not recognize. “Well, anyway,” she rattles on, “I did not favor her dinner companion in the least. Now, Princess Alma’s escort was impressive. Pity she’s already engaged…”
I drive back to the cottage in the dark, and when I arrive, I turn off my car and sit there on the gravel driveway. I swipe my phone from the seat next to me and turn it on, the glow lighting up the interior. If I were smart, I would listen to the captain and leave this kind of trouble alone, but I remember Clara’s ballgown and the way it swished as she walked away from me. No one is that smart.
My thumb hovers above the keypad. Clara is still bound to be at the dinner. Or at the concert, if she has more duties.
It’s too soon to text her, and anyway, what am I supposed to say?
Nice meeting you. That was a big tiara.
No.
As I look down at my screen, a message from my mother pops up.
There’s a picture from tonight onPAPZ—a flash tabloid site—of me entering the Ambassador’s house. Some careful photoshopping shows Clara when she enters later. We are juxtaposed, and the headline is the motto of the Handsel Company:Semper Prope. Always near.
Three dots bounce on the screen and then Mama’s text comes through.
“I vote yes on a future of pinching chubby royal grandbaby cheeks.”
I grunt and turn the phone off, swiping my keys from the car and going into my empty house again. Thinking about Clara…Vede, she doesn’t even have a proper last name. Her job title is literally “Princess of Sondmark.” I ought to be telling myself that someone like that is too expensive to think about.
I stay awake all night thinking about her anyway.
In the morning, I force myself to think about something else for ten miles as I run the trails around the lake. Smuggling, maintenance logs, high seas piracy. I’m tired when I come in and open the fridge, leaning in for a nectarine. Juice runs down my hand, and I grab a cloth just as my cell phone vibrates. A notification that my eye exam has been rescheduled.
It’s nothing, but try telling that to my heart, which is beating out of my chest. It’s time to take my shot.
I hit voice-to-text.
“Hey, Princess—”
Delete.
“Hey, Clara. Remember me from last night? Max Andersen. I’m the guy…”
Delete.
I turn off my brain and type quickly.
Send.
7
Hello, Peasant
CLARA
My ears are still ringing from the concert after the ambassador’s dinner. Because I am young and someone needed to represent my family at the late-night event, I volunteered as tribute. I’m paying the price now and smother a yawn behind my hand.
“Tired?” Her Majesty Queen Helena asks from across the breakfast table. Everyone else has slipped away, and though I usually make it a point not to be caught alone under her basilisk gaze, I was not fast enough this time.
I nod.
I love my mother. Let me repeat that. I love my mother. She is brilliant, strong, bears up stoically under intense pressure, and cares fiercely for her family. Winning her respect, a goal I have been chasing since I was a little girl, would be an enormous achievement. But she is not a comfortable person to disappoint.
“You looked exquisite at the dinner,” she says, gently dabbing at her lips. “The Minister of Finance made a point of telling me how much he enjoyed your conversation during the cocktail hour.”
This all sounds like good news, but I tense and my suspicions are justified a moment later when she spins a newspaper across the table at me. I capture it under my hand. The picture is of me and Max Andersen in the garden, captured by a grainy cell phone camera.Flamen.When did that happen?
