Page 87 of The Winter Princess
I smile. “I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“I need to change the art and destination for Saturday. And I need you to not tell anyone that I asked.”
Erik swings around and pops a straw in his mouth, one of his brows lifting into the stratosphere. “Why do you want to change it, Freja? Why?”
I clear my throat and feel a hot blush wash over my cheeks. “It’s a small change. We’re swapping out a trip to Luteborg Abbey for a domestic scene of Christmas. It’ll be easier to coordinate, and we won’t have to make a big trip if the weather gets bad.”
“Easier to coordinate. Let’s see about that.” Erik swivels in his chair and pulls up the art I scoured The Nat database for. The artist is L.S. Thord, and his marionette-like figures have been painted in a quiet room, lit by candles clipped to the tips of a freshly harvested tree. It’s titled, simply,Christmas Eve at Home, 1912.
“This isn’t a super exciting location,” Erik says.
I clear my throat. “NeerVelasquez has a flat that looks something like that.”
“NeerVelasquez.” His mouth gropes for the straw, and he takes a long pull, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’re calling himNeerVelasquez? M’kay.”
“Knock it off, Erik.”
He blinks. “My wedding invitation should include my full name. Erik Gjermund Tørres—”
“Erik.”
He begins to tick his fingers. “You’ll invite me because, first, I am trustworthy. Second, I have dignity.” At my look of skepticism, he bristles. “I was in a brass quartet with a uniform. I wasn’t one of these second-rate trombone buskers. Third, I would tell you if your veil was crooked or if there wasfefferfischin your teeth.”
“I’m horrified that you think I would eatfefferfischbefore walking down the aisle of Roslav Cathedral under the glare of an international press,” I say, suddenly breathless. It’s Oskar. I’m imagining Oskar waiting for me at the altar.
The image is clear until I begin to imagine the parliamentary approval process and the endless interviews with the press, the investigation into his family and their ties to the government. In my head, I’m still walking down the aisle, but Oskar disappears, replaced by some faceless groom. My stomach slithers, and I pull myself up short. I’ve chosen my path. I don’t know if there’s a future for us, but I’ve decided to water this little sprout and see if it’ll grow.
A gust of wind buffets against the museum, rattling the windows. What kind of gardener decides to grow things in the middle of winter?
“I just want to switch out the art.”
Erik taps the changes into the spreadsheet, all the while giving me a knowing glance.
When I’ve printed out the changes, I bang through the doors of the restoration studio. “Our trip to Luteborg Abbey is off,” I say, attempting to sound exasperated.These interns and their spreadsheets, amirite?“Something about the logistics.”
Oskar glances up from his laptop. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since scrambling off his lap, and my pulse quickens. I feel the memory of his hands at my ankles, fingers brushing over my stockings.
“I thought you’d quiz me on the drive over.”
I fuss with my handbag. Finding Creative Ways to Not Look at Oskar Velasquez While I Attempt to Lie is a new hobby I have to get good at fast. “I’m still going to quiz you but on our way to another place.”
“Hm?”
“The art was switched out,” I say, absentmindedly passing over an informational packet about the new piece as I continue to dig into my bag. My cover story, if asked, is that I’m looking for mints. Darn elusive mints.
He flips back one of the pages and looks up. “This is domestic. Where are we going to film? The artist’s residence?”
A curtain of hair hides the red of my cheeks. “No. They thought we could find someplace and decorate it like in the picture.” Who is ‘they’? I pray this question does not occur to Oskar. “The palace—”
“This isn’t a palace.”
“Vede, you’re right.”
He lifts his head. I can sense this rather than see his close observation. I’m keeping my hands busy. The silence stretches, and I shift into the second phase of Exasperated, But Quite Plausible, Mint Search by taking each item from my handbag and sorting it on a worktable. Cell phone, wallet, eReader, spare paperback in case my eReader dies, lip balm, each line of my figure hopefully communicating that I’ve only got half a mind on our conversation.
Another page flips back. “This looks like my flat.”
