Chapter 28
Allow It
MARC
Ella.
My thumb slides across the screen. Send.
I spent half the night online, traveling from SquadRun to Runaway Wagon, finally finding her in brIx, building a pixelated castle, one cube at a time.
She doesn’t engage my character, but pauses long enough in her work to see that I’ve fought off an army of zombies.
She sends a short message of thanks to my anon account but returns to her work.
I’m newly impressed with how my queen managed to bring her second daughter into adulthood without ruin or catastrophe. I run down to Lindenholm at the weekend, still wondering where I stand.
Alix has returned from the U.S. for the wedding, and she drags me out to her reception venue in the soft morning sunlight, wearing a summer dress and an oversized cardigan slouching around her elbows.
The ground, on the edge of a test orchard, is torn up in several places to allow the placement of complex utilities for a massive wedding party and a future BLUSH concert.
I have a meeting with a local planning commission after lunch to convince the burghers of Aunslev to accept a generous donation to make up for inconvenient spikes in electricity use, but my thoughts are not on utilities or crop yields or Q2 earnings.
I kneel, brushing a dew-soaked dandelion glowing in the sunlight.
The transformation of this flower, somehow both sturdy and delicate, is a wonder.
The bright yellow face of it is turned up, soaking in the sun, but soon the flower will furl, delicate petals twisting up tighter than two hands clasped in prayer.
It will hold there, waiting until the stem bursts into seed to become something else entirely. Then is it time for wishes.
“Have you made a decision about the hotel?” she asks, hand gripping a branch, swinging lightly.
“Not yet.” Alix goes very still, and I try to explain. “It’s a big step.”
I take no joy in disappointing her. Alix is a child of Lindenholm as much as I am, but because I’m the firstborn son, my vote is the only one that matters.
“We don’t have a farm shop,” she says, shading her eyes. Her disappointment is tucked away.
“Now you want a farm shop?” I smile.
Alix turns away from the muddy field and retreats into the orchard. “If you’re not ready to trust me with a hotel…”
“It’s not about trust,” I insist.
“I have a backup plan that won’t cost you a fennig.”
I don’t deserve this much graciousness. I tip my head, listening.
“We could host market stalls, the kind that sell healing crystals and beeswax candles, and start out self-sustaining. In a year or two, we could afford an actual shed.” She passes me her tablet showing an image of a stone and beam structure
“That’s a lot of crystals.”
“I know the public. They’re starving for aesthetic jars with tiny useless spoons tied on.” She smiles, but her expression grows serious. “The Crown Estates is breathing down our necks, and this would be a good place to sell the Lindenholm label directly to the customer.”
There are a thousand decisions to be made, and I feel the weight of every one of them.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, not wanting to dim her smile. It dims anyway. A feather-light cloud passes over the sun.
“I can do this, you know.”
“Of course you can.” I answer too quickly.
“Amma was a model,” she says, “same as me. She dabbled in performance art and eloped with a drug addict she met in a club. She didn’t emerge from the ether as a force to be reckoned with.”
She scoops up a thin, flexible twig and swipes the heads off several sodden dandelions, scattering her wishes with brute force rather than a soft breath. “You were a uni student when you financed your first startup. I remember telling you what to wear to the meeting.”
“You always know what to wear.”
She aims another swipe at the weeds. “I know more than that. I may not have every step mapped out before I start a project, but I know the vibe.”
I will not laugh. “I can’t run my life on vibes.”
“You should. Haven’t you ever wanted something you couldn’t explain with a task management tool? Something you felt in your gut before you ever worked it out in your head?”
She means business, but my mind slips to Ella.
My brain was the last one to get the memo, and when it did, it set about putting a ring of sturdy seawalls around all the things I felt in my gut, keeping that unreliable organ out.
It’s a temporary thing. Just physical. We’re just friends.
Forever that. The walls are ruined now. A pressure forms in my chest, but I shake my head, bringing myself back to Alix and her aesthetic spoons.
“I know what I want—know it’s reasonable and right to want it,” she says, “and I trust myself to do the creative problem solving and collaboration it will take to get me there.”
I can’t believe this is what she really wants. “The estate isn’t your responsibility. I want you to be free to live your life wherever it takes you.” I look around. “Not in a muddy orchard, thinking up ways to bribe the local authorities.”
She shrugs the cardigan over her shoulders and stuffs her hands into the pockets. “You think you have to do it all yourself.”
“It comes with the title.”
Alix shakes her hair, turned to silk in the morning sun, out of her face. “Grandfather used to tell Amma he was the head of the family. When dad was on a bender, shaming the ghosts of Lindenholm, Grandfather would remind her that she was under his wing.”
“As you are under mine.” I hunch against a tree and look down at the mud. My mud.
She crouches low enough to look up at me.
“As you are under mine.” The reminder comes with a smile.
“Grandfather tried to get her to see that the van Heydens were a family linked together. That even if a link failed, the fabric would hold. Her Seongan heart understood it.” Alix touches my arm.
“You’re not alone, Marc. You don’t have to shut yourself up at Lindenholm with all your responsibilities while everyone else gets to live the lives they want. Let me help you.”
