Page 76 of The Impossible Princess
“They’re not,” I clip off, already shucking my shoes. I look down the hatch, at the water pitching back and forth with the movement of the ship, and take a bracing breath. I am surprised to find myself thinking of Clara, the memory of our summer strong, almost tangible.
“You’re not going in there, sir,” he groans, panic twisting his voice. “Not until we cut the power.”
“We can’t cut the power,” I answer, pulling off my shirt and levering my body over the hatch. I’m wasting too much time, but he has to understand. “It’ll take out the hydraulic pumps working the rudder, which is the only thing keeping us from steering into the other ship.”
Again, he tries to stop me. “You’ll get yourself killed. The water’s going to take out the panel anyway.”
I shake my head. “Not if I can close the valve and clear the drains.”
He looks like he’s going to throw up. “I don’t know where the valve is.”
I give a brief nod. “You’ll know next time.”
I slide down the ladder before I give myself time to think about the high chance of electrocution, landing in water that comes up to my chest. It’s frigid, and I want to absorb the shock but force myself to keep moving. Clara is with me somehow, holding me around the waist and telling me to be safe. I feel the strangeness of the motion beneath me, hear the menacing splash and slap of water against the bulkhead as it nears the electrical lines.
A net has broken and everything that was not secured is now bucking wildly on the surface. As I maneuver around an obstacle, a heavy crate clips me on the head, spinning away to smash against the bulkhead. I feel a sharp pain and lose my footing, plunging under the water and sliding across the room with the rocking of the ship. Debris follows behind, crashing against me as I find my feet. I fling a hand out and catch netting, carving a path to the back of the hold, clawing along the ropes to stay upright. With every wave I adjust my balance, taking blow after blow, shaking water out of my face.
Finally, I reach the spot I’ve been aiming for. I take a large breath, pulling myself under. I’m blind beneath the water but make rough sense of the shapes I touch. After a few moments, my hand knocks against a curve and follows it. This is it. I grip the wheel and twist. It resists me and I feel a burning in my lungs. I put my back into it, bracing bare feet against steel. The valve gives and I feel it settle into a closed position.
I resurface for a large lungful of air, hardly acknowledging the victory. The drains aren’t working properly. I close my eyes and try to imagine the engineering plans—the grid-marked circle showing simple gravity drains leading to the bilge. Though cargo continues to crash on every side, I pull myself to the center of the room, feeling along the ground with my bare feet when I encounter a thin film of plastic—a length of cling wrap, likely discarded weeks ago. I shift it and feel the tug of water near my feet.
I waste no time returning to the ladder, hauling myself out of danger and giving the lieutenant orders to observe it closely. “Sir, you have to see a medic,” he answers, touching his brow.
When I touch my own brow, my hand comes away covered in blood. I return to the hanger deck. It’s a hive of activity, but I see order in it.
Moller is deploying the final raft and gives me a shocked look.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, collapsing into a chair, feeling the warm blood dripping down my face. The medics clean the wound, jab me with a pain killer, and start stitching me up. I tip my head up to see the captain looking down into the cavity of the hanger as the last rescue raft returns, goats leaping from the vessel.
The night is long. I change my uniform and get back to organizing the logistics of fitting ninety-eight extra people (engaged in a literal hippie drum circle with mess kits and pan flutes and a smuggled didgeridoo) and two goats (bleating, defecating, and most definitely protesting coastline loss) on a ship carrying a full capacity of one hundred and forty sailors. I check on the cargo hold. I deliver my report to a subdued captain and return to my bunk in the early hours of the morning.
I have a bandage over my right eyebrow, and I rest my phone on my chest. Clara is the only thing I could think of when I dropped into that hold and reckoned the cost of my life. It was Clara with me on every step of that terrifying journey.She’s the only thing I can think of now.
I run my thumb along the rim of my phone, imagining the text I would send.
“Hey,” I would begin. Very cool.
What’s up?she would answer.
I push my thumb and scroll through the images of Clara I haven’t been able to delete. I imagine my response.
“I can’t lose you.”
33
His Personal Space
CLARA
Alma spends the month drilling me on memory care, ensuring I won’t shame the family when I take over her patronage. By the time we’re finished, I feel acquainted with every brick and tile of St Leofdag’s Hospital and know every employee, from the director to the receptionist. Mama and I have settled into wary professionalism, which I hate but am willing to weather. At our weekly meetings, she doesn’t ask about Max or how I fill my hours, only wants to know if the patronage is running smoothly. Alma assures her that it has never been in better hands.
My portfolio of royal engagements grows. I still make visits to the usual animal shelters and kindergarten classrooms, but these events are blended in with meeting dementia specialists and taking tours of cutting-edge biotech companies. I spend hours preparing for my first solo tour.
For the first time, I have a sense of purpose and satisfaction in my royal role, but when I slow down even the smallest bit, I’m hit with a mixture of longing, regret, and self-reproach that feels like a tangible thing—an entire frigate—weighing on my mind. Instead of growing lighter, the burden seems to double each week.
I remind myself that I was the one who broke up with Max. That I should be happy. That I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted—a patronage and a voice in the family. But there’s this weight I can’t shift. I miss Max.
