Page 89 of The Dandelion Princess
“I need you to be much better than that.”
The fanfare sounds, and we enter the long reception room to the applause of government officials, leading citizens, and scores of military personnel in their dress blues. The lone press photographer snaps continuously when Mama receives Max’s correct bow—the first recorded meeting between the naval officer and the mother of the nation. Max carries it off without a hitch.
Alma approaches with a glass of champagne carefully half-full. “I miss having your app to help me memorize all the names,” she says.
“It’s down for repairs.”
“So many uniforms tonight,” she murmurs, glancing around the room. “You could use this time to go shopping for a future husband Mama won’t entirely disapprove of.”
It never even occurs to her that I’m seeing someone. That I’m at the bottom of a hole I dug myself and am digging deeper every day. That everything hurts. I take a tiny sip of government booze and force myself to laugh. “Brody—my soulmate—is mining cryptocurrency for our California acreage as we speak.” Brodywill do as a nice, fat red herring, but talk of soulmates makes me want to detonate the golden palace gates.
She tips her glass into mine, setting off a tiny chime. “Here’s to true love. Oh!” The word squeaks out of her. “There’s Marc. I’m surprised this is important enough to take him away from business.”
Same. “Fancy meeting you, here,” I say when I finally make my way to him.
Though crisp military uniforms abound, Marc holds his own with a sharp suit and a silk tie. “That dress,” he starts. When he looks at me this way, even the press won’t be able to ignore it.
“Scope creep,” I murmur. With effort, he hauls himself into line. “This isn’t your usual scene,” I observe. The event is not big enough for someone who doesn’t have to absolutely, positively be here. “What brings you?”
“I hated the thought of you and all these officers.”
I smile into my champagne flute. “As much as I would love to believe that… Are you spying on me?”
His expression is one of outraged innocence. “I’m not lurking behind a potted palm.”
“Marc,” I repeat.
He exhales and puts a hand to my elbow. “Things are getting too serious. As one of your oldest friends, I’m begging—”
Oldest friends. After all this time and all those kisses, he makes no other claim on me. I swallow past a knot of pain. “The prime minister is threatening my family and I’m supposed to smile and pretend that he isn’t? What did you think I meant when I said I was taking him down?” I glance around the room with a fixed smile. “Poems? Petitions?”
“Freja can take care of herself.”
My laugh draws attention and Marc leads me down the long gallery, away from the dense crowd. We pause under a life-sized portrait of Malthe III, dressed in black and wearing his murderring. He was the one who began writingThe Red Book, a how-to guide for kingship, recording all the bloody deeds of the earliest rulers of Sondmark down to the present day so that the House of Wolffe would know how to win a crown and keep it. We didn’t get here by playing nice.
“Freja couldn’t push her way through a moist towelette, but I know how to throw a punch. You want me to accept whatever Torbald dishes out without fighting back? Thank you,” I curtsy, “no.”
“Ella, you can’t go this alone.”
“Hypocrite,” I whisper, rounding on him. “Look at you. Exhausted, carrying every burden you think you have to carry, and then some.Youwon’t take any help, so don’t tell me I’m not allowed to look out for my sister. And don’t go thinking of me as one more problem you have to take on either. I didn’t ask for it.”
He calls after me, but I’m on the clock, perilously near tears, and I promised Clara I wouldn’t cause a scene. I melt into the crowd, nodding tightly to the guests, when another voice intercepts me.
“Something rotten in the House of Wolffe?” Prime Minister Torbald. His words are low, meant only for me.
I turn, composing my face. “NeerTorbald. What a pleasure it is to have you at the palace.”
He waves this away. “Let me offer a friendly warning,” he says.
I will die happy if I never hear the word friend again.
“We keep a dossier on you at the Grousehof—on all of you. At first, we didn’t have much luck. Your mother keeps a tight grip on her family. But random pieces of information began to dig their way to the surface, and now your dossier is worryingly thick.”
He glances around at the gilded hall with its majestic artwork and heavy curtains, like a new tenant measuring for drapes.
“I have something you could add to it,” I bite out. “There are these odd gaps in my official schedule. I’m in Frederickplatz when I say I’m in Nordoest. Why would I lie about what I’m up to or who I might be meeting?”
His pasty face drains of color, and he scoops a mop of hair from his forehead, checking for bystanders.
