Page 31 of The Winter Princess
I feel Oskar take my hand, gently stroking his thumb across the back of it. I meet his eyes.
Take a breath.
Any port in a storm. I twist my fingers, tangling them in his. I breathe.
“I’m Princess Freja, coming to you from The National Museum.” The rest of the introduction is a blur, but I manage to get it out. Finally, I look over my shoulder. “Did you know that Beyerling’s canvas was so massive it had to be sliced in half to be installed in its original home?”
“And I thought my stairway was narrow,” Oskar laughs, not sounding at all like he hates this. His amusement warms the gallery on this chilly day. “I’m lucky enough to walk by this painting on my way to work.” He looks at the camera, directly addressing the people on the other side of the lens. “But you can’t get a sense of the scale of it if you’re watching this on a tiny screen.” He slides a conspiratorial glance at me, as though we really are allies. “Don’t you think they’d better come to see it in person?”
I take up the narrative, returning his volley while Erik hunches over his rectangle, standing on the edge of my vision. Oskar’s presence steadies my charging pulse, and I begin to mirror his easy authority. If I had pockets, I might even consider putting my hand in one.
“What do you love so much about coming to The Nat?” he asks, pressing my fingers. It’s my turn.
“Hm. I love that when I walk through the doors, I’m sure to find something fresh and inspiring each time. Even when I gravitate to favorite pieces, I do so with new ears.”
His short laugh is spontaneous. “Ears? Not eyes?”
“Those too,” I shake his hand reprovingly. “But when I’m standing in front of a thousand-year-old wedding portrait or a baby rattle that was buried in a tidal estuary for a few centuries, I can almost hear the sitters and the owners and the makers speaking to me.” My free hand comes up to my ear, opening and closing slightly–a little mouth whispering secrets.
The smallest smile in the history of Sondmark brushes his lips. “Princess Freja hears voices at The Nat.”
It’s the smile. I almost stop breathing, losing myself in a moment of perfect stillness. He shakes my hand slightly and I blink, feeling the scrambling sensation of a small animal toppling into a pond and paddling to regain the edge. I tear my eyes away, encountering the unblinking eye of the camera again. “And I love that the art and artifacts of The Nat have the power to put whatever concerns I’m carrying around into perspective.”
“That’s true whether you’re a royal princess,” he says, tipping his free hand at me, “or someone who holds a Provisional Residency card.” Oskar places the tips of his fingers lightly against his chest.
“The Nat is for all of Sondmark,” I say, “which brings us to our announcement.” I launch into my pitch for more visitors, framing the prime minister’s ultimatum with as much neutrality as possible. Two hundred thousand visitors. Before New Year’s Day.
“The prime minister challenged us to find new ways to bring art to the people—and to bring people to the art,” I say, attempting to sound appreciative. “In the coming days, we’ll be rolling out a series of events and social media activities to make you welcome.”
“Come and see what The Nat holds for you,” Oskar finishes. He nods at Erik who presses his phone and drops it. Oskar and I look at each other.
I exhale. “At least we didn’t end up in the Punic Wars.”
“That last bit. I sounded like I was inviting Sondmark for a river cruise,” he says, frowning.
“No, no.” Yes, yes.
“Okay,” Erik interrupts, hunching over his phone. “I’ll edit the ends and add some captions. I’ll upload it within the hour and tag you,” he says, bucking his chin at me. “You should share it to your Pixy stories right after. Maybe your family…” The exertion of full sentences seems to overtax him, and he shuffles off.
I turn to Oskar and look down at our hands, shaking out of his grip to rub my frozen knuckles against my palm.
“I’ve never strung so many unplanned phrases together at one time. I don’t know how you people do it. It’s exhausting.”
Oskar leans up against a pillar, hands in his pockets. I’m winded and he looks annoyingly comfortable. “You people?”
“See what I mean? It’s too easy to say the wrong thing,” I say, rubbing my hands up and down my arms
He bumps away from the wall. “Cold?”
“It’s the adrenaline. If this was kindergarten, they’d give me a blanket cocoon and a cookie.”
“Come.” He takes my hand again. This time I have the presence of mind to look startled. Is this a Pavian thing? Pavians have passions and emotions we approach with a sharp stick in these northern latitudes. Of course, I’ve been clinging to him for the last quarter hour. He releases me, impatience bracketing his mouth.
“I don’t bite,” he says, ushering me through the staff doors and down to his studio, giving me a pointed amount of personal space as we make our way. As we enter, I hear muted conversation and the scrape of chairs and equipment in the adjoining rooms. He reaches for a soft blanket draped across the back of a sofa and drops it into my arms. “Here’s a cocoon.”
I can’t afford to refuse the offer. My teeth are almost chattering. Sinking onto the sofa, I pull the blanket over my knees. Oskar reaches into his desk drawer and drops a Righteous Bar in my lap. “And here’s a cookie.”
I peel back the wrapper and hold the bar up for inspection. “Liar.”
