"After you posted it on Instagram."
Her jaw tightens. "What's your point, Nico?"
I don't know what my point is. Just that she met her mother, Katherine Moreau, the woman who sent her packing with two suitcases and a guilty look, and didn't think to tell me until I saw it online with the rest of her followers.
"How was it?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"Fine. We went to Schnepf'n Alm. It was nice."
Schnepf'n Alm.The most expensive restaurant in Reiteralm. White tablecloths, wine lists that require a sommelier, the kind of place where a slice of bread costs more than a normal person’s groceries.
Of course.
Something must show on my face because she narrows her eyes. "I couldn't take Katherine Moreau to some ordinary pub."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." She picks up her wineglass, takes a sip, sets it down harder than necessary. "And before you ask, no, she didn't pay. My father forbade her to pay for anything I eat. So,I had to cover it myself. I had to ask the waiter to split the bill." Her voice drops. "It was embarrassing."
A year ago, hell, a month ago, I might have felt a flicker of satisfaction at that. The princess embarrassed by being ordinary. Having to split a bill like the rest of us.
Not anymore, but still, there’s something uglier than that swelling in my chest.
I shove the monster back, reach out, stroke her cheek with my thumb. Try to smile. It comes out faint, distant, but I'm trying.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That sounds... hard."
She softens slightly, leans into my hand for a second, then pulls away. "It's fine. It's just... I don't know. I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd look at me likethat."
“Like what?” I ask, voice barely a whisper.
"Like you don't know whether to enjoy watching the princess get embarrassed, or feel bad that you couldn't take me there yourself."
The words hang between us.
I open my mouth. Close it.
Because she's right. I don't know which one I feel. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
I pull my hand back. Pick up my fork. Twirl pasta I'm not hungry for anymore.
"I'm not annoyed," I say finally.
"Good."
"But maybe next time, just... tell me. Before Instagram does."
She doesn't answer. Just picks up her fork and goes back to eating.
***
An hour later, I'm at the table with my phone open to the team itinerary. The federation is bussing us to Saalbach, hotel covered for racers and staff. Standard procedure. Easy.
Élise is on the couch with her laptop, scrolling through something. She glances over.
"When do you leave for Saalbach?"
"Thursday morning. Race is Saturday."
