The Frog Prince (29 page)

“Please, call me Elfriede,” she says, half standing and reaching up to shake my hand. She motions me to sit, and then looks over her shoulder where a server has suddenly materialized. She gestures towards me, then back to herself, saying something in German that sounds like a coffee
and pastry
order. I am mesmerized by her soft voice and unhurried movements; both remind me of Menen and Isabella.

Elegant, refined, graceful…
Good god, is there a school these people go to?
I wonder. Just sitting near someone like Elfriede makes me feel like some clumsy, coarse, oversized buffoon.

The server disappears and Elfriede studies me, her head almost imperceptibly tilted to one side, one corner of her mouth lifted enough to give the hint of a deep dimple in her right cheek.

I feel the Balloon of Silence beginning to expand. Instead of blurting out something random, I imitate Menen’s “less is more” approach and fight the urge to fidget as I quietly return her gaze.

Elfriede Lorraine is a classic beauty, petite and fine-boned. Her eyes are blue like Roman’s, but closer to teal than his navy. Her strawberry blonde hair is loose and draped over the shoulders of an impeccably-tailored, crisp white blouse. I stare at her, mesmerized by skin so fair that it glows. Her expression as she looks me over is not unkind.

“Isabella’s curtsey would have put Habsburg courtiers to shame,” she says, her mouth still pulled up at the corner in a perfect imitation of Roman’s smile.

Uh-oh. Her comment is the equivalent of conversational quicksand—no matter how I flail around I’m just going to sink deeper and deeper. I clear my throat and try for neutral diplomacy. “It must take years of practice to be able to do that,” I say.

She raises her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “Weeks, perhaps,” she says, a gleam in her eyes.

“
You
had to do it?”

She suddenly looks wistful. “My parents introduced me into society at the
Wien-Debütantinkugel
–the Vienna Debutante Ball–here at Schönbrunn.” She sighs. “It was the most frightening and most exciting night of my life.”

“I can imagine,” I say. “If I had to do a curtsey like that in front of an audience, I’d definitely have a heart attack.”

She studies me for a moment. “No, I don’t believe that you would,” she says in a decided tone.

I’m about to backpedal and explain to her that I was just kidding, but she changes topics before I can open my mouth.

“I hated the idea of being a debutante, of being ‘presented’ as if I were being auctioned off,’ she says. “The monarchy was a distant memory, but my father still insisted on using his title ‘Count’–which was illegal in Austria. I was presented as ‘Countess Elfriede von Heberstein’ which embarrassed me very much.”

I fight a grimace, envisioning the spectacle.

“I met Roman’s father that night,” she says, her eyes unfocused, lost in a memory. “Of course everyone knew who Heinrich was—the royal family had been living in exile since 1917, and they had only recently been allowed to return to Austria. The papers reported every move he made, and the gossip was non-stop.” She smiles slyly. “And he was very, very handsome.”

I envision Roman in coat tails, me in a floor-length virginal white dress, the two of us exchanging surreptitious glances as couples waltz across the polished floor of the Great Gallery under the sparkle of crystal chandeliers. And then I remember that I would have been the servant circulating the tray of
hors d'oeuvres
and picking up misplaced monocles.

“Did he ask you to dance?” I say.

Her laughter is soft and understated, nothing at all like the hallooing that comes out of me. “
After
I fell over in the middle of my curtsey–yes, he did ask me to dance.”

I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. “You fell over?” I break out in a cold sweat just envisioning something this embarrassing.

“I did!” she says, her eyes sparkling. “And I was doing the simpler St. James bow, not the elaborate curtsey Isabella has mastered.”

“What did you do? Did you cry?”

She smiles. “Almost. My assigned escort was in such shock that he froze. Heinrich walked up the stairs of the dais, held out his hand and asked me if I would open the ball with him.”

I tilt my head. “What does that mean?”

“The most prominent person in attendance would ‘open the ball’ by dancing first,” she says. “Of course, the choice of one’s dance partner for the first dance was given special meaning, and was usually arranged weeks or months before the ball.”

“Who had you planned to dance with before Roman’s father stole you away?”

“I was very shy,” she says. “I was to dance with my brother.”

“So then what happened?” I ask. “After he picked you up off the floor?”

“Oh, it was very scandalous,” she says.

I lean forward, not wanting to miss a word.

“We danced the opening dance and the waltz,” she says breathlessly, “and then the Midnight Quadraille!”

I nod several times in quick succession, my eyebrows arched high, eyes eager, waiting for the scandalous part. And then my face deflates like a tire as I realize that, somehow, she
has
related the scandal and I’ve missed it altogether.

“It was considered highly improper for a couple to dance more than two dances together unless they were engaged to be married,” she explains.

