Later that evening, we’re granted the rare gift of a night with nothing scheduled. No civic dinners. No mayors. No polite laughter over indifferent wine. It’s simply Astrid and me, alone in the sitting room in our suite, trays set out before us.
“This food is absolutely delicious,” Astrid says, twirling another forkful of pasta. “Is all the food in Ledonia this good? Because everything I eat here seems to be supercharged with taste.”
“I couldn’t tell you if it’sallgood,” I reply, sounding robotic, even to my ears. “I haven’t conducted a comprehensive survey.”
She grins. “I can imagine you’d like to.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You like binders and organization. I bet you love a good set of numbers to crunch and dissect.”
I’m not sure if she’s teasing me or not.
“My fish is very good, although I’m not entirely certain I have regained my appetite for fish,” I say.
She blinks. “Fred. It’s been over twenty-four hours since we fed the penguins at the aquarium.”
“The olfactory memory lingers. One does not simply feed penguins and immediately return to seafood without consequence.”
“Salmon’s a freshwater fish. You’re perfectly safe, Fred.”
We share a small smile.
“You enjoyed gardening today, didn’t you?” I ask.
Her expression softens at once. “Oh, Fred. I didn’t want to leave. It’s one of the things I love most about home. When I was a teenager, I asked my parents if I could work with the gardeners, and they agreed. I’m usually out there most days.” She glances down at her hands. “I haven’t been able to do any of that since I’ve been here.”
There’s no accusation in her voice. Only honesty.
“We should arrange for you to have a garden of your own at the palace, if you want,” I say, the decision forming in my mind.
Her face lights up as though I’ve offered her something far grander than just a patch of soil.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I want you to be happy in your new life here. If that requires a designated area in which you may enthusiastically commune with worms, then so be it.”
“I wonder how Wyatt’s doing? He was a very fat worm. Well fed.” She smiles at me in that unfiltered way of hers, and something in my chest loosens.
“Have you listened to the mixtape?” she asks, lifting her wine to her lips.
“I haven’t yet had the chance,” I admit.
I don’t tell her I removed it from its case, inserted it intomy tape player, and then stood there for a full thirty seconds preparing myself to press play, only to be interrupted by Father, who invited me to go target shooting with him.
“Well, I hope you do. The songs all mean something.”
“I gave you my word I would,” I say in reply. “I will. I brought it on this trip for that express purpose.”
“That’s all I ask.” She sets down her glass. “Tell me about your hobbies. You know I like music and gardening and being with animals. What do you like to do? What do you do to unwind, Fred?”
I hesitate, absurdly aware that my answer may sound achingly dull.
“I run most days. And I enjoy riding each morning. I’m missing it on this trip.”
Her face lights. “Oh, of course I know about your show jumping prowess. You won a medal at the 88 Olympics!”
I shake my head, the near miss at a medal still stinging. “I came fourth.”
