Page 18 of The Winter Princess
Satisfied, she moves on to Ella. “Jaegerstaff is producing the Jul beer for the palace. You’ll be our family representative at the first tasting.”
Ella raises a fist. “Yes!”
“You’ll be properly clothed. Heels and stockings,” Mama continues, as though wearing a polo shirt, lace-ups, and a pair of jeans to a brewery would be the most profound breach of etiquette.
Ella drops her fist on the table. “It’s a stupid rule.”
“It’s my rule,” Mama counters.
“Mm,” Ella replies. Paired with a saccharine sweet smile, she means, “Your rule is stupid.”
Alma whispers, gently rebuking, like a mother tying her child into a life vest, “Ella.”
Any other year, this might be an amusing family moment. This year, it all feels so deadly serious that it’s hard to remember that we are—were—a successful family. For decades we managed what few royal families do: to be close and loving, to have the same aim. MamaisSondmark. If she was thriving, and we along with her, Sondmark would thrive too.
Then Grandpère died.
Mama asked the prime minister if she could send an official delegation to his funeral in Pavieau, but he withheld consent. Of course he did. Grandpère had been too beholden to the military regime, he said, even if he worked to dismantle the fascist apparatus as soon as Generalissimo Mondegas died—before his corpse even began to smell. As far as the prime minister is concerned, Grandpère wasn’t a father or grandfather. He was a diplomatic nightmare.
Père understood all this. What he didn’t understand, he shouted across the Grand Hall the last time there was any shouting, was why Mama couldn’t be bothered to challenge the decision or push back in the slightest degree. So we are in a kind of hell—a frozen, wind-scoured Nordic hell—where Père stares hard at middling landscapes and Mama’s heart is like a cheese rind, growing harder by the day.
These subtexts and conflicts are exhausting, and I feel the importance, yet again, of having a life away from the palace and all its warping influence. A smile touches my mouth as I remember one particularly implausible Adelheid Nede adventure. If The Nat shutters, maybe I could escape to the deepest part of the forest to build my own tree house out of scavenged army surplus and pick wild mushrooms to sell on market days.
When Mama moves on to Noah, I glance at Caroline, Mama’s secretary, who tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
Caroline is my secret agent. When I told the museum staff that I hadn’t received any official help securing foreign-owned art for the exhibit, it was strictly true. I did, however, ask Caroline to put the anonymous request in front of my mother because it would have taken years if I’d sent it sailing along normal channels. Is this a silly line to draw? Perhaps. But the important thing was that I didn’t sit in front of my mother to plead my case, my hand wandering meaningfully to the scar on my neck. There was no pity or guilt smoothing my path between us. Mama accepted the proposal on its own merits.
The time for such discretion has passed.
I quietly open the messaging app on my phone and tap out a request.
I need to see my mother today, before her PM meeting.
I watch Caroline glance at her phone and pick it up. A small grunt calls my attention to Noah. Looking up from his agenda, he frowns at Mama’s inattentive secretary.
Caroline hasn’t seen his disapproval and taps a quick reply.
Official business?
I have my answer ready and send it off, wondering if I should warn her about my grumpy brother.
Yes. About the museum funding. I need her help.
Caroline bites her lip, fretting her teeth along the fulness. For a moment, she loses the mask of brisk efficiency.Are you sure?
No, but I can’t see any other way.Yes.
Noah raps his knuckles against the table and Caroline starts, the phone bobbling in her hands. “IfVrouwTeile could spare the time from running her social life, perhaps she might be good enough to note the changes.”
Caroline sets the phone face down on a side table and takes up a pen. Only the color washing above the high neck of her blouse betrays her embarrassment.
“The days of autocracy are dead, Noah,” Mama says, quick to assert her control of the room. “I work this poor girl off her feet. If she takes a text from her boyfriend now and again, I trust she’ll repay my time.”
“Apologies, ma’am,” Caroline murmurs, all business.
Noah nods, a muscle in his jaw shifting. “My apologies,VrouwTeile,” he says, not even looking at her, “to you and your boyfriend.”
Caroline glances down, busy arranging a sheaf of papers.
