Page 62 of The Dandelion Princess
“But?” Mama prompts.
I feel a stirring of envy, listening to the deep respect—even affection—between the two women who work so closely together. To my mother, I am a headache and a pest. Her secretary is her right hand.
“You will pay for it, ma’am. There are risks of appearing as though you are above the law,” Caroline replies.
“I know,” Mama breathes deeply, and my cynicism returns. “The law flows from me but I cannot use it for my own ends.” This is the groundwork for “so sorry, but my hands are tied.”
“Helena.” Père’s voice is soft, though he has been the greatest casualty of this policy. He half-reaches for her, but receiving no encouragement, his hand settles on the table in a loose fist.
Caroline clicks to another slide. “Technically, these interviews are confidential, but Your Majesty should expect damaging leaks. Personal texts and emails swept up in the official inquiry will be made public. If a member of the royal family is less-than-enthusiastically cooperative, it will appear in the press via unnamed sources.” Caroline indicates a footnote on her slide deck. “Information about who is testifying before the committeeon any given day will be included in the prime minister’s diary of events.”
“Who is privy to this information?” Mama is in command again.
“The entire country, ma’am. It’s posted on a website, usually a week in advance.”
It’s going to be a feeding frenzy. I grip the edge of my seat and Marc collects my hand, holding it between his cool palms while my pulse steadies. Across the table, Oskar opens a small bag of crackers and places them in front of my sister.
Clara sighs. “Anyone coming and going from the Grousehof will have to walk past a million photographers. The optics won’t be good.”
The House of Wolffe has produced some monumental optics this year. Clara tipping over Max on Queen’s Day and conducting her romance in a variety of picturesque wilderness locations. Freja’s breathtaking wedding photos (I’m still salty about it, but I’m not blind), and all those social media videos with Oskar where they look like they’re nursing a secret, burning passion for one another. (Spoiler: They were.) Alma swept into the protective embrace of the crown prince of Vorburg under a hail of gunfire (sort of). She still managed to carry on a State Visit with missing stockings and a smear of blood on her knee, but none of the optics have been as uncomplicated asgood.
“What about giving an interview?” Noah suggests. “The palace can get out in front of the negative publicity by having a morning news show produce something sentimental and sweet about the undeniable power of love.” His jaw works. “We’ll sell Freja as a girl swept away by the greatest romance the world has ever known.”
This is what passes as a reasonable suggestion within these walls, but Oskar stands, bristling with dignity, his voice a challenge. “My wife is not a product.”
I grip Marc’s hand and he leans close, warm and reassuring, as my gaze shifts to my sister, finishing her little snack. I wonder which identity will make way for the other. Is Freja foremost a princess, raised in the Summer Palace to do her duty, and willing to shrink her particularities for the needs of the monarchy? Or is Freja the wife of a commoner, a girl whose allegiances orient around the unremarkable flat on the other side of town?
Noah holds Oskar’s gaze, a hostile static crackling in the air, until finally my proud brother gives a nod. “My apologies, Freja.”
“You are forgiven. Oskar.” Freja tugs her husband’s hand.
“Audicia,” he whispers to her, resuming his seat.Mafia. How can a man who frowns as much as he does also positively glow with how much he’s into my sister?
Freja brushes crumbs from her fingers and looks around the table. “I don’t mind being referred to as ‘swept away by the greatest romance the world has ever known’,” she dimples. “Where is the lie?”
Gag. My sister used to be a woman of few words and remarkably good sense. I glower at Oskar. “You did this to her.”
Oskar gives Freja the kind of passionate, Pavian look we would kill to broadcast across the nation. He spares me a brief, not-a-smile smile.
Caroline clears her throat. “Constitutional scholars have been consulted.” This brings another slide filled with damning legal implications which might finally settle the question: Who has ultimate authority, spiritually or legally, in Sondmark? The premier or the queen?
Marc leans forward, lips near my ear. “See? Your mother is already on top of it. You don’t need to worry.”
But I am uneasy, looking at these crisp bullet points. These questions have been battled out in bloody warfare for a thousand years. They were never supposed to be battled out in the courts.If my mother’s power is forced to be measured in concrete, quantifiable ways, she is bound to lose.
“This family has many pawns, but only one queen,” I say, lowering my voice. “This will end with Freja being sold for the Crown.”
I escape as soon as the meeting concludes, and Marc jogs after me, hands in his pockets. Though I need time to think, I do have manners.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” I say it like this has been a normal afternoon and none of it was spent with my lips on his neck. In addition to the succession catastrophe, I need to think of that, too.
But he takes a left in the Great Hall and walks backward up the staircase, dragging me after him, step by step. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks. “We’re not done.”
The implications tighten my stomach. His kisses turned me inside out. How much more unfinished business could there be?
“Hey guys,” Clara skips down the steps, Max following in her wake. His rank allows him to grow a beard, and though it is neatly trimmed, he looks more like a Viking every day. Clara is on the fence about it.
“What’s up?” she asks.
