That second seems to stretch forever… but it shatters when she raises her hands to my chest and shoves me. She’s smaller than I am so in effect she pushes herself away, sputtering.
“What are you doing? Are you insane?!”
I can’t help but agree with her, honestly. What was I thinking? Taking a deep breath, I try to ease some of the tension that has been building between us. I shrug my shoulders and play it cool.
“It seemed like the thing to do.”
She makes a disgusted sound and backs away from me. “It wasn’t.”
A narrow my eyes. “I won’t apologize.”
Margot gives me a bitter look. “Of course not. Why would you apologize about anything at all, ever?” Straightening her dress, she turns and starts to leave the room.
I stop her with a word. “Margot.”
She stills, although she doesn’t turn back toward me. When she answers, her words are tart. “Yes, your highness?”
My lips twitch. “You look good in that dress.”
She whips her head around and glares at me, then leaves the room with a disgusted sound on her lips. I lean my head back and close my eyes.
For just a moment, I enjoy my solitude. Then I hear Erik.
“Stellan?”
I open my eyes to find him poking his head in the room.
“Haj,” I greet him.
“You need to meet with the French ambassador. And there are also a whole entourage of people here from Morocco to meet with you.”
I sigh. “Ja. I’m coming.”
And just like that, I’m swept up in the royal machine again.
Chapter Eight
Margot
Iturn a corner, hurrying along the bright streets of Copenhagen. I’m wearing a set of headphones which are plugged into an ancient iPod. Hole is playing, the angsty, screechy guitars and rollicking drums paired perfectly with Courtney Love’s violent wails.
I know, it’s not for everybody. But for me, it’s soothing. Sometimes it’s nice to hear something that really matches how I feel on the inside. I cast my gaze over the city street in front of me.
Everything seems clean here. There is no trash on the ground. There are no homeless people milling around. The buildings that rise up on each side of me are white or tan or brick. They contrast nicely with the slate gray of the street and the black and orange and green roofs.
It’s early morning and fog clings to the tops of the buildings. It’s hard to see more than a few blocks in front of me, which is just as well. I try to keep my mind on the architecture as I cross the street. The second I turn a corner and the palace rises out of the mist like a graceful giant, my heart ratestarts rising.
There are four buildings that make up the palace; four massive tan brick buildings all huddled in a circle, all saluting a rather large statue of a man on a horse. With their white-trimmed windows, dark roofs, and guards dressed in scarlet, the palaces definitely proudly exudemoney.
It’s funny to think that the whole compound belongs to one family. Wrapping my brain around it is hard. Every single instinct I have tells me to run away screaming. The dirt poor little girl from Brooklyn who still lives inside me is terrified of all this… thiswealth.
It’s just so…conspicuous. I’ve worked so long and so hard to fight against the idea of oligarchy, that a country should be run by the rich and not by the common man. I’ve protested with Occupy Wall Street; when Citizens United was handed down by the supreme court I marched in the streets.
And yet… here I am, staring up at the palaces with a sourness in the pit of my stomach.
How is this place Stellan’s home?
And how did I end up spending a night in his bed?
