Page 105 of The Dandelion Princess

“You can’t fight him,” I say.

“Did you hear?” she says, trying to get past me. She dodges. I weave.

I shake the flashlight on my phone, illuminating the narrow space, and catch her close.

“Sorry, Ells. There is not a prayer you’re going to get past me.” She starts scaling my height, which would be the right time to tell her that she’s the love of my life, and that we should get down to sorting out the logistics—if she would just stop moving for a second.

She wedges herself over my shoulder with a grunt, pushing against my shoulder blade, and brushes the doorknob with her fingertips. I carry her out of reach. “You can’t beat up the prime minister.”

I slip her forward until we’re eye to eye, and sense the moment her breathing shifts from murderous to physically aware. She’s attracted to me, and maybe we could use our time more wisely. I could press my luck and—

No. I shake my head and peel her off me, one limb at a time. There is a risk of rushing her when she’s in the wrong frame of mind. I have to be strategic.

“Did you hear?” she repeats, sinking on a stack of cardboard boxes, her mouth trembling. “She’s going to fight. Forme.”

She toys with her fingernail, rubbing the smooth tip against her thumb. I catch it and she lets me hold her hand a minute while her thoughts are elsewhere.

“I didn’t think she was capable of that.” Her lips twist. “She hasn’t forgotten, right? That I’m not even one of the good princesses?”

Ella looks up when my fingertips skim her cheek. “She knows she just destroyed her bargaining position to protect a mouthy, online gamer, right?”

Excuse me.Mymouthy, online gamer. We’ve wasted too much time already, and I want to skip to the part where she realizes she loves me.

“I have to do something,” she says. “Now.”

I look around the cramped closet. I mean, my lips are right here.

“Take me somewhere,” she says, grabbing my wrist. “I have to think.”

We end up at a coffeehouse on the road to Lindenholm. The building has the spare modern lines of a frame house, with black cladding in stark contrast to the brilliant green of the sun-dappled grove. The interior is warmly lit, and a single barista—backed by high shelves filled with vinyl records—takes one look at our faces, briefly registers Ella’s princessness, and puts on a Coltrane album. She takes our order and directs us to a private booth next to a large window. I ought to feel like I’ve caught my breath, but when Ella is sitting opposite me, I am not calm.

The coffee arrives with a plate of warm danishes.

Last week I would have been pouring advice about diplomacy into her ears, but now the prime minister is targeting my princess. In the last hour, I went from feeling a duty to keep her from killing Torbald to wanting to dig the hole she buries him in. Apparently, I inherited the ruthlessness—and the limited imagination—of my Hanaya ancestors; always with the burying.

“He’s winning,” she says, watching the sunlight shift through the window.

“He’s not winning.”

“No? Freja is out of the succession. My position will be gone or radically curtailed tomorrow. Alma is going to have to be so careful to roll this thing out with Jacob, because having bagged a couple of hunting trophies, the prime minister won’t stop trying for more.”

I don’t tease her about the dream of California sunshine and bottomless mimosas. If Torbald wins, thatcouldbe her future. I brush her cheek. She doesn’t lean into it as she used to, but leans back and takes a drink.

“So what’s our plan?” I ask, dropping my hand.

“Myplan,” she corrects.

I ignore that. “How do we take him down before he takes you down?”

“There’s no need to involve you in my ruin.”

I lift the mug and blow a cooling breath across the coffee, ruffling the surface “Hypocrite,” I whisper.

Her back straightens. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that.”

The window frames a green and delicate wood, reclaimed from wildness with careful tending.

I repeat the words I’ve been hearing for months. “‘Marc, you have to get Alix onboard with running the estate. She’s dying to help you.’” I smile. “You’ve been like a broken record all spring. ‘Don’t do it alone, Marc. Don’t carry it all on your own shoulders.’ If that advice is so good, why aren’tyoutaking it?”