Page 53 of The Winter Princess

I was thinking of other things, too. I drove Uncle Timo back to our apartment building, where he returned to his ground-floor flat and I returned to my walk-up. I changed for bed. I brushed my teeth, gripping the sides of the pedestal sink, and looked hard into the bathroom mirror.

No. No. No.

The self-administered lecture was precisely as complex as it needed to be. No, you will not do that again. No, you will not develop feelings for aflamenprincess. No, you will not think of that kiss all night.

It has not improved my mood to see her looking fresh, her hair smooth and bright. There’s a green blouse with a silky bow at her neck, which ought to remind me of grandmother but reminds me, inexplicably, of the lyrics of a 70s song.

My girl’s built the right way

Earthquake won’t knock her down

She’s got the finest house

In Sexy Town

I clear my throat and cross to the canvas.

“Why did you do it?” she asks, a little pale.

I focus on the painting and run my tongue along my bottom lip. I kissed her because I wanted to—because I wanted to for years.

“I wasn’t thinking that hard.” I’m not going to put myself at her mercy simply because she’s curious.

“Right. As you say, it wasn’t a big deal. We’re on the same page.”

I scowl at the St. Sebastian painting and hold it up to examine the fit of the canvas on the stretcher, setting it down flat when I’m satisfied.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, taking a small palate knife and scraping some fill over an area of flaking. I remove the excess with a small cotton swab, appearing absorbed in my task.

“Erik will be recording interviews this week from a selection of the curators and department heads, to be edited and rolled out over the next month. The topic is easy—just pick your favorite object in the museum—but I need a time frame for when you want to do yours.” She’s already moved on, her tone brisk and professional.

“There are plenty of other people to choose from.”

“Your videos are the most popular,” she says.

I frown, locating another area of flaking. “Why’s that?”Dominanstid, I’ve been reduced to fishing for compliments.

She’s silent and I put down my tools, glancing over. When she blushes, she looks like something out of the Renaissance, a vulnerable red flush over the high ridge of her cheekbones. She looks delicate. Priceless. Last night I kissed her.

She takes a breath when she decides to answer. “The camera loves you.” She swallows. “You obviously know a great deal about your subject and—” Her color deepens.

“And?” I prompt.

“You’re not Sondish.” Freja’s eyes drift to the windows and back again. “That’s part of it.”

I breathe a mirthless laugh. “At least you’re honest.”

“Does it bother you?”

I’ll be honest, too. “A little.”

“Why?”

I weigh the risk of giving her more honesty, and the seconds tick by. Finally, I reach over and grab a piece of durable washi kozo paper and pull a pencil from the front of my apron. “I’m happy that people like Hafsa can see someone on a national platform whose ancestors didn’t come from here, but I’m not kidding myself. I’m a curiosity. Most people who watch these videos,” I say, drawing a series of short, dark strokes on a corner of the paper, “don’t think I belong here.”

Freja’s eyes flash. “Of course, you belong here. When you pass your citizenship test—”

“When?” Her optimism is touching. “You think passing a citizenship test has anything to do with belonging?”