Page 43 of The Winter Princess

A thread of tense curiosity cinches the edges of our circle, drawing us all close. “And?” he prods.

“Three attempts.” I mimic him, slapping my hands together.

“There you go,” Hafsa says, adjusting the ends of her headscarf. “It’s not just me. You were brought up here with as good an education in the history, culture, and geography of Sondmark as anyone, and you still failed.” Her eyes shift over my shoulder, and I hear the voice I have been expecting. Dreading.

“Is that what you were doing while you were working me so hard?”

Oskar. His voice vibrates in my ear and along the tendons of my neck. It’s unsettling and invasive, like a seasonal allergy when the itch gets into my brain.

When I look at him properly, my bones turn to liquid.Stultes es, only six hours ago I was in his studio behaving like a mostly rational human being even when his forearms were uncovered. I paste a blank expression on my face, acknowledging a sudden tightness in my chest, another symptom of a sickness I don’t care to diagnose.

“NeerVelasquez.”

“I told you to call me Oskar.”

“Mm.”

Hafsa gasps. “You’re the man in the video.” She jiggles her husband’s arm. “He’s that man. The one with the PRC, Amin.”

Her smile lights up her face. “I must have watched it a dozen times. My daughter’s school is planning a field trip in a few weeks, and I messaged the teacher right away because I have to come.”

Her eyes flick from Oskar to me and back again. In every culture, in every language, these are matchmaking eyes.

Oskar draws a card from his pocket and hands it to Hafsa. “Message me when you plan to come through. I could bring the class into the restoration studio for a look at what goes on behind the scenes, if they promise to keep their hands to themselves.” He gives a warm smile, which Hafsa returns.

I blink in surprise, smoothing it away as the circle breaks up and the guests move on to other clusters.

“What was that look?” Oskar says.

Our backs are to the room, and we’re facing one of several massive fireplaces. To anyone else, it will look like I’m explaining the history of the mantelpiece. The noise in the ballroom, steady and animated, has receded, enveloping us in a sense of intimacy.

My eyes trace the scrollwork on the frieze as I wait for my heartbeat to settle.

“I’m attempting to reconcile the man handing out his cell phone number to a stranger with the irritated art restorer I’ve been working with all week.”

“Irritated?” He sounds amused.

“I thought you didn’t tolerate distractions.”

“You’re a distraction.” His gaze swings down to mine. “I tolerate you.”

I should be moving on to another circle farther up the room, doling out polite interest and royal glamor. These events aren’t social occasions. Mama runs a family business, and it’s all hands on deck for the dinner rush.Table Six has a drinks order. Hurry, hurry. Mop the spill in the corner booth.There’s no time to chat up the delivery boy in the alley even if I want to.

I return my gaze to the mantelpiece, cheating my duty for another minute. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

He gives a light grunt. “There was no ‘Notify Freja’ box to check on my invitation.”

“You might have told me this morning.”

“I was busy cursing pneumatic staple guns. It didn’t cross my mind.”

Ididn’t cross his mind.

I catch a reflection of him in a mirror and my pulse jumps again. A tablet of Acrivastine would clear these symptoms up. I’m sure of it.

My lashes flicker as I surreptitiously glance over the room. Which of these women is his plus one?

“I’m with Uncle Timo,” he says, tipping his glass. “Come meet him.”