Page 102 of The Winter Princess
“The Stranger’s Parish. It would have to be just us.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he’s silent for a long time, imagining how it would be. He touches my face. “You won’t have Roslav Cathedral or a wedding dress.”
My smile is as stupid as Clara’s. Stupider, even. Oskar Velasquez loves me. “I’ll wear your mother’s if you’ll allow me to borrow it.”
He tips his head back to regard my face, his eyes bright. “Are you sacrificing yourself, saving me from the Dragon of Sondmark?”
I release a narrow breath—a scoffing, Pavian sound. “I decided to marry you days ago.”
He grins. “Were you going to give me a choice in the matter?”
“I’ll let you decide when.”
Lacing our fingers together, his thumb traces the spot where my wedding ring will rest. The panic of the morning has given way to wonder.
“What about your family?”
I shake my head, firmly. “You were born in Pavieau. Even if it shouldn’t be, it’s complicated.”
I pray my family will understand. My father is an immigrant who must see what Oskar is up against. My twin knows what it’s like to feel the tight constraints of the monarchy. Clara is in love, and Alma is too busy worrying about her own engagement to worry about mine. Noah will be more upset about what it does to the reputation of the royal family than he will be about the fact he wasn’t invited. My mother—I can’t think about my mother. But they will understand. Though I can’t have them come, I have to believe they’ll understand.
“It’ll be a proper elopement. The press will say and be the worst. You’ve seen how it’s been with Clara and Alma,” I remind him. “Their names are in the paper every day. People they’ve never met have opinions about the most intimate details of their lives. It’s a lot. Even for those of us who are used to it, it’s a lot.”
I hold my breath. This is the animating worry of every Sondish princess. Who would choose this life if they didn’t have to?
Oskar’s thumb brushes my lips and comes to rest under my jaw. Then he pulls me to my feet. “Kiss me. We have a wedding to plan.”
34
Pocket Full of Hairpins
FREJA
For something as stripped back to bare essentials as an elopement, we work hard through the afternoon to achieve it. Though the circle of those who know about it is necessarily small, there are still details to work out, people to contact, and letters to write. I hand my letters off to a courier, struck by how insufficient they are. One for Mama and Père to be read at once, the others for the rest of the family to be read much later tonight. The envelopes are too thin. They won’t understand. I’ll be banished to Switzerland.
I stare at the swinging door.
“I can chase him down,” Oskar says, putting his arms around me. I settle back against his chest. “Cancel the church, ring up the photographer…” He kisses the scar at the base of my neck. I inhale the scent of his cologne.
In another world, I imagine a more conventional wedding day. The broadcast would begin from Roslav Cathedral, and a television presenter would name off Wolffe family guests, a titled network extending all over Europe and select enclaves of North America. The prime minister’s wife might be mistaken for a distant cousin by the American press. Much would be made of the fact that Oskar’s parents had the ill luck to be both Pavian and dead.
The date would have been chosen by a committee with optics in mind—a day with glorious weather, possibly meant to counteract a regrettable dip in the monarchy’s popularity. We would have been buried under a mountain of logistics–the dress fittings and cake tastings, some details calibrated to reflect the interests of the public. There might even be a protest a few blocks away from the venue.
Who am I kidding? If I present Oskar as my future husband, we’d never arrive at an actual wedding day thanks to unending, parliamentary hissy fits.
“Don’t you dare stop those letters,” I reply.
He spins me around and his arms tighten. “What are the chances your mother will have me publicly murdered?”
“Very low. She’d do it quietly and pin it on a foreign government,” I say between kisses that taste like ginger and cinnamon. It’s a joke, but I fish the medallion of Santo Laurenzi from his shirt and hold it tight.
Oskar returns to his list, and I run up to meet with Marie. I return to find him striking lines through tasks accomplished with the same energy Caroline employs during a state visit.
Snow falls fitfully throughout the day, and the tufty flakes hardly accumulate. As the afternoon progresses, the wind picks up, pushing them into glittering whorls.
“We should go soon,” I say.
Oskar checks his watch. “There’s the board meeting.”
