A Nordic King(87)

“It does,” she says softly, giving my hand a squeeze. “But let’s not pretend he hasn’t had the help.”

I stare at her, wondering if she could possibly know what’s going on between us. We’ve been so careful with each other, even though Maja is as sharp as a tack.

But if she does know, then it obviously doesn’t bother her.

She’s probably just thanking you for your nanny duties, don’t get carried away.

So I don’t.

When the ceremony and speeches with Aksel, the Prime Minister, and some local celebrity (which, sadly, wasn’t Viggo Mortensen) ends, everyone goes their separate ways to prepare for the ball.

My job, as usual, is to watch the girls and keep them out of trouble.

My job is also to sequester Snarf Snarf into a guest bathroom on the third floor, just to keep him out of people’s way. It’s not an easy job since the bigger the pig gets, the more aversion he has to stairs, and I practically have to carry the giant beast all the way up.

Point is, I’m a mess and I’m a wreck and suddenly going to bed early seems like a better alternative to going to this royal ball.

“Girls,” I call out to them. I’m collapsed in what feels like a bottomless beanbag chair in their room, while they sit on the floor, Clara reading a story to Freja in Danish. “You don’t really want to go to this party, do you?”

“Yes we do, we go every year,” Clara says and without skipping a beat, goes back to reading out loud.

“I don’t even have anything to wear.”

“Why don’t you wear what you wore earlier,” Freja says, snickering. “Papa thought you looked funny.”

I groan. He did. That was his plan all along. And I still haven’t had a moment alone with him to kick him in the shins.

But the truth is, I don’t have anything to wear. For some reason I thought I would be wearing a costume to the ball and now that I know that’s not happening, I’m left with my own clothes and I’ve got nothing except miniskirts.

I sigh and text Henrik, who is probably super busy right now driving food and party supplies back and forth, but I do it anyway. Since I can’t leave the girls, and I’m not about to take them into a clothing store, I ask if Henrik can pick up a dress during one of his errands. I tell him my size and tell him I don’t want anything too clingy around my stomach because I don’t want to show off the little belly I’ve gained thanks to endless potatoes and rye bread. Really, I just want him to pick something that will fit in with the ball. He’ll know better than I do.

He doesn’t come back with the dress until way late. We skipped dinner because Karla and the cooks have been so busy with appetizers and drinks for the ball, so I scrounge around in the bustling kitchen for some bread and cheese and then bring it out to the dining room, so we at least have something to munch on before things get started.

My makeup is already done, and I straightened my hair, wearing it down to make up for the fact that it was stuffed in a braid and bonnet all afternoon, when he appears in the other doorway to the hall.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Henrik says, breathless. In his hands he’s holding a huge garment bag. “But I got the dress. I may have consulted with my wife on this one, so if you don’t like it, it’s all her fault.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I tell him, and I’m a bit relieved since I’ve met his wife once and she seemed to have good fashion sense. Then again, most people in this city are effortlessly stylish.

When we’re done scarfing down the bread and cheese, I wrangle the girls back up to my room since I don’t dare trust them alone when there’s party prep going on. I place them on the bed and tell them they can be my fashion show judges.

“Make sure you smize,” Clara calls out as I take the dress into the bathroom.

How on earth this girl knows about “smizing” and America’s Next Top Model is beyond me.

I close the door and unzip the garment bag.

Well, the first impression is good.

It’s a bronzy, nude color with glitter and sequins and…

I wrestle it out of the bag and then it expands to five times its size.

Holy shit.

This is an actual ball gown.

Like, a princess kind of ball gown.

From a Disney film.

I hold it up, trying to see if it will even fit but thankfully it seems to be my size.

I manage to get it on and look in the mirror.

The bustier top is full-on sequins, low-cut, pushing up my breasts while nipping in my stomach. The rest of the gown poufs out majorly, all glitter and tulle and magic.

Wow.

“Let us see,” I hear Clara cry out.

I open the door and make a dramatic entrance, shifting my hips to the side and throwing out my arms. “Ta-da!”

“You’re a princess!” Clara yells, jumping off the bed and running over to me. “You’re more princess than I am!”

“Du ser smuk ud,” Freja says, following her sister and running her hands down the side of my dress.

“Thank you,” I tell her. She said I look gorgeous.

I feel gorgeous.

For once I don’t think that my ears stick out a little or that my teeth and smile are oversized or that my brows are too strong and bold for my face. For once I think it all comes together, making me beautiful.