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They clinked. “What will you do with your free weekend?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, it’s a bit of a weird feeling. Even at home, I’m usually working on the weekends, and when I’m not, I’m tied up with my parents. Maybe I’ll do some of the Eldovia Christmas stuff.” Everywhere you turned, there was décor or music or food that reminded you of Christmas, and it was ramping up daily. But the holiday frenzy had been, for her, akin to a soundtrack playing in the background. She sat for a moment with the notion of spending the next two days Christmas-ing and found that she liked the idea. “Can we really go on a sleigh ride tomorrow?”
“We can indeed. The sleigh is used by the palace during Cocoa Fest, but we can take it out any time before then. Perhaps a late morning sleigh ride and picnic lunch tomorrow?”
“I would love that.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Your face does not match your words.” He set his wine on the coffee table, and to her complete astonishment, reached out and touched her forehead. “You say ‘I would love that,’ but your skin wrinkles here in such a way that suggests the opposite.”
She hadn’t noticed she’d been furrowing her brow, but it tracked. Some part of her was no doubt shocked by the words coming out of her mouth. She was not the kind of person who enthusiastically agreed to a freakingsleigh ride. But here she was, jonesing for those jingle bells.
Also, she was being electrocuted by Matteo’s fingers, which were nowrubbing her forehead. Was it possible he was actually a superhero? Uptight royal dude by day, harnesser of electricity by night? Maybe the Star Wars thing was a decoy and he wasreally the Clark Kent–esque alter ego of some kind of lightning-harnessing superhero? Wait. Was he actually Thor?
He kept rubbing, and he added a little smile. Shit. She had to get this back on track. “I was thinking about something else while I was answering you.”
I was thinking about how distressing it is that you make me want to go on a sleigh ride... and possibly also make out with you while on that sleigh ride?
Matteo accepted the deflection. He leaned back against the sofa and sighed.
“Tired?” she asked.
He turned his head toward her without moving his body. “I’m always tired this time of year. It’s more that...” He shook his head as if he didn’t want to finish the thought.
“What?” she prodded.
“I don’t know,” he said, getting up and walking toward the kitchen. “I find myself almost existentially tired this year. I’m not tired in the sense that sleep will cure it. I’mtired.”
She twisted to face him. “Burnout.”
“Perhaps.”
“Can equerries quit their jobs? You’re not committed for life or anything, are you?”
He started pulling things out of a slim refrigerator hidden inside a cabinet. “I can resign anytime I want, of course. But the appointment is in many ways more than a mere job. It’s a giving over of one’s life, in a way. It’s not unlike the military, in that sense.”
“You know that song ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’?”
“I do not.”
“It’s from a movie calledBeachesthat’s about a famous singer and her nonfamous best friend who does everything for her and then dies tragically. The famous friend sings this song to the nonfamous friend about how she’s the wind beneath her wings, about how everything she’s achieved has been because of her support.”
“Well, that’s a nice sentiment.”
“No, it’s a bullshit sentiment. Why should the one friend efface herself fully in service of the other?”
“That’s a very American way of looking at it.”
She realized that he wasn’t coming back to sit because he was working on their dinner, so she got up and walked toward the kitchen. “Can I help?”
He gestured to one of the stools at the bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. “You can keep me company. I hope you don’t mind a simple dinner. I’ve pre-poached some trout and was planning to serve it over a salad with some good local bread.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She seated herself on one of the stools. Another wonderful thing? Having someone cook for you. When she was home, she cooked for her parents. And when she wasn’t, she ate in restaurants, but to have someone cook for you in their home, to direct you to sit down andnothelp, to want you to just sit there andtalkto them... well, it felt suddenly as luxurious as the hot springs in Biel had. “What do you mean that my way of looking at that song is American?”
He paused in whisking the salad dressing he’d been making. “Well, it’s a point of view that starts with the presumption that glory is the goal. That strikes me as rather American. You ask whythe one friend should efface herself, but what if, for her, what you’re calling effacementisn’tactually?”
