Page 24 of The Dandelion Princess
Be cool, Ella. Be very cool.
I remember the very minute I tipped from hero worship into love. It was at Saba Hofstein’s sixteenth birthday party and Marc had come back from Stanford for Christmas. He was networking with the grown-ups and wearing his hair long enough to tie into a loop. I kept telling myself that it did not make him look like an ancient poet-warrior. I told anyone who would listen that it looked dumb.
But by the end of the night, my cheeks were beet red and my gaze refused to lift above his chin stubble. He tugged on my hair and asked how it was possible to develop a case of crippling shyness when I could parade myself in front of half the county during Queen’s Week without making it a big deal. I dug my toe into the carpet said that I was still getting over the flu. I’ve been lying ever since.
The shock of finding out that Marc has ever looked at me with anything warmer than brotherly affection must show on my face, because Clara glances at me and her fingers slow to a crawl. “I know what I saw. He was checking you out.”
My mouth is dry. “When?”
Her brow furrows, “Last year? We were at Outingen Huis. You were wearing that striped swimsuit Mama got so mad about,and when you tossed your wrap,” the memory makes her giggle, “Marc looked like he’d been punched in the teeth.”
I fear my face is frozen in a critical error screen—blue and blank—because Clara bumps my arm. “It wasn’t weird. I’m sure he knows Noah really would punch him in the teeth if he made a pass. I just thought it was funny.”
She’s wrong, I think, shaking feeling into cold fingers. If Marc had ever given me the smallest sign that he was interested, wouldn’t I know?
“Are you okay?” Clara asks, touching the back of her hand to my forehead.
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe he had a bad clam.”
“Speaking of clams,” she replies, clicking on a brilliant fabric of green sequins. “If you wore something like this and took the scales all the way up your bodice, you wouldn’t have to bother with the shells. Get Mama’s seamstress to whip up an ocean-inspired headpiece.”
“With a lace mask?” I laugh. “Hotness is basic and men are overrated.”
Her lashes flicker. “I can assure you that the right one is not.”
I only have a week, but miracles are wrought with unholy amounts of money, royal privilege, and Caroline Tiele.
On the afternoon of the party, I run out to Lindenholm, breezing through the front doors of the massive old house where the symbol of the van Heydens, a pair of wild stags locked in eternal combat, is carved into the ancient woodwork at the head of the stairs. Dust motes dance in the light and I lift my nose, scenting beeswax, fresh mown lawns, and old, old books.
Alix races into the hall and scoops me into an embrace and, half-throttled, I smile at Tom over her shoulder.
“This looks promising,” she says, tugging the zipper of the garment bag slung over my arm.
I pass it off to a member of the housekeeping staff and wonder if I will lose my nerve. “Have you been decorating?” I ask.
She nods. “And I’m famished.” The comment has the color of a complaint from the Middle Ages—the kind where bothersome archbishops get murdered and the king can say his hands are clean. Within moments, a girl brings a tray of coffee and an assortment of tiny sandwiches into the drawing room.
“Thank you…Cora, yes?” I say. The staff member nods and smiles, before taking herself off. “Where isAmma?” I ask. I don’t remember a time when I called herVrouwheidvan Heyden or Madame Han Lan Hua.
“My Ella,” a voice with a faint accent calls from the doorway.Ammahugs me like an oversized cardigan folded over her chest. In reality, she wears brilliant red lipstick and clothes designed to cow financial wizards into releasing enough funds to put a new roof on crumbling ancestral piles. Though this is not her home, she fought for it. When a wild princess was put in her care, she fought for her, too.
“You didn’t hug me like that,” Alix laughs.
Ammatalks over my head. “You never stand in one place long enough for this kind of hugging.”
“I’ll hug you, Ali, even if I have to chase you down.” Tom picks her up and carries her across the hall, her shrieks of laughter trailing behind them.
The room falls into silence andAmmabrushes back my hair with the palms of her hands, giving me a long appraisal. “You look tired,” she pronounces.
“There’s no reason for it. My mother wants to keep me out of trouble, so I’m on a sort of administrative leave.” I laugh, though it sticks in my throat. “Anyway, it’s a rest.”
Ammadoesn’t laugh. “I see how it is. When you can least be spared, you have been pitched from the palace like a pest.” Sheshakes her head and exhales her frustration. “She mishandles you.”
I am vulnerable and transparent under her sharp gaze, and wish I could drag a curtain between us. She probably sees that, too, because she turns the topic, grilling me about my patronages, and ends by telling me to get a Seongan facial.
“Have you met anyone worthy of you yet? No, I can see that you haven’t.” I wipe my face, trying to get whatever she sees off, but she lifts her voice. “Has anyone seen my son?” she asks.
The footman answers at once. “He is at the west boundary, ma’am, but promises to return for the party.”
