Page 19 of The Dandelion Princess
“I own the place,” I answer.
“Aren’t you too busy for these kinds of things?”
I am. My responsibilities are as loud as the dull, heavy drone of bees over a lavender field in high summer—ever-present, unrelenting—but standing with her now, everything quiets.
“We’ll get a nice tax break for sponsoring this event.”
Ella continues up the hall, smiling and nodding her head at doorways crowded with curious employees. “The brief said I was to be escorted by the Director of—”
“Human Resources and Recruitment.” I nod. “Val’s daughter is sick and she asked me to step in.”
This is a lie. Not about Val and the kindergartener with the croup. That’s true. But when the position opened up, I shook off a meeting with a fleet of executives to be here.
I can’t afford this, but my eyes linger on Ella’s face, looking for traces of the goose egg. My muscles tighten, maybe a sign that I haven’t been getting enough sleep.
When we come to the end of the hall, a line of primary-aged girls trails obediently after their teacher. The first one spots Ella, and bouncing on her toes, reaches out for a high five. Ella nods politely, decorously, to the teacher and then locks in. Twenty-two high fives and twenty-two new monarchists later, she glances over her shoulder.
“Coming?” she laughs, and I lead her off to the conference hall, humming with noise.
“Your Royal Highness,” I say, leading her to one of the dozen circular tables, following the set script. “We’re building egg-drop devices using recycled items collected in the past month—cardboard boxes, interlocking bricks, tongue depressors...” Ella’s eyes glint with silent laughter.
“Not every design will be a success,” she muses, glancing around the room. “I’m sure the early days of Han Heyden taught you a lot about failure.”
Ella was there at the birth of Han Heyden as a freshman at Stanford with some practical knowledge of software development. Several times a week, she would crowd into my tiny apartment to perform QA tests, writing automation scripts to try to break the software.
I had my work cut out, keeping my engineers from glitching out in the presence of an actual human woman, but she worked for free, happy to take compensation in the form of late night bowls of ramen and Han Heyden merch—mousepads, low-quality pens, and hoodies she’d wear all year round with a pair of tiny shorts.
Stultes es.I haven’t thought of those shorts in years. I hook a finger behind the knot of my necktie and tug it slightly. Maybe I’m having a medical event.
“You’ll work here,” I say, nodding at a pile of garbage. My voice drops to a whisper, “A trash panda in her natural habitat.”
She kicks me under the table and I smother a grunt, moving out of the way when she introduces herself to the others. A pool photographer weaves around them, capturing the right shot of interest or surprise. Later, she gives a short speech to introduce a pioneering physicist, and finally adjourns to the lobby for the egg drop finals.
“Sir, the senior executives are restless,” my assistant, Werner, warns. “If you had hinted that you would be attending—”
“I didn’t know I’d be attending,” I say, following Ella with my eyes.
“There’s still time to catch the end of the budget meeting.” Werner offers this thrilling prospect, and the noise of my responsibilities—Lindenholm, Seong, Han Heyden—comes roaring back.
Ella steps into the elevator with members of staff and gives me a nervous little wave from the back. She hates tight spaces, and I return a reassuring smile.
“Sir?” Werner prompts.
“I’ll work late.” I always work late. “All night if I have to.”
My assistant gives a resigned sigh. “I’ll let them know that instead of reviewing our technical infrastructure needs, you’ve elected to…watch eggs as they are flung from the mezzanine.” Werner places a microphone into my hands.
Any regrets I may have are silenced when Ella leans over the balcony. “Stand free of the blast zone,Neerheidvan Heyden. From what I understand, the tabloids have dubbed you the nicest face in Sondmark.”
Brat.
She continues. “Shall we endeavor to leave it as we found it?”
“Marc,” I say, flipping the microphone up. “Anyone about to pelt me with eggs should know my given name, Your Royal Highness.”
“Ella,” she corrects. “Our first contestant is,” she bends over to hear the shy voice of a future scientist, “Mia. What was your method, Mia?”
The short, tow-headed girl speaks in a tone of breathy excitement. “I used an inflatable neck pillow wrapped around a shoe stuffed with newspapers holding the egg.”
