Page 1 of The Winter Princess
1
Not Nice
FREJA
I can’t blame this disaster on Oskar Velasquez.
Opening the notebook and adjusting the microphone, I smile at the assembled guests in The National Museum. A whisper of unease feathers through me, but I note my mortal enemy holding up an entire wall of Dutch Masters. Spite carries me forward.
“Welcome to The Nat,” I begin, a little tight. “Thank you for supporting the arts in Sondmark.”
The crowd is too large and the event too ostentatious for a lecture to kick off a new exhibit. My speech was supposed to involve a projector screen, folding chairs, and a lectern in a room that might fit twenty. Thanks to the press and their wall-to-wall coverage of my little sister and her national-hero, Navy-officer boyfriend, our mother needed something to disrupt the news cycle.
What better event than a gala with jewels, fashion, and every prince and princess Sondmark could throw at it? Five of us flung like balloons of paint against an Arduino canvas. Splat, splat, splat, splat, splat. I swallow down the frustration and embarrassment of having my own event taken out of my hands and turned into just another royal engagement.
Oskar shifts, folding his arms over his chest, looking bored and, it must be admitted, handsome in a tuxedo, the white of the shirtfront contrasting nicely with his skin. Though he didn’t cause this disaster—only bears witness to it—I allow my worries and irritations about the evening to flutter around his head like moths in the light until I can just about convince myself it’s his fault.
I jerk my eyes to the page and continue my remarks, entitledThe Heart in the Machine: Romantic Painters and the Industrial Revolution, a radical reimagining of the presentation I had prepared, its dense footnotes and references starved back to a string of bullet points and an amusing bit about steam engines.
Beyond the crowd, soft-footed catering staff prepare the lavish banquet, and I want to curl up into a ball. It’s too much.
“It’s any mother’s prerogative to help her children be successful,” Mama had explained when I’d warned her about this very thing. But Mama is “any mother” the same way Genghis Khan was a noted equestrian. Yes, but mostly no. She couldn’t serve middling cheese platters to the prime minister. She couldn’t be content with anything less than ice sculptures and a red carpet. My boss, Director Knauss, agreed to it all.Vede, vede, vede.
I haul my attention back to the speech, exercising all the hard-won tools I picked up at Swiss comportment school.
Keep it short.
Project your voice.
And breathe, for the love of heaven. Breathe.
I’m rounding the turn on the final page when I glance up to see Oskar checking his watch. A muscle works in his jaw.Stultes es, what’s his problem? The speech will last less than five minutes, altogether. I’ve had elevator rides last longer.
“In conclusion,” I say. With these words the room reanimates, the promise of free liquor on the horizon. “This exhibit will help us remember one of the most profound lessons of the Sondish Romantics. Even if our world feels as automated as an ironworks or a manufacturing plant, we all feel a deep human need to be seen and to belong.”
A smattering of polite applause follows, and I step from the podium. Director Knauss, who has been trying to attach himself to my mother’s side all night, leans forward. “Well done, Your Royal Highness. Well done. The exhibit can’t possibly fail when it’s been sprinkled with your magical princess fairy dust.”
Magical princess fairy dust. My smile is meager. I’ve poured thousands of hours into my job at The Nat without taking afennig—hours spent lining up donors and selecting pieces to be borrowed from collections in America, the U.K., and Vorburg. It took the better part of two years, and he makes it sound like I texted him the details in all caps, adding crown and tiara emojis.
He only agreed because he’s an insufferable suck-up when it comes to the royal family, and being funded primarily from a prime minister’s grant, this exhibit wouldn’t cost him much.
When he takes his leave of me, I glance over the main building, an architectural wonder in 1965, and notice chipped tiles and suspicious stains. Since Director Knauss took over, each area of the museum has been subjected to deep cuts, pitting departments against each other in a battle for precious funds.
My brother and three sisters congratulate me on the speech, and then Mama leans forward and kisses the air beside my cheek. “Beautifully done,” she says before drifting into a sea of political figures. Most of my siblings drift, too, but Ella plucks afrikadellerfrom a passing waiter and presses it into my hands.Eat.
I pop it into my mouth and chew unobtrusively. The texture is typical party fare left to steam too long in a chafing dish. Rubbery. My stomach grumbles for more but the only people who can afford to be photographed eating are politicians at election time.
Ella tips her head back to see me properly. “You did a brilliant job.”
I smile. “You’re a good liar.”
She acknowledges the compliment with a finger salute. “Some artists work in paint, others in stone…” The salute twirls away. “Sorry about the hatchet job Mama did on your speech. I doubt anyone could tell. Anyway, you look amazing.”
This, I believe.
“I’m wearing vintage Sergei San Martin. This flower pattern,” I say, lifting the deep blue fabric, “was taken from a painting. The green sash was color matched.” I could go on about the long, tight sleeves with tiny puffs of volume at the shoulder, an echo of the fashions of the late 19th century when the painting which inspired it had been commissioned. I could go on about fashion forever.
But Ella’s eyes are already glazed over, and she shakes her head. “Not just the dress, Freja. You.”
