Chapter 27
Something Rotten
ELLA
Marc’s voice drops. “Why are you using an anonymous, untraceable computer on the grounds of a private club with a long track record of keeping its secrets? What mischief are you up to?”
I swallow thickly. Mischief. That’s the way to sell this. A prank. Bringing about the downfall of a popular elected official is barely a step up from circling the toilet ring with snapping fireworks, setting the seat gently in place, and waiting for a furious sister to burst from the loo.
“Listen,” I begin.
“Oh no.” Marc looks up to the dull metal ceiling where our reflections live in blurry contentment. “It’s more than a few Pixy comments, isn’t it? It’s more than just ‘looking into’ the prime minister.”
I clear my throat. “A little more.”
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if this is one of the early warning signs of a heart attack. “Have you hacked into the national security database?” he asks. “Are we talking about something that big?”
Is it wrong to feel flattered that he thinks I’m capable of it? “I don’t need to hack anything. You would not believe how much dirt you can dig up simply by tracking how busy nearby takeout places are during a national security crisis.”
“Explain.”
“If there are lines at the doner kebab place, they’ve got a problem with the Navy. The top Army brass prefer an American pizza chain.” His hand tightens. “The point is that culling through publicly accessible information is not a crime.”
“I tremble when you use that tone,” he says, dragging the laptop closer. “If you’re not doing anything wrong, explain the remote location and VPN.”
“I wanted a measure of discretion.”
“Discretion,” he mutters. “Show me what you’re working on.”
I don’t know how to keep secrets from Marc.
My brow wrinkles. That’s not entirely true.
He doesn’t know how much I would give to memorialize this booth for posterity, to put up a historical plaque that Neerheid van Heyden and HRH Princess Ella made history on this spot. Continents shifted. Lives were changed.
He navigates with the touchpad, emitting a series of grunts.
Finally, his knuckle brushes the underside of my chin, urging me to face him. “I thought you were trying to untangle yourself from your family. To run away and never look back.”
Arne probably has his eyes locked on us now, prepared to spray us down with a fire extinguisher in the event of another public incident.
“Neutralizing their greatest threat is my parting gift,” I murmur.
“Vede.” The word seems to hiss through his skin, and I drag my gaze away.
“I’m tracking his position,” I say. “The prime minister’s office has a daily rota of activities and lists of meetings anyone is privy to, but there are consistent gaps.” I pull up a spreadsheet, divided up in quarter-hour segments. “Once a week, he drops off the grid.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything nefarious,” Marc argues. “Maybe it’s pickleball. Maybe it’s church.”
My eyeballs almost roll onto the table. “Can you see him bending to the will of the Almighty without alerting PAPZ?”
A smile flits across Marc’s mouth.
“Look at this,” I press, lifting my phone. “During one of these dark spots in his itinerary, he posted a 10 second video of himself, promising a review of the Provisional Residency Card system.”
Until his marriage to Freja, Oskar was a Provisional Resident. For Ella, the subject is personal.
“You might not like him, but he has to visit his constituency and address their concerns.” Marc pushes back, but I don’t mind. He listens, his questions always sharpening my thoughts, forcing me to articulate my reasoning.
I shake my head and Marc brushes a curl back, tucking it in among the others. “He’s not in his constituency.”
Marc taps the screen and watches the snippet, running through it several times. “You have no way of knowing that. This is a ten second video of his face and a bit of pavement.”
“Watch and learn,” I say. “He claims to be in the Nordoest district, but he walks by a sidewalk cafe.”
“We see a few tables and chairs, elskede,” he counters with a laugh.
“Don’t call me that.” The words snap from my lips like an icicle in a high wind—unexpected, shattering. Elskede. Beloved. My reaction to the most common endearment in Sondmark freezes the air between us. If he doesn’t mean it, I don’t want to hear it.
I hitch a breath. “There’s also a flash of a little sandwich board.”
He takes a beat then follows my lead, zooming in on the image. “It could be anywhere.”
I’ve already done much of the legwork for this. Still, it looks like magic when I lean into the keyboard, navigate a series of images, and cross check them against online reviews. “The crack in the sidewalk matches up,” I say, toggling back and forth from a still.
A review from JohnnyMarrsThirdFret declares that Le Pain Kat has, “The best washrooms in Frederickplatz.” Further digging reveals an American tourist and a travel influencer who tagged the cafe for that day.
