Page 111 of The Dandelion Princess
Things have never been better—except that I am constantly checking my phone. Marc texts and it’s strictly platonic. He sends cat memes and the occasional GIF. He informs me that my trashpandaprincess accounts can now be linked to a dizzying number of dead ends. So this is really it. We’re really over.
Several days after the cancelled press conference, I arrange a secret meeting at Minty’s to tie up my loose ends. I work through Arne, relying on his discretion, and I am comfortable inthe knowledge that there is no record of my request anywhere. I am situated in a tiny anteroom on an upper floor when Prime Minister Torbald enters.
“Your Royal Highness,” he says, delivering the briefest bow. “Last week’s interview… I don’t know how you got that crackpot to stand in your place, but you’ve only kicked the can down the road. It’s going to be all the worse when it blows up in your face.”
“Tea?” I ask, lifting a pot. I hate tea, but I had to set a stage. Mama has taught me a thing or two about dressing for your audience. I am wearing nondescript business attire—not so well dressed that it will offend his democratic sensibilities, but not so casual that he will think I don’t take him seriously. If this does blow up in my face, it won’t be because I showed up in a graphic hoodie.
Torbald settles himself at the table, and I begin.
“I have credible evidence that you have been engaging in a bribery scheme. We—” My cheek tucks. He probably thinks I’m being pretentious and using the royal we, but I haven’t been alone. I’ve had Dahlia and Yasmin on my team, as well as Marc, Alix, Caroline, Linus, and the rest of my squaddies. “We have enough information to make things difficult with the press.”
“Bribery?” he laughs. “You think I’m being bribed?”
I release a breath. “No. No more than your average politician, actually. Your wife’s investment strategy is beating nearly every other model on the market, but that’s not enough to get you thrown out of office. It took me a while to work it out. I’ve got you showing up at secret locations and attending some suspicious meetings affiliated with Sondish Petroleum.”
“The Stennum thing is not what it looks like.” He takes a hasty swallow of tea. I am correct. This is where his weakness lies.
“I agree,” I answer. “Since you were kind enough to share your plans for my family, I’ve been tracking you, digging into your past… One of the constants is how much you love the press.”
He shrugs. “A politician has to manage his image.”
“True.” I take a tiny sip and try to hide how much I hate it. This tastes like licking a football pitch. “You know what’s so unusual about you? You never use your family. They would be a powerful political asset if you put them in front of the cameras more often. Pretty wife. Cute girls.” His eyes are watchful but his body goes very still. “You daughters attend a private school. Brunhild Academy, yes?”
His hand turns into a fist. “You’ll leave my girls out of this.”
“You’ve been meeting Valdemar Stennum. Did you know that his wife is the chairman of Saint Sissela’s board of governors? Jeneke. Their daughter Yasmin is one of my oldest friends. I was in and out of that house growing up—having stay-lates, braiding each other’s hair, gossiping at all hours. I imagine she has a lot of sway when it comes to admissions.”
He shifts, and the chair creaks under his weight. “It’s true that I want to get my daughters into a better private school. Is that a crime? Citizens of Sondmark like to pretend we live in an egalitarian paradise, but I still have to bow to a queen every week, don’t I? Someone always comes out on top. Why not my girls? I have nothing to hide.”
I take a sip of tea and promise myself that the next time I corner a politician, I’ll plan the beverage situation better. “You’re hiding because there’s nothing more socially contemptible than someone who knows he’s not good enough for the company he keeps. Do you think they can smell the desperation?”Hecan smell it. That’s why he went to such lengths to conceal his locations. That’s why he couldn’t approach the Stennums with a direct bribe, cloaking his meetings with Valdemar behind the less humiliating veneer of political back-slapping. That’s why his eyes shift uneasily. He wants to hide, even now. He hates this—being seen for what he is—and I let him twist in the sensation for a few moments.
I’m human and schadenfreude is delicious, but that’s not why I’m here. I take a card from my clutch—more adult than a paper torn from a BLUSH notebook, removed from aRoar’s Mansionbackpack—and scrawl on the back of it.
“When you threatened my mother’s children, this,” I point at him, “is exactly how she felt. She can be difficult. She’s ruthless and hard-edged. She buries her virtues under layers of protocol and duty, but she won’t make deals that target her children. She will never let what happened with Freja happen again.”
He sputters. I would have loved it if it had been bribery or an affair—I would have tossed the information to the press and relevant government oversight bodies without a second thought—but people are complicated. Even terrible prime ministers are allowed to love their children, and I won’t turn them into pawns.
I am my mother’s daughter.
I pass the card across the table, and he turns it over to find Jeneke Stennum’s private number. “Whether it comes with my personal recommendation is up to you,” I say. “Your poll numbers are tanking this week because it looks like you ran a vulnerable young mother-to-be out of her job. My offers don’t get better from here.”
He flicks the corner of the card with the pad of his thumb, his face a war of emotions. “What do you want?”
“I want your support for the monarchy.”
His mouth sets. “Does that require my resignation?”
He might do it, if pushed. I’ve seen the embargoed pictures—those girls are his sun and moon. But I close my eyes and mentally chanttelehealth portals, telehealth portals, telehealth portals.
“You’re fortunate my sister is content to leave behind the life of a working royal,” I say.
He releases a thread of air. “But?” He’s not new at the negotiating table.
“You’re going to leave our family out of your politics. You’re going to stop speaking as though Oskar Velasquez has damaged the purity of Sondmark, and that a few thousand immigrants are a boot to shove your children down the social ladder.” I take a breath. Freja doesn’t need my help, but I am in a position to help the people she loves. “I understand that there are debates worth having about all of these topics—and that it is my duty to stay out of them—but you’re going to propose a fixed citizenship test with clear, understandable rules. Make it as difficult as you want, but stop moving the target.”
“What’s the catch?” he asks, wary.
The Ella I once was would have staged a public takedown, embroiling her family in weeks of drama and weakening the monarchy. The Ella I’ve become this spring makes a more strategic choice. My deal is inspired by Marc. Everybody wins. Rivals become allies. “No catch,” I assure him. “As long as you keep this from my family, we can both leave this room with what we want.”
