Page 51 of The Dandelion Princess
Now it’s time to put Ella in her place.
He stands and leans against a trail marker. “It wouldn’t hurt to be on the same page about it.”
I suppress a bitter laugh. Marc might as well whip out the tiny keyboard, typing, “E.L.L.A = F.R.I.E.N.D.”
“First of all, it was great.” He doesn’t look at me when he delivers this gem, but it’s a nice little box neatly checked, a compliment firmly delivered. When I don’t readily agree, his jaw works, and I take pleasure in derailing this brisk exercise in self-control.
He tips his head back, exposing his throat. His teeth are set and he releases a ragged breath. “Two. You and Alix have been friends for a long time. So have Noah and I.”
“So have you and I.”
He nods. “You get it. There’s a lot of history between us, and we have a lot going on right now. We can’t afford distractions.” The label maker whirrs to life, the device spitting out a sticker.
I don’t disagree with him. I don’t. This painful stabbing under my ribs is just the fading specter of adolescent Ella having a fit. Ifhe wants me to recite all the reasons we can’t be together, I know them by heart.
“You’re running a multinational business, busy taking over the reins of Lindenholm, planning a benefit concert, in the midst of a dating scandal with a world-famous pop star...” I pick tufts of moss from the notch of the tree and cast them into the underbrush, blinking away the stinging sensation. Allergies are hell this year.
His tone is clipped. “You’ve got a succession crisis to navigate, your family to hold together, your exit from the monarchy to plan, and all those appropriate men to avoid.”
I grip the moss. Marc heard me, back there at the pub. I brush my hands together and hop off the log, absorbing the pain radiating from my ankle. Good. I don’t look nearly as pathetic.
The air is so still I feel the weight of it on my skin, holding me down, rooting me to the ground. Last night was a dream, but you can’t live in a dream. My parents are proof of that, surely.
“I want to make sure we’re good,” he says. I imagine him affixing the label to my forehead, sliding a thumb across the surface to make it secure.
“I’m good. And now we know.” I grab the hiking sticks out of his hands.
“Know what?” he asks as I turn up the rough track.
“That we weren’tthatgood.” The lie scratches its way up my throat.
It takes every bit of royal training to make it look from the set of my shoulders and the angle of my head that I’m fine, navigating this trail alone. I ask him about the concert, the logistics and details—everything I can think of to keep him talking—but, as we near the waterfall, I can’t hide how much my ankle hurts. He slows to match my speed but doesn’t say anything.
Dominanstid, I’ll explode if he does.
Ahead, Alix hails us from the top of a large boulder. “Ella,” she shouts, “you look like you want to do violence. Has my brother been lecturing you about decorum?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Marc calls. Even without turning around, I know he looks like something out of a high-end recreational clothing catalog. Perfect hair. Muscled forearms exposed, his tanned skin clean and dewy.
I’m red-faced and sweaty, my hair a frizzy halo. Anyone can tell, just from looking, that we don’t match.
Alix hops from the boulder. “Seriously, Ells, this is supposed to be fun. We could take the shortcut to the road and send you back to Lindenholm. Marc, why haven’t you put her on your back?”
He moves to crouch in front of me but I stride past him, pride carrying me where my ankle won’t. “I’ll rest up ahead.”
“Ella, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Somehow his consideration makes it worse. “I’m going to make it,” I clip. “I just had to stop pretending this isn’t a big deal.”
17
One Rule
MARC
Lines of pain bracket her mouth, and by the time we get back to Lindenholm, she’s gone silent. It serves her right. I offered to carry her on my back. I packed in the Seongan gummy candies she likes and an extra bottle of water which she refused. I noticed she took Mikkel’s protein granola, though. I identify a perverse satisfaction within myself, knowing she hated it.
I retreat to my office with Jang Mi, taking a call with her manager, making notes about the technical needs of an event of this scale. I work from the outline Ella suggested long ago. Festival accommodations, licensing rights, general ticketing, concessions, and facilities. From time to time we pause our work, and Jang Mi shakes her head, muttering, “Aiiiiii,” a Seongan sound at the back of the throat that is half word, half bone-deep exasperation.
