Page 37 of The Winter Princess

She shakes her head, playing with the bow at her neck, fingers winding around the fabric. “The Aunslev Valley produced pottery. One of my engagements last year was visiting the excavation sites.”

“Is your answer pottery?”

Her eyes narrow in irritation. “Why do you sound like the host ofRaining Millions?”

“Is it?” I press.

She drags out her answer. “Yeeeeeees.”

“Wrong. The valley experienced a brief period of tin smelting.”

“Sondmark has tin?”

“Hadtin. Your forefathers smelted it all. Ready for a third round?”

She gusts out a breath and lifts her palms, not understanding the game but playing along.

“What’s the annual average rainfall in the Sonderlands, to the nearest ten millimeters?”

“Five hundred?”

“Five hundred and fourteen,” I say, crossing the room, and tearing off the paper stapled to my dry cleaning bag. I thrust it into her hands. “Congratulations, Your Royal Highness. You’re on your way to failing your first citizenship test. The opportunity to attempt a final test is conditional on a clean criminal record and steady employment. Be sure to grab a resettlement flier on your way out.”

I take a painting from where it’s leaning against the wall and lay it right-side down on a table while she absorbs the bare information of my previous test results.

“You weren’t even close that first time,” she says, voice tight. “57%. How is that possible?”

“I’m an ignorant Pavi,” I answer, running my fingers along the frame.

She gives me such a look as I have only seen on canvas. Valkyries riding the storm. “Were those real questions you asked me?”

I nod. “Her Majesty’s government is good enough to give applicants a few areas of emphasis to focus on for each test cycle. December will feature obscure Sondish fairy tales. I have three months to turn myself into an expert.”

Freja releases a breath. “That sounds easier than ancient metallurgy.”

“How easy will it be for people who didn’t grow up hearing them? How easy is it if there aren’t fairy tale translations into an applicant’s native language? These tests are meant to fail us.”

There’s a whole minefield between Princess Freja and me, unnavigable and dangerous. I don’t want her to offer a facile apology. I don’t know what I want.

She dips her head and I set my tools out in precise lines, bracing myself for a general prostration. Her jaw works. She knows what her challenge with the prime minister might cost me now. I wanted her to know. I expected to feel satisfied. I don’t.

She clears her throat. “We didn’t get 700,000 views because of me. We got them because we appeared on camera together, and it would be crazy to dismiss that kind of success.” Her eyes light and she lifts her hands, pressing the air. “We’re giving them Thora and Bjarke.”

I grunt, half amused. “Who are Thora and Bjarke?”

Her humor checks. “You did the restoration work on them last year, remember? The Winter Princess and her knight.”

Ah.

The silence stretches and she leans forward, arms resting on the desk. “I can’t undo what’s happened, but I can work as hard as I can to meet the prime minister’s goal. We should start filming your behind-the-scenes now.”

“What do you need, Thora?”

Her smile returns. “Cooperation, Bjarke,” she says, lifting a bag.

While she moves quietly around the studio, I meet with members of the restoration team, quickly taking their reports. One has to dye some fabric to patch a moth hole. Another is cleaning a piece of Germanic statuary. When they return to their workrooms, I return to the table where Freja has laid out her supplies and loop the apron over my head.

“May I start?” she asks.