Page 6 of The Winter Princess
“I’m not looking to date him.” I scan the party, picking out Oskar easily. He’s moving through the crowd, hardly speaking to anyone. “Anyway, I don’t have a type.”
Yes, I do. I have a type, and I’ve known it for years. Green apple hard candy. When the medical community masters personality transplants, my love life will be set.
Ella shakes her head. “Your type is someone who gives you personal space and doesn’t insist on having your attention.”
How can my twin know so much and yet so little about me? I look away from the party, from the back of Oskar’s dark head. Even when he doesn’t say a word, Oskar insists.
This type Ella imagines I have takes the shape of a British academic who moves at a gentle pace, offers few upsets, and doesn’t mind when I ignore him to delve into my own interests. His clothing is rumpled. Maybe he gardens.
“That sounds ideal.” I crane my neck, looking over the gallery, and spot him again. Ella goes up on her tiptoes, using me to balance.
“That one is a little, black rain cloud,” Ella declares, a line forming between her brows. “How does he manage to frown without moving his face?”
With each breath, I feel myself returning to normal, thankful to focus on my sister and her chatter. “It’s his aura. His aura frowns.”
“Since when do you believe in auras?”
Since five minutes ago. I rub my thumbs discretely across my fingertips, brushing the faint sensation of electricity away, and glance down. This is the first time we’ve ever touched, and I wish I had a time machine to whisk me back to the moment before it happened. I don’t want to know his touch does this.
“Stay close to me, if you want,” Ella says, glancing around. “If I get a chance to knife him in the back, I’ll take it, so watch your shoes.” She extends her pinky, prepared to make a blood oath.
“The last thing this party needs is a scene,” I say, wrapping her pinky in mine and shaking my head.
“Why do you say it like that? A scene is exactly what this party needs.”
“I’ll be fine,” I smile. “I can take care of myself.”
It may have been helpful to have a short, curly-haired shield-maiden by my side when I was a teenager, battling scoliosis with a series of braces, surgeries, and physical therapy. Now I can stand on my own, defending my boundaries as fiercely as any border lord.
My gaze drifts toward Oskar, propping up the Dutch Masters again, and I thread my hand through Ella’s arm. “Oskar Velasquez is grumpy with everybody. It wasn’t personal.”
This is a lie. His anger seemed personal. I still feel his chest under my palms, his dark eyes weighing me up, and the way he saidYou don’t want a fightlike he was spoiling for one.
“That’s another lie.” Ella narrows her eyes. “The offer still stands.” She draws a sharp thumb across the line of her throat–a deadly assassin in blue silk.
“No need. I’ll watch where I’m going.” I lead her back to the main gallery where the party has grown louder.
I promised Ella I’d watch out for Professor Velasquez, and I do—following the straight set of his shoulders around the room, my eyes landing on his dark head, glancing quickly away. Making certain we never intersect means always having to know where he is.
“Oskar Velasquez is lava,” I whisper, scooting between two clusters of guests, arms raised. “Oskar Velasquez is lava.”
It’s during one of these checks that Marie, a former air hostess, wanders to my side. Director Knauss’s long-suffering secretary kisses my cheek and holds me at the tips of her fingers.
“I owned a knock-off of that dress in 1979. Wore it to my second wedding.”
“The one to the political longshoreman?”
She sighs with great satisfaction. “He had such a good mustache. No, it was to the novelist who wanted us to live with his mother. I never looked more stunning. I suppose that’s the real thing?”
“Every stitch.”
“Well, it’s perfect. I liked your speech,” she says.
“I have it on good authority that it was terrible.” I frown into my glass, irritated all over again. “Too short and insubstantial.”
“Good authority, nothing. You gave your audience something light and foundational, tailor-made for a crowd that requisitions art by the truckload,” she says, tracing the stem of a dahlia up my sleeve with her finger.
I open my mouth to thank her when a high-pitched siren rings over the gallery, filling the space and driving out rational thought. Guests clap their hands over their ears. Only the director keeps moving, rolling his hand high in the air, prodding the musicians to keep at their work. “It’s nothing,” he giggles, fishing a set of keys from his pocket and making a beeline for a control panel.
