Page 90 of The Dandelion Princess
“I don’t know who you think you are, little girl.”
I am the terror of the North Sea. “I know you don’t want me as an enemy.”
It’s a good parting shot. In that brief moment, I feel like the leather-clad heroine ofIntelligence Force. Cool. Dangerous. Always in command. But Torbald stares at the alcohol swirling in his glass. “You majored in computer science at that American university. Good at tech. Addicted to gaming.”
This is nothing.
“It would be strange,” he continues, “if you had no digital footprint. I wonder if you’ve been meddling where you shouldn’t.”
A thin trickle of ice runs through my veins, but I retrace my steps over the last months. He’s bluffing.
He smiles. “Have you always been as careful as you are now?”
“I wish you luck trying to find out.”
“I won’t need luck or skill,” he says, “Not when I have an entire intelligence service at my beck and call.”
My heart is clanging, but I paste on a smile. “The opposition party would be fascinated to hear your thoughts on the limits of ministerial power.”
“Opposition?” Torbald chuckles. “The only candidate who even bothers opposing me is a crank who’s been running on the same anti-monarchist platform for thirty years. I’ve got the safest seat in Sondmark. Your mother, though. Heaven willing, by the end of my administration, she’ll be plainVrouwCavallero,” he murmurs, soiling my father’s family name in hisfoul mouth, “and paying fivemarkketo visit the royal jewels with the rest of the tourists.”
Torbald slips his glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “I hope I can count on your vote, ma’am. Have an exceptional evening.”
28
Allow It
MARC
Ella.
My thumb slides across the screen. Send.
I spent half the night online, traveling fromSquadRuntoRunaway Wagon, finally finding her inBRIx, building a pixelated castle, one cube at a time. She doesn’t engage my character, but pauses long enough in her work to see that I’ve fought off an army of zombies. She sends a short message of thanks to my anon account but returns to her work.
I’m newly impressed with how my queen managed to bring her second daughter into adulthood without ruin or catastrophe. I run down to Lindenholm at the weekend, still wondering where I stand.
Alix has returned from the U.S. for the wedding, and she drags me out to her reception venue in the soft morning sunlight, wearing a summer dress and an oversized cardigan slouching around her elbows. The ground, on the edge of a test orchard,is torn up in several places to allow the placement of complex utilities for a massive wedding party and a future BLUSH concert. I have a meeting with a local planning commission after lunch to convince the burghers of Aunslev to accept a generous donation to make up for inconvenient spikes in electricity use, but my thoughts are not on utilities or crop yields or Q2 earnings.
I kneel, brushing a dew-soaked dandelion glowing in the sunlight. The transformation of this flower, somehow both sturdy and delicate, is a wonder. The bright yellow face of it is turned up, soaking in the sun, but soon the flower will furl, delicate petals twisting up tighter than two hands clasped in prayer. It will hold there, waiting until the stem bursts into seed to become something else entirely. Then is it time for wishes.
“Have you made a decision about the hotel?” she asks, hand gripping a branch, swinging lightly.
“Not yet.” Alix goes very still, and I try to explain. “It’s a big step.”
I take no joy in disappointing her. Alix is a child of Lindenholm as much as I am, but because I’m the firstborn son, my vote is the only one that matters.
“We don’t have a farm shop,” she says, shading her eyes. Her disappointment is tucked away.
“Now you want a farm shop?” I smile.
Alix turns away from the muddy field and retreats into the orchard. “If you’re not ready to trust me with a hotel…”
“It’s not about trust,” I insist.
“I have a backup plan that won’t cost you afennig.”
I don’t deserve this much graciousness. I tip my head, listening.