One of them posted a photo of the sandwich board with the same font.
Special of the day: Pankedruss pancakes.
“We got him,” I say, flashing a look of triumph.
Marc leans back, his hand sliding to my waist. “Impressive. What does this prove?”
I tap the screen. “He went to all that effort to make it look like he was in Nordoest. There has to be a reason why.”
“You think he’s going to tell Princess Ella?”
“I don’t care for this tone,” I reply, wiggling out of his grasp.
His face sobers even as he redoubles his hold.
“I’m worried about you.” I feel the lowness of the ceiling, the wandering plink of a piano, and a storm outside the windows close in on us.
Time slows, glimmering as softly as the lighted votives dotting the room.
A kiss. This time, I’ll let myself mean it—
“The weather is inclement,” Arne murmurs, setting a tower of desserts on the table with a flourish. “The lounge has become full of people who know your mother, ma’am.” His smile is all lemons. “A happy thought, is it not?”
Arne is hardly a fussy man but he arranges the tower with unusual care. “I would not wish Your Royal Highness to be made the subject of gossip.”
When he leaves, words slip through set teeth. “You have got to keep your hands to yourself.”
I can’t blame Marc. I have lost my sense, too.
It’s increasingly difficult to keep things light.
If I forgot myself in his arms, he would feel the change—and then he’d feel responsible.
For a man on my mother’s spreadsheets, bound to Noah by chains of ancient duty and deep friendship, that could only take one form.
Marriage. He’d be trapped. Both of us would be.
Not that Marc would ever admit to feeling trapped. He might even see an alliance as convenient, formalizing his ties to my family with a bride he knows isn’t interested in his money. I know he’d work to make me happy. Is that enough?
Not even a second passes before I dismiss the dangerous idea.
I could never tolerate a marriage with that much math, balancing a long list of pros and cons like a game show where contestants attempt to slice a soft pretzel into two identical pieces and weigh them up at the end.
My parents are evidence enough that a marriage of convenience is convenient to no one.
Marc lifts his palms, but there’s a playful curve on his lips. He likes kissing me, but his exits are plentiful and clearly marked. One of these days, he’s going to take one.
“What are you going to do with the prime minister’s information, elskede?”
I press my lips. Challenging that word again will only lead to questions. “Now that I know he’s hiding something, my investigation is about to get serious.”
He looks at me for a long while, takes a breath, and brushes a kiss on my cheek which Arne couldn’t possibly disapprove of.
When I return to the palace, I have just enough time to throw myself into a cocktail gown—glittery sequins in a rosy mauve—and present myself in the salon for Mama’s inspection.
Clara intercepts me. “You look just right,” she decides after a long look, nodding over to our mother.
It’s not exactly a compliment to my beauty.
Clara’s boyfriend, along with the entire crew of his naval vessel, is receiving a special commendation for the heroic rescue of foreign nationals (and two goats) on the high seas.
Her nerves are probably in shreds and she wants to make sure I don’t cause a scene.
“It’s a big day for Max’s big boat,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Ship, Ella. You won’t—”
I giggle. “I’ll be as good as a saint.”
“I need you to be much better than that.”
The fanfare sounds, and we enter the long reception room to the applause of government officials, leading citizens, and scores of military personnel in their dress blues.
The lone press photographer snaps continuously when Mama receives Max’s correct bow—the first recorded meeting between the naval officer and the mother of the nation. Max carries it off without a hitch.
Alma approaches with a glass of champagne carefully half-full. “I miss having your app to help me memorize all the names,” she says.
“It’s down for repairs.”
“So many uniforms tonight,” she murmurs, glancing around the room. “You could use this time to go shopping for a future husband Mama won’t entirely disapprove of.”
It never even occurs to her that I’m seeing someone.
That I’m at the bottom of a hole I dug myself and am digging deeper every day.
That everything hurts. I take a tiny sip of government booze and force myself to laugh.
“Brody—my soulmate—is mining cryptocurrency for our California acreage as we speak.” Brody will do as a nice, fat red herring, but talk of soulmates makes me want to detonate the golden palace gates.
She tips her glass into mine, setting off a tiny chime. “Here’s to true love. Oh!” The word squeaks out of her. “There’s Marc. I’m surprised this is important enough to take him away from business.”