Page 97 of The Winter Princess
I check my watch.Vede.I wanted to be at The Nat first thing. I wanted Oskar to see me camping out by the door of his studio, ready to settle our future of getting to kiss each other whenever we have a mind to. “It’s not the prime minister’s day.”
“It was an unscheduled visit,” she says, leading me through the administrative wing at a brisk pace. She’s smaller than I am, her strides shorter, but I have to work to keep up.
We fetch up outside my mother’s official sitting room, the one that appears in portraits of new ambassadors and visiting envoys. Other prime ministers have been invited into Mama’s inner sanctum—her office, two doors down—but not this one.
Caroline gives me a bracing smile and swings the door open.
“Ma’am…”
I’m not sure why I have been summoned, and my suspicions are aroused when Mama offers me coffee and a cookie. She knows how weak I am for mid-morning snacks.
“NeerTorbald has an offer he’d like to discuss.”
Prime Minister Torbald gives me a tight smile. “We’ve both won the match, Your Highness. The Nat of today is far more welcoming than The Nat of only three months ago. The galleries are filled with Sondish people rediscovering their heritage. The country is impressed, and so am I…even if you will fall short of the numbers we agreed upon.” Amid so much magnanimity, there’s a sting.
“We still have eight days until the new year.”
“Can’t count Christmas. And have you seen the forecast? A blizzard tonight. Our infrastructure will be snarled for days, and you still need thirty thousand visitors. It won’t happen without a monumental exhibit, something on the order of Moses’s original stone tablets signed by the Almighty, himself.”
I open my mouth to reply, but Mama touches my arm.Wait. Hear him out.
NeerTorbald reaches for a cookie, takes a bite, and uses the rest as a pointer. “We’ll ignore the deadline and the numbers—start with a blank slate. You had your heart set on the Romantics exhibit. The government will fully fund it, and you won’t have to look for change in the sofa or beg for corporate sponsorship. We’ll do an ad campaign, transportation vouchers to get the school kids in…whatever you need. I’ll make the announcement today.”
Mama takes a sip of coffee and flicks me a glance. “That’s quite generous.”
My midsection tightens with sudden awareness. Mama knows. She knows what comes next. I tend to be distracted and blind to things in front of my face, but I’m not her daughter for nothing. “What do you get in return?”
His smile brightens, and he shows too many teeth. It was this smile that got him elected. “A trifle. Instead of laying off a third of the museum staff, I’ll take one dismissal as a token of your willingness to bear the consequences of failure. It’ll be a quiet dismissal, only a small sacrifice.”
My eyes narrow. “How small?”
The smile shifts into one edged with malice. “It’s not a sacrifice if it doesn’t hurt.”
“Who?” I know who. I can feel it in the arches of my feet and the swimmy sensation in my stomach.
“Velasquez.”
My mouth pinches and my nostrils flare. Only by imagining the possible headlines do I prevent myself from leaping across the table and smacking Oskar’s name out of his mouth. Mama’s hand covers my arm, but I’m shaking with rage, too far gone for discretion and meek acceptance. “What is this?”
Mama’s grip tightens. “It’s a deal,” she explains. “The prime minister is offering excellent terms. You should think about it.”
I don’t have to think. “No. That condition is unacceptable.”
Torbald’s eyebrows lift. “One person. He’s hardly worth triggering massive cuts over.”
Spikes of pain and anger prickle my skin, but I see things clearly, now. Prime Minister Torbald has taken a beating in the press as stories frame him next to Oskar, the inconveniently telegenic immigrant whose ubiquity on social media has made it difficult to remind Sondmark’s citizens that they need to hold the world at arm’s length.
I see the consequences of this deal clearly, too. If Oskar loses his job, he won’t be able to take his citizenship test. He’ll be put on a repatriation program, and because he’s become a minor celebrity, he won’t slip through the cracks and disappear. We can’t arrange for his paperwork to be lost. I bet the government will move with astonishing speed.
Mama is puzzled by my obstinance. “Freja, do consider—”
“No.” I am unequivocal. “I won’t take it. I won’t make that deal.”
The prime minister exhales gustily, crossing his leg, exposing a sock and three centimeters of hairy skin. “I’ve already given The Nat’s temporary governing board my offer. Do you think they’ll save him at the risk of losing their own jobs?” He sets the question between us like a dagger on the table. Who can we count on to stand with Oskar? Rik? Lynda? Agnes?
The prime minister leans back like this is his throne room. “I look forward to announcing your exhibit before the end of the day. Perhaps a line or two might be included in Her Majesty’s Live Christmas message tomorrow?”
Mama smiles her diplomatic smile. “We won’t keep you from more pressing matters,” she says, rising. Prime Minister Torbald climbs to his feet and executes a careless bow. He received his education at an elite boarding school catering to European nobles. He knows how to do it properly. I want to trip him on the way out and shove him into a bramble patch with long, spiky thorns.
