Page 56 of The Winter Princess
Clara nods. “I see it.”
I see it.
I shake Ella’s arm off and turn down the hall. “Do grow up.”
Ella yanks Clara’s wrist and follows in my wake, still the carnival barker. “Freja was plastered against the other wall like a fugitive of justice.”
We pass the library and Alma pokes her head out. “Who’s a fugitive?”
“We’re talking about Freja’s secret snog. Get in, princess,” Ella says, grabbing Alma and sweeping her up with us.
“Snog?” Alma says. “But Freja’s not dating anyone.”
“How would you even know if she were?” Clara asks, breathlessly trotting behind. “Sonnets? Freja, would you write him a sonnet?”
“Keep focused, Clara,” Ella admonishes. “The point is that when I walked in on Freja and OskarFuegoplastered on opposite sides of the hall, she looked like she would as soon murder me as give me an introduction.”
“I have a low murder threshold,” I say, ascending the stairs. “By the way, Alma, Ella took your car last night.”
Alma emits an outraged noise and reaches for the thief, giving her hair a yank. Ella squeaks but takes the punishment as only fair. She rubs her head and continues harassing me. “So I’m thinking that this situation calls for the proper etiquette—”
I snort.
“Perhaps we need a signal when we’re planning to make out anywhere in the Summer Palace. A sock on the door handle?”
“A colorful Hermès scarf,” Clara supplies. “They’re brighter and hard to miss.” We collectively stop and give her a look. “What? I’ve given this thought.”
I continue, almost to my suite. I see the doors and double my pace.
“Point of order, darlings,” Clara says, huffing now. “Why does Freja’s boyfriend get to come to the palace if Max is still He-Whose-Abs-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned? Is OskarFuegoa prince of someplace?”
I’m at the door and I wheel. “His name is not OskarFuego.”
Ella pushes past me, uninvited. “The committee denies your motion.”
My other sisters scoot through the gap. Alma is the only one with the grace to wear an apologetic smile.
There is little point barring the door now that the cows are all in, but I shut it with a firm snap. “He’s not a prince and he’s not my boyfriend. I would tell you if we were.”
The others turn to Ella who delivers her verdict. “She’s not lying.”
Clara nods, mollified. This is a sore subject for my little sister. Mama is praying that Clara’s infatuation with Max will burn itself out, but she’d be better off praying for a hard snow on Queen’s Day. Max isn’t going anywhere. I can see that much.
Ella rings for coffee and a snack to be brought up. The ‘later’ I promised her has arrived. I touch a match to the fire and nurse the flame gently as Clara peels back more layers and kicks off her boots.
“I love your suite in autumn,” she says, sinking into a club chair. “It makes me want to paint over my pastel walls and drag in all this gorgeous English leather.”
Alma nestles into another chair covered in tapestry fabric woven with a hidden design of harp seals and dragons. Ella sits cross-legged on a pillow near the hearth.
“Alright. Oskar. He’s not a prince and he’s not your boyfriend,” Ella acknowledges. Then, glancing at the others asks, “Did you hear her deny they were kissing?”
Alma lifts a brow. “I did not, sister.”
“A notable omission,” Clara says, smiling at the maid who brings the tray. For a few moments, we are occupied, pouring out and passing around coffee and tiny cakes.
This isn’t a full meal. It’s a little tide-you-over. A few morsels. Perhaps my sisters will be content with an equally modest slice of information.
“He’s an art restorer at the museum. The one in the video.”
