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I glance at Jo, who’s busy buttering her toast. “I didn’t realize Suzanna was coming as well. That’s wonderful. But I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to that.”
“These weddings become more and more unorthodox these days, don’t you think, Otto?” the queen says to her husband, who’s busy shoving a chocolate croissant into his mouth. The king grunts in response.
“I suppose I’m getting less and less spontaneous in my old age,” the queen continues.
Her tone is friendly and conversational, but I can’t help but sense that there are volumes of subtext here. The main theme of that subtext is: the monarchs are not happy with how any of this played out.
Let’s hope we can avoid any more surprises on her third son’s wedding day.
Thank the gods, the conversation moves toward inquiries about my background in art and Jo’s experience running a small supermarket. The questions feel genuine and disarming, and I remember quickly that the queen is beloved for this reason. She may be strict with her family, but she’s genuinely kind with the public.
“Mirror Lake is quite pretty. I suppose when Sigurd first went missing, we should have checked there first. We didn’t think we needed to, since that property was already rented out. Silly me.”
I feel Jo’s sideways glance. Both of us know perfectly well now how the pieces fit together. That we’d been delivering groceries to a missing prince all winter long without even realizing it.
Let’s hope the queen doesn’t figure that fact out before we wear out our welcome.
All of a sudden, a whirling dervish arrives. “Jakob! You little scamp!”
Apparently not noticing the king and queen sitting at the other end of the table, Suzanna sweeps into the room, large and in charge, wearing a blood-red silk floor-length duster that billows over a matching outfit underneath. She looks like a sci-fi villain.
Jo clears her throat, but Suz is too busy both hugging me and scolding me.
I glance over at the king and queen. The king doesn’t seem all that bothered, being preoccupied with his breakfast. The queen seems frozen in place, her teacup poised halfway to her royal lips as she watches the spectacle that is Suzanna.
“I swear, what is in the water? Everyone disappears for months, and now they’re all getting married? It’s a good thing I love the royals, otherwise I’d declare all this engagement and marrying behavior quite boring and tiresome!” Suzanna exclaims.
“Suzanna—” I start, trying to help her save face.
Suzanna is not done ranting, however. “But I do love that Sable. Have you met her? Look what she made for me!”
Spinning around to show off her outfit, Suzanna finally registers who else is in the room with us.
“Oh my gods,” she says, gasping, then curtseying. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal Majesties. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
The queen nods and sips her tea. “Three attempted royal weddings in one year is exhausting, indeed. I quite agree. Let’s hope this one goes according to plan.”
For the first time in her life, Suzanna’s lip is buttoned tight.
I glance over at Jo and squeeze her hand. She seems relieved that the spotlight is off us for the moment.
The center holds. Let’s hope it can hold until this wedding is over.
31
Jo
I’ve never had so many people hovering around me, fussing with my clothes and makeup.
Once, when I served as a bridesmaid in Sabine’s wedding, some of the other villagers volunteered to help with makeup and hair. That wasn’t much of a to-do.
But here, I’m not even a bridesmaid. I’m only a guest.
And yet, the palace stylist has whisked me off to a private room and sewn me into a pale silvery-blue floor-length gown that’s more formal—and probably costs more—than any bridal gown I’ve ever seen.
Apart from the dress, I’m done up with fine jewelry, a fascinator hat, gloves, and a fur stole. I draw the line at heels.
I point to the four-inch pumps that lie untouched next to my dressing table. “I can’t walk in those,” I tell Sable.
