Page 63 of The Dandelion Princess
“I’m going to ravish your sister.” Marc says it. He just says it, and heat washes through me, each oscillation like a tiny wave dashing over my skin. Clara laughs, choking off when she catches Max’s expression.
“It’s a joke. Stop looking at them like they’re a thing. They’re not a thing.” Her nose wrinkles. “It would be like dating a cousin.”
Max grins. “I thought that was one of the hallmarks of the Wolffe family.”
“Babe. Not for most of the last century.” She whacks his stomach and he traps her hand against his abs.
“Where areyouheaded?” I ask, shifting on the balls of my feet with this talk of my impending ravishment.
“We’re babysitting Ava.” Max’s niece. “Are you gaming tonight?” she asks. “Do you want me to pop in after?” The idea of Marc and me being caught necking never crosses her mind.
“Don’t bother,” Marc says, continuing on his way up the stairs. “It’s a two-person game. See you, Max.”
When they disappear down the hall, I frown at Marc. “We’re gaming? This is news.”
He swings my hand. “We need to talk.”
My limbs tense. What joy. None of Marc’s “talks” are fun. I gallop up the stairs and he races after me. What will it be this time? That he’s thought better of our kisses? That he’s actually decided to start things up with Jang Mi? Does Marc want to tell me that I need to find some way of self-regulating that doesn’t include having to touch him all the time?
“I’m changing.” I lob my handbag into a chair, and escape into my closet. “Fire upHeretics of the Blood Moon, if you really want a game.” Heaven knows I’m in the mood to go on a quest to escape ritual sacrifice.
I throw on a pair of loose joggers and a cashmere sweater, twisting a hairpin out of my tangled topknot as I pad into the room. He’s discarded his jacket and shucked his Oxfords but his waistcoat hugs him and electricity dances along my nerves. When he hands me a controller, I sink to the floor at his side, braced against the sofa.
The game is a mix of puzzles and hand-to-hand combat. We problem-solve our way out of a palace dungeon, finding the cranks and levers to release as a blood-red moon rises, its sickly light framed by a window embrasure. As the metal door swings open, a cut scene pops up, the characters gently bobbing as stilted dialogue scrolls through text boxes.
“Our plan got us this far but there’s an army on top of us and a murdering sect of priestesses beyond,” my avatar explains. “We’ll never escape.”
“We need to talk.” Marc tosses the controller aside.
My eyelashes flicker, but I scroll through the menu and skip the rest of the cut scene, nudging the controller back into his hands. “So talk.”
After a beat, he follows my lead, shoving a torch into a crevice and leaning his digital weight against the door.
“We have to figure out how we’re going to do this.”
We have played this game so many times he shouldn’t need to be told. “When the door opens, we head to the scriptorium for the map. Try not to get stabbed.” Duh.
He dispatches a couple of lackeys with a well-aimed shove, sending them rolling down the spiral staircase. “Not the game. I kissed you today. We were in public.” His hands still. Here it comes.
With flaming cheeks, I engage a hulking knight with an intimidating broadsword. I throw the torch, setting fire to his tunic, and observe his flailing immolation with some satisfaction. If only it were so easy to get rid of all my problems.
“We were at Minty’s,” I remind him. “You know how Arne has that place locked down.” My heart is pounding in my throat and a sedimentary nausea, leftover from Freja’s problems maybe, settles in my stomach. I smile it away. “You picked the right place.”
“That’s the thing,” he says, slaying an attacker rushing in from my blind spot with the swing of a stolen sword. “I didn’tpickanything.” His breathing is uneven, full of catches and rushes as he sorts through his next words. “We could have been at the supermarket or the post office or in the middle of Frederickplatz. I would have found a way to kiss you no matter where we were.”
The air thins and my lungs burn. “Can you imagine making out next to the Supernuss and pickle crisps?” I joke. “That would have been a first.” Maybe being subjected to his surgical dissection of our kisses is how I die?
“Ells—” He tosses his controller. “We have a lot going on.” His avatar gets stuck in a loop, hitting a brick wall over and over. Someone will probably come along to knife him in the back and he’ll deserve it for doing this to me again.
“Too much for kissing at Minty’s. I know, you moron.” I know the list by my broken heart. “Han Heyden, Alix’s wedding, the aid concert, Lindenholm, Noah in there somewhere, Freja’s catastrophe…”
I don’t expect anything different. I never do. From the time I was four, I could recite everything that took precedence over me. Standing up straight, Mama’s tiaras, an Olympic bid we didn’t get, an Olympic bid we did get, foreign tours, Freja’s health…
“You already explained your to-do list.” I lob this at him like a bowler in a backyard game of Sondish longball. Friendly. Easy. Pitched perfectly for him to crack it over the fence.
“I think…” His fingertips trace the edge of the coffee table. “I think…”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I laugh, knocking his shoulder with my own. Always friendly. Never mind the pain. “I don’t make dandelion wishes. It’s not your job to be Prince Charming. It’s fine.”
