Page 33 of The Winter Princess
“Ooh,” he drags, shuffling through the sound like he’s scraping gum off his shoe. “Yeah. I mean, I guess. Just a sec.”
I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it in unblinking consternation. My ancestors didn’t have to put up with “Just a sec.” They would have chained Erik to a mooring ring at low tide and waited for the merciless onslaught of nature to finish him off, a cautionary tale, celebrated in epic poetry for generations.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing,” Erik says, when he returns. “It’s viral.”
Freddie lifts a shoulder and whispers, “Good viral or bad viral?”
I speak into the phone. “Is that good?”
“I mean…” Erik’s vowels stretch. “Some comments are all, ‘This is clickbait. Shame on you,’ and others are like, ‘What kind of foreign is he?’ which, gross, for one thing. But most people are just, ‘Torbald is the literal worst’ and ‘Freja snagged a hottie. Let’s go to The Nat.’ So.”
Though his words only have a glancing relationship to The Queen’s Sondish, I think I’ve worked it out. Oskar and I have managed to go viral, and whatever other complications his post has wrought, viral is going to help our cause. “Okay. Thank you. Get permission for pictures you grab when the videos have ended, next time.”
“For sure. Consent is key,” Erik says, repeating a recent ad slogan from the Ministry of Health. Minister Bendixen will be thrilled Erik has absorbed it, but by the time I arrive at the Summer Palace, I’ve concluded that I’ll never let him near Oskar. We can’t afford to lose our Head of Restoration to a charge of senseless violence. To that end, I stand outside my sister’s door, texting.
I need to talk.
When the lock slides, I follow the noises into her office. This time she’s busy with a video game, one in which all the characters seem to be having seizures. “What’s this called?”
She hits pause. “It translates to something like ‘Lightning Bang Family Clash,’” she says, stretching her arms and ruffling her curls. “Having a battle royale in an ancient cemetery calms me down after a long day of being polite.”
I know that we shared the same womb. Her hair is the exact color as mine. I do not understand my twin.
“You didn’t have an engagement today. What do you need to calm down about?” I ask.
“Nothing. Mama’s sending me to that expo dressed like a schoolgirl. Button-down shirt, jumper, slacks…”
“Slacks are a win,” I cheer, having no interest in slacks.
“Stockings. Heels.”
It sounds like a lovely outfit. My own taste would dictate vintage jewelry and a patterned blouse, but I attempt to commiserate about a hoop I have no difficulty jumping through.
“Sorry,” I say.
Ella suddenly grins. “I saw your introductory video on Pixy. Oh, my goodness, that man is so hot.”
I try to look confused, but Ella has a nerdy,I’m thinking in Excel spreadsheetslook on her face. “He’s not like Guns and Abs Action Hero Martial-Arts-ing His Way to His Dying Girlfriend hot. He’s more like Tuxedo-Wearing International Spy and Thief of My Heart hot.”
My eyes drift out of focus. Like a distant mirage, I see it. I would pay for that movie. I would crowd-source the funding to produce it.
“Were you holding hands? Please tell me yes.” She grips my hands. “I am begging you, with tears in my eyes, to tell me yes.”
“Why do you think—?”
She wiggles our hands. “It was just out of frame, but his arm moved and then your arm moved. It’s like they were connected.”
I do not pretend to not know what she is talking about. As Ella has pointed out, I’m a bad liar, and her question is too direct to evade. “I had some nerves. He gave me a steadying grip.” I’ve parceled the explanation up, stamped and addressed it. All she has to do is sign off on the delivery.
Ella emits a squeak. “Steadying grip. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? You guys were fire.” Her fingers wiggle upwards like a tiny flame. “Who was filming?”
I make a noise of disgust at the back of my throat, relieved to have come around to the point of my visit. “Erik, the Social Media Team. He isn’t going to survive two minutes with Oskar.” Ella’s brow notches at the sound of this name. A correction will only goad her further. “I need some tips on how to film the Head of Restoration effectively.”
“Shirtless,” she declares.
I press my lips into a tight line. Such a sight might cause a stampede of single women to the museum. Two hundred thousand all in one afternoon. They’d have to call the police, cordon off the area, and helicopter him out.
I shake my head, and the mental image dissipates. “I need real tips.”
