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“It’s not my fault if my friends post pictures.” Andi lifts her nose, but her tone is a mix of defiant and nervous. Baiting her aunt seems to be one of her favorite sports—perhaps partly because she’s not entirely sure what the outcome might be.
“She can’t disinherit you, can she?” I ask.
Andi rolls her eyes and sinks gracefully to a plush couch. “She can remove me from the succession, but it’s not like I’m ever going to be Grand Duchess. She could strip me of my title, but I’d have to do something a lot more egregious than dyeing my hair or letting my friends post pictures. She saw the backlash when Queen Margrethe did that in Denmark.”
“What would happen if she did?” I drop onto the sofa beside her.
She shrugs. “I’d have to get a job. No, that’s not true. I have a trust fund that she has no control over. To be honest, it might be a relief. I wouldn’t have to ride in those stupid parades anymore. Not that I do it anyway.” She smirks. “It’s my own form of protest.”
“That’s it?”
She frowns, tapping her lips with a finger. “There are some royal duties I could dispense with. Thanks to Dad, I’m not considered a ‘working royal,’ so I don't have to do a lot of the official stuff Eduard and Tori have to do. I am patroness of a couple of charities, but I wouldn’t give those up. Of course, they’d probably assign someone else to be the official royal patron if I were removed. That’s why it probably won’t happen—the Grand Duchess doesn’t have anyone else to appoint.” Her eyes sparkle. “By all means, let’s test the theory!” She pulls out her own phone and drags us close to snap a couple of selfies.
While Andi posts her illicit pictures, an interior door opens, and Mareike enters with a man in a brilliant red suit. The mandarin collar and gold buttons down his chest give the shiny jacket a costume feel. He wears gray ostrich skin cowboy boots that probably cost more than the rent on Andi’s apartment.
I only know that because my uncle Blake joked about buying a pair, and they were hideously expensive.
Mareike bows. “Are you ready for us, Your Royal Highness?”
The man pushes past her to grasp both of Andi’s hands. “Darling! It’s been too long! I am so eager to dress you tonight. You will be magnificent!” Still holding her hands, he looks at me, then Lina. “And these are your friends? They will be magnificent, too!”
I can’t believe I understood all of that! My German is getting so much better.
The man introduces himself as Henrik and doesn’t stop talking the entire afternoon. Ignoring Mareike, he drags the racks of dresses forward, flipping through the garments like pages of a book. “No, no, no. Maybe. No, no.”
A timid-looking woman glides in and removes the “maybes” from the rack, hanging them on an empty frame across the room. When Henrik has finished his selections, he turns to Andi and sweeps an elegant hand at the smaller rack. “What is your pleasure?”
Andi rises to look at the handful of garments. The quiet woman holds each one up, so Andi can finger the fabric and examine the structure and trim.
Mareike taps my shoulder. “Frau Eva, I will dress your hair while the princess is busy.” Without waiting for my reply, she heads for the door through which they entered.
I glance at Andi, but she’s deep in discussion with Henrik. Lina flutters her cast-free hand at me. “It’s going to take time, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I’ll have time to set both of you before Henrik is ready to look at your gowns.” Mareike opens the door and jerks her head at the other room.
Inside, a salon chair waits in front of a three-panel mirror and a table full of curling irons, brushes, combs, pins—even a pair of scissors. Mareike waits for me to take a seat, then flings a pink vinyl cape around me.
“You aren’t going to cut it, are you?” I stare in the mirror at the woman as she rearranges her equipment.
“No. Perhaps a bit here and there, if necessary.” She picks up a comb and steps behind me, her face grim as if my hair is a disappointment.
Mareike is not much of a conversationalist. She asks me a few questions, like which side I normally part on and whether I want bangs, then she starts working. A few minutes into the session, she swings the chair around so I can’t see the mirror. I joke that she’s hiding her craft secrets from me, and when she doesn’t respond, I think maybe I’m right.
For an interminable time, my hair is curled, straightened, combed, twisted, pinned, yanked, and even cursed. Finally, Mareike sighs and points an industrial-sized can of hairspray at my head. “Close your eyes.” I comply, and she sprays for what feels like hours, the chemical scent nearly choking me.
“Finished.” She doesn’t ask for my opinion but merely spins the chair, then promptly obscures my view of the mirror by whisking off the cape.
Mareike is worth every penny Andi pays her—my hair looks incredible. It’s piled up on top of my head in a fantasy of curls. The blue under layers peek through the gray, and little glints of something reflect the light, giving a starlight effect. A single cobalt and violet corkscrew curls past my cheekbone. I reach up to touch it, and Mareike slaps my hand. “Do not touch!”
“How did you make it sparkle?”
She holds up a tiny hair pin with a rhinestone attached. “Twenty-three of these. You must return them after the ball.”
“Of course.” I refrain from asking what will happen if I lose one. She’ll probably send the stylist mafia after me to break my kneecaps with hair straighteners.
The door swings open, and Lina bursts in, a tiara cradled in her arms. She stops a few feet into the room, staring at me. “Your hair is amazing!”
I reach up, and Mareike slaps my hand again.