We turn back to the house, and a soft wind ruffles the leaves behind us. Alix has unconsciously added her voice to Ella’s, rooting me out of the notion that my role is to forever dispense aid and favor in my modest kingdom.
Driving into work the next morning, I give my sister the go-ahead to plan a few farmer’s markets. It’s the smallest concession but, over the car speakers, I hear her delight.
At a train crossing, I scroll through my text messages with a frown.
Ella.
My text is unread and it can’t be a matter of losing a charging cord or simply being caught up in the activity of the day. I check the House of Wolffe royal diary of official engagements. She’s not busy. In desperation, I text Noah.
Game tonight?
His text comes bouncing back.
Pass. Ella is slated to testify tomorrow. We’re prepping her.
I am uneasy all day, plowing through my workload, anxious for no reason I can put my finger on. I use that energy to burn through agenda items and wrap up a long, productive meeting. I turn from the executives to see Werner, hovering close by.
“Sir,” he starts, clearing his throat.
“I thought you would be happy with me for once,” I say, “spending so much time with the VPs.”
He tips his tablet forward. “This isn’t strictly Han Heyden business, but—”
I take the tablet, and read the chyron scrolling along the bottom of the screen. “Breaking: Princess Freja Renounces Succession Role, Royal Family Shattered”.
I emit a low, explosive curse and pull up a video—a short interview of Freja and Oskar, sitting down with Sondmark’s most trusted news reader, Neer Hjefdal.
Freja, wearing a sober blue dress, is blinking too much, but Oskar reaches over and takes her hand. She flashes him a smile and turns her gaze on the interviewer who asks, “Why have you chosen to halt the parliamentary process, ma’am?”
Her voice is steady. “Because no investigation will clear me of disregarding protocols established in the wake of the Marriages and Succession Act. I married, seeking neither the permission of my mother nor her government and, while such rules may seem outdated and strange to anyone outside the royal succession, my wedding was against the law and carries clear penalties.” Her expression is serene as she paints herself into the tightest corner.
“Though I believe I chose the correct course of action, I also agree wholeheartedly with the prime minister. The law makes no allowances for the intensity of my feelings.”
Dominanstid, Freja.
Neer Hjefdal leans back, his reassuring presence like that of a favorite uncle.
“Are you asking that the Marriages and Succession Act be abolished? Is this not the logical conclusion of your refusal to bend to parliament? Do you suggest, ma’am, that having entered the modern age, the need to control governmental policy through strategic alliances has evaporated? ”
Oskar is silent, but he clasps Freja’s hand. It’s strange. I’ve known her since she was born and she didn’t like to be touched, even in her pram.
“I make no such claims,” Freja says. “I have no wish to influence the Sondish legislative body. I have always felt that certain marks of antiquity allow us to understand our past.”
Deep grooves bracket Neer Hjefdal’s mouth and he looks like he has a stomach complaint. “Do you propose, as some have suggested, annulling your marriage and going through the approval process? Starting at the beginning, as it were?”
When she turns her gaze to her husband, Freja glows. Unease ripples over my skin. A thermonuclear warhead glows in the moment it wipes the map clean.
“I wish the prime minister well in every good thing he hopes for Sondmark, but I cannot bend to this request. It’s much too late for that,” she says, her smile tucking her cheek.
“I have been in communication with the palace and have notified my family that I am surrendering my HRH title effective immediately, and will no longer be a working member of the royal family. When I am spoken of in the press, I wish to be known simply as Vrouw Velasquez.”
Boom.
“This will come as a surprise to the country, ma’am,” the newsreader allows.
“You think?” I roar. “You think?”
Neer Hjefdal turns to Oskar. “How can you allow such a sacrifice on your behalf? Would it not be better to allow the approval process to proceed? Your acceptance by parliament would signal a new Sondish approach to the royal family, one welcoming of diversity.”
Oskar lifts his brow. “My father-in-law is Pavian. Is he not welcome?”
Freja nods—her smile is more certain than reality.
Still Neer Hjefdal presses. “Neer Velasquez, how can you allow it?”
Oskar doesn’t smile readily, but his features shift with subtle amusement as he glances at Freja.
“Perhaps you do not know how formidable a princess of Sondmark can be.” A small silence follows and Oskar leans forward.
“I will be guided by my wife. She has chosen to make this sacrifice, and my task, for as long as I draw breath, is to make her feel it’s been worth it. ”
Oskar looks at Freja and she looks at him, gives him a quick nod, and turns to Neer Hjefdal.
“I would like to add another piece of news, if I may.” Freja clears her throat and I brace myself for more bombs.
“We hope that each citizen of Sondmark will add their prayers to ours for the safe arrival of our little one. We’re expecting our first child. ”
Dominanstid. I whisper the oath.
The interview fades to black and the emergency broadcast returns to a newsdesk. “Surprising news from the newly-minted Vrouw Velasquez…”
I shove the tablet into Werner’s hands and bolt from the room, taking the stairs three at a time. I call over and over again as I go.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I say, pressing on the accelerator, and race out of my executive parking stall. I bypass the ornate main gates of the palace, already thick with news teams staking out the best shots, and choose another entrance.
“How are things?” I ask Thor, briefly lowering my window.
“Princesses causing all hell to break loose.” He lifts the gate with a grin. “It’s just another day at the Summer Palace.”