Page 30 of The Winter Princess

FREJA

What have I done? What have I done?

The golden rule of the royal family is discretion. Don’t commit hastily. Don’t be impulsive. Promise nothing if it hasn’t been run past the privy council and prime minister.

If I regret my bargain—and I do—it’s too late. Oskar takes my hand and tugs me toward the door. Shock keeps me from breaking the grip. It must be shock.

“It’ll be over in a few minutes,” he says. I feel the scrapes and calluses on his palm and knuckles and stare blankly at our clasped hands as we walk at a brisk pace.

He’s ruthless when he really wants something. The success of this campaign means his job, and I see how determined he is to keep it. His intensity has nothing to do with me, personally, but my fingers burn, nonetheless.

The intern shuffles behind, eyes on his phone.

“What’s your name?” Oskar asks.

“Erik,” the intern mumbles, not lifting his head.

“Erik,” Oskar repeats, “we’re going to save the museum.”

Erik grunts.

In the central gallery, rain beats on the skylights, bathing the space in soft, blue light. Ella explained to me all about light last night, how direct sunshine isn’t ideal for these kinds of things. I’d hoped to be passing that information along to someone else who would be doing this.

“Where do you want to do it?” Erik asks, glancing up.

Oskar doesn’t relinquish my hand as he turns. “Let’s position ourselves in front of a favorite piece of art. What’s yours?”

“The Winter Princess.” I must have answered too quickly. His brows lift. “The painting by Cor Hammersmit on the outer ring. It’s got—”

He nods, impatient. “I know it. I did some restoration work on the canvas before it returned to the gallery.”

“The light won’t be any good there,” I say, as though I’ve known these facts longer than twelve hours. I glance around the gallery. “I like this Beyerling, too.”

Oskar tilts his head, taking in the depiction of the final judgment featuring a surprising number of soberly clad Sondish merchants and their wives, draped in jewel-toned velvets, collecting their heavenly rewards. “That’ll do.”

I shake my hand free of Oskar’s. He looks gently surprised, as though he’d forgotten he was holding on to it and can’t understand why I bothered to let him loose.

He pulls a notebook from his pocket. “We need an introduction,” he says, jotting. “You can say, ‘We’re standing in front of the historic’ etc., etc. I’ll say something about the work the museum does to preserve the cultural legacy of Sondmark, and then you’ll finish up with something like, ‘Come on down to The Nat. Bring the wife and kids.’ Are we good?”

Good? No. This is not good. “That’s all we have? A few scribbles on a page?”

He rips the paper and tucks it under one of Erik’s fingers so that we’ll see it when we look at the camera. His gaze darts to the skylight and along the row of spotlights. He touches my arm, and I shift a few centimeters, earning a grunt of approval. “You were the one who said it’s better to be slapdash.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I don’t speak in public.”

His face arranges into the universal sign of “Are you trying to sell me a piece of the Oiwevest Bridge?”

“Not extemporaneously,” I clarify. “My speeches are written weeks in advance. They marinate long enough for me to discover whether I’m offending the dairy farming constituency or inadvertently starting a third Motovian war.” Rising panic threatens to close my throat. “I hate this.”

He touches my arm and bumps his chin at the intern. “We’ll hate it together.” Then to Erik, “We’re ready.”

No, we’re not.

Erik, gripped by delusions of grandeur, nods and silently counts down with his fingers.Three, two, one.A finger sweeps forward.Go.

“Greetings, Sondmark,” I say, immediately wishing for a do-over. “I’m–I’m–”