Page 8 of The Winter Princess
Vede.Not him.
For the second time tonight, I crash against Oskar Velasquez and feel his heartbeat thudding under my hand. There’s no time to recover before the director crashes into me again, hand curling over the back of my collar, jerking me. Oskar holds tight and I hear an ominous rip, feeling the sudden coolness of air where I shouldn’t. Down and down. My dress.
Within the space of half a breath, Oskar folds me tight to him and pivots. I wait for the painful wrench in my spine, but the motion is smooth, and I’m propelled out of the path of destruction, my thoughts stumbling to catch up to the reality of being pressed against a gallery wall by my work nemesis under a massive canvas of Renaissance nudes. The crowd surges, pushing us closer together. If Oskar Velasquez is lava, I have turned to cinder and ash.
Time slows and I register the gallery spotlights as bright blurs. His breath and mine mingle in the narrow cleft between us. Only a second or two passes but I feel unmoored when he straightens, peels off his jacket, and drops it over my shoulders.
I push the lapels aside. “I’m fine,” I say, the suffocating proximity of him makes me short.
His jaw hardens and he tugs them closer. “You’re not.”
My hands drop away, but once the jacket is secure, I shove him back, bringing more to my view than the exposed column of his throat. The crowd pushes me again, but Oskar’s hands grip my upper arms, keeping me on my feet. An opening between people gives me a narrow view of two police officers wrestling Director Knauss to the ground.
The director of The National Museum emits a cloud of sweaty, red-faced obscenities, and I hear an officer say what sounds very like, “somethingsomethingFraud Act of 19-garblegarble.Theft Act of 1989.”
Director Knauss whips his head up, the glowing skin of his unnaturally smooth forehead hot with rage. “Take yourflamenhands off me,” he bellows.
“…and three charges of embezzlement,” one of the police officers concludes, his breath hitching with exertion.
A wave of shock rolls through me. Roland sinks against one of those awful benches.
The officers lift Director Knauss with brisk efficiency, marching him past the queen and her government. At the threshold, he makes one last dash before he is tackled again. In the ensuing scrum, he loops his foot in the ropes holding the slightly lopsided bannerin place.
When it falls, it takes out the prime minister and half the cabinet.
4
Austerity Measures
FREJA
The Rolls sweeps through the gates of the Summer Palace, and Mama glances over. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Since witnessing Director Knauss’s arrest, I’ve been in a state of frozen shock. Now that we’re on palace grounds, emotion begins seeping back into me—waves of mortification at how large the gala turned out to be, the adrenaline rush of delivering the speech, the dance along a knife’s edge as I contended with Oskar, the electricity of his touch, and the sheer panic of watching the exhibit launch crash to the ground.
Maybe I shouldn’t leave the palace for a few days. Maybe I shouldn’t leave the palace ever.
In the Grand Hall, Mama directs the others to go ahead, leaving us alone, cocooned in expensive silence. This is when my siblings would be feeling the iron fist of Queen Helena, the subject of correction and critique. Aides would be dragged out of bed and assignments fired off.
Mama kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry it was such a rough night.”
There are reasons for this softness. We don’t jockey for position as she and Noah do. I don’t escape Mama’s intensity by hitting all my marks as Alma does. I don’t set myself against her as Ella is determined to. I haven’t emerged this autumn with power in my own right as Clara has.
Instead, I heard the lullabies of a tired queen as she bent over my hospital bed and had her coax me to take “one more bite” of Pankedruss, the spoon becoming a sword, knighting me for my good behavior. I felt her tears in the dark as her body bent around mine.
Our rare relationship of easy affection and unguarded tenderness means I can afford to be honest.
I straighten my shoulders. “If there’s anything to clear up, I’ll do it. My work for the Crown and my work for The Nat are separate things. I’d prefer to keep them that way.”
Mama’s mouth sets. Involving herself in my exhibit has been a distraction—something to manage instead of brooding about how she and Père have been in a chilly standoff for almost a year. Planning a gala helped avert her focus from how she’s losing the battle to keep Clara’s private life in line.
Losing.I exhale a silent laugh.Lost.Clara isn’t going to get over Max.
Mama gives me an appraising look. “You’re good at that,” she says, pride coloring her tone. “Building a wall, one word at a time, keeping people in their place. Very royal.”
I smile, “You’re not people, Mama.” I wouldn’t dare try to keep a queen in place.
She returns a smile, too flat to be quite real. “We can’t undo what’s been done. We can only manage the fallout. When that comes, you’ll need my help.”
