Page 45 of The Impossible Princess
“Good morning,” he murmurs. Sounds travel far in the wide-open meadow of the palace grounds, and we’ve mastered the art of pitching our voices low enough to allow for privacy. “What gets you out of bed so early?”
Does he suspect me? My answer is careful. “It’s not that early. You’re up.”
He regards me for a moment and then I see that famous smile—the one hidden under the dark, three-day whiskers; the one plastered on a semi-permanent basis across every tabloid in the North Sea Confederation. There are women across Europe who would sell their grandmothers for that smile.
“I didn’t get in at three this morning.”
Vede.My eyes narrow. “I’m already on my way to apologize to the tattle-tale,” I say, lifting the bag. “Do you think he told Mama?”
“He should have.” Noah gazes over the parkland. “It’s not my business, little sister, but…”
I’m too old for these lectures. “You’re right. It isn’t. Any more than the way you look at Caroline Tiele is mine. You’re not my lord and sovereign yet, brother.”
His smile vanishes and his jaw tightens. Blast. This isn’t his fault. I expel a short breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
His hand comes up between us. It’s not a Sondish gesture, this way of touching the tips of his fingers as though he is cupping a golf ball in his palm, but one that he inherited from Père along with his Mediterranean coloring.
“It’s nothing, Clara,” he bites out, his voice a sharp contrast to the cool morning air. Though I don’t know what I’ve said to deserve such a reaction, I can’t remember a time when I’ve seen him so coldly furious. I lift my shoulder and dart past him, wondering what he means.
Is my rudeness nothing? My sneaking out? His unlikely attraction to Caroline?
I don’t have much time to mull the question over before I’m tapping on the gatehouse door. It swings back quickly and Nils waves me through with a jerk of his head as though he expected my visit. That’s the thing about the longtime staff. I can’t rely on the mystique of my princessness to garner any measure of respect or awe when these same people recall me wearing orthodontic headgear.
“Coffee?” I say, and he gives me another jerk of the head so that I know to place my offerings on the tidy desk. I stand like a naughty child, hauled before the headmaster of a boarding school.
“Would you care to know how many protocols you broke last night?” he asks, his tone mild.
“Three,” I answer promptly, lifting my fingers to tick them off. “Failure to notify security of plans twenty-four hours in advance. Failure to sign out in the logbook. Failure to notify security of destination.”
“Four,” he corrects me. “Failure to wait for security to accompany you on your ill-advised jaunt across Handsel at all hours. You peeled rubber, Your Royal Highness.”
Four. I should have brought a whole cake.
“The cheese Danish is piping hot,” I breathe, prickling with shame. I know without him having to tell me that his job is important; that he would take a bullet for me, for any one of us. The enormity of that cannot escape me, and the least I can do is honor that sacrifice. “I am so sorry,” I repeat for the second time that morning. “It will not happen again.”
Nils grunts and scoops up the bag, sniffing the contents. “You were easy to find,” he says. “You haven’t been anywhere else in weeks.” He removes the lid of the coffee cup and sniffs again. Perhaps he’s looking for foreign objects; something he can put in a chokehold. “I hope he’s good enough.”
I am forgiven and relief touches my mouth. “Too good. We’re only friends.”
He gives another suspicious grunt.
Max still hasn’t texted by the time I have my first engagement of the day. I’m off to inspect LED light fixtures retrofitted in an elder care center by a state-sponsored energy conservation scheme. I arrive in my court shoes and stockings before noon, pleased that I’m not looking too tired. There is one press photographer and a few women and children holding bunches of supermarket tulips near the security barrier to watch me greet the delegation, and I pause to chat briefly before being swept inside. For forty-five minutes, I am treated to a presentation on the inner workings of the electrical grid, walking the corridors and tilting my head to look (photogenically) at bright marbles of light dotting the ceiling.
We finish in a common room where I am invited to take tea with a table of elderly residents, all with matching bobbed hair. Over thick ceramic mugs of rich tea and a plate of caramel waffle biscuits, they tease me about finding a handsome prince. A gentleman shuffles over and tells me he can’t imagine what a headache wearing a tiara must be.
“A couple of painkillers beforehand and the proper placement help,” I smile.
“Placement?”
“Like this,” I say. Placing my thumb in the dimple of my chin and the pad of my index finger on the bridge of my nose, I then slide everything up until the thumb is between my brows. My finger is buried a couple of inches past my hairline. “Voila.”
Morag, a lady with fluffy white hair who reminds me of Lady Greta, laughs and says that she’ll have to save that tidbit up for her great-granddaughter when she comes in her plastic crown.
“When will that be?” I ask, and I know immediately that I’ve said the wrong thing. Her smile slips. The human being inside me wants to reach for her hands and ask her more, but the princess knows that stepping too far outside official lines is dangerous. I may get an answer I can’t solve with a government initiative or walking tour.
So, instead, I turn the subject, gesturing towards a wall, broken by a series of doors. “I’ve been passing those doors all morning and can’t understand why they look that way. Where do they lead?”
Each door has a different full-sized decal affixed to it, but instead of a decal of famous art or billowy clouds, these doors have decals of other doors so that they appear to lead to a cottage in the country, a high rise city apartment, or a small house in the suburbs. On the clinical tile in front of each one, there are decals of a variety of welcome mats.