“Ah,” I say limply. While I wasn’t expecting anything worthy of a
Penthouse Forum
letter, dancing multiple times with the same guy seems like pretty tame behavior, even for the nineteen fifties. On the other hand, my dad isn’t Count Chocula, or whatever her dad’s title was, so what do I know of the social niceties of the mid-twentieth century Austrian elite?

“Of course, then he took me into the hidden passage and kissed me,” she says, looking demurely at the table.

“The Chinese Salon?”

She nods, impressed by my knowledge of the palace. “Well, one of the Chinese rooms,” she said. “There are two of them, you know.” She sighs. “What a wonderful ball that was!”

This brings my thoughts back to tonight’s King’s Ball, which makes me start. “Wait a minute,” I say, sitting up straighter in the booth, “I won’t be expected to open the ball tonight with Roman, will I?” The server arrives with our
mokka
and a tray of pastries and quickly takes her leave.

“Of course you will,” says Elfriede, lifting her cup to her lips. “Didn’t Roman tell you?”

My mouth goes dry. “No, he didn’t,” I say. “He likes to spring these kinds of things on me at the last minute.”
Sort of like weekend getaways to Aspen and his ascension to the throne of Austria
.

Elfriede appears suddenly uneasy. “You
can
waltz, can’t you?”

“I know the basic steps,” I hedge.

“Then your dress must be a better dancer than you,” she says.

I visualize myself curled in a corner of the Great Gallery in the fetal position, weeping and nude, my dress demonstrating fabulous, advanced waltz moves as it whirls across the ballroom in Roman’s arms without me.

“My dress?” I say, confused.

“What one lacks in natural ability, one makes up for by dazzling with distractions,” Elfriede says with a smile. “Menen says she gave your mother guidance for the gown; she would have known what design would be most flattering for the waltz.”

“The dress is in my room. I didn’t really look at it other than to see the color so I could find shoes.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, “your shoes.” She looks at her watch, a delicate silver band I mistook at first for a bracelet. “In that case perhaps we’d better save the coffee for another time.” She looks at me and pauses. “If you wouldn’t mind some company, I’d be happy to go with you.”

“I’d love the company,” I say with real relief. “I rely too much on my mother when it comes to clothes and fashion. I have no idea what shoes I should get for the dress.”

“Did your parents decide against attending the ceremony?” she says.

I bark a short laugh. “My mother is afraid to fly, and my father didn’t want to leave her at home alone.”

“I am not fond of flying either.” After a short pause she says, “Well, I should see this lovely dress of yours first. Then if you’d like I’d be happy to take you to my favorite shops so you can pick out some shoes.”

“I’d like that,” I say.

She reaches next to her in the booth and picks up her purse. “With any luck we’ll still have plenty of time for a quick lesson.”

I follow her lead and slide out of the booth. “A dance lesson?”

She smiles. “Not quite, although you may find that it will be equally useful.”

Clueless as to what she’s talking about, I trail behind her as she heads for one of the side entrances. I pull on Jason’s arm as soon as he’s close enough. “If you don’t complain about the shoe shopping or anything else this afternoon, I promise to personally introduce you to the Ice Princess tonight.”

Jason’s professional façade drops long enough for him to smirk and say, “Deal.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Wait…where’s the Athena fountain?” I say.

Roman looks up from the text of his speech and peers out the window of the limo. He looks devilishly sexy in the white coat and black tie of his dress military uniform, despite the fact that I would have mistaken him for a milk man if there weren’t various insignia and medals covering the lapels and breast of the coat.

There’s also an impressive red sash running from his shoulder to his hip that means he’s a Knight of the Royal Order of Something-Or-Other (sword and suit of armor not included).

“The fountain’s in the front,” he says. “Looks like we’re going in through the back. Maybe there were crowd control problems.”

I sigh. Roman’s mother had urged me not to miss the one hundred fifteen year-old fountain of the Greek goddess in front of the
Das Parlamentsgebäude
—the Austrian Parliament building. “Marvelous,” she had called it.

Looks like I’ll have to take her word for it.

After only twenty-four hours in Austria, I’m beginning to get the hang of the life of a royal sycophant. So far as I can tell, it involves darting from dark limousines through the back doors of various large, important buildings. Famous architecture? World-reknowned statuary? Illustrious works of art? Forget it—you won’t be seeing any of it. Your VIP status gives you access to gray alleyways, grim back entrances, and lines of strangers in serpentine corridors, all who want to shake your hand until it’s black and blue.

I lean back in the seat, resigned. If the crowds in front of the Parliament were as massive as the ones that lined the streets along the route from Schönbrunn, going in the back door is probably for the best.

“By the way,” says Roman, touching my hand, “you look beautiful.”

I love the way he says this as if the five other people in the car with us have gone suddenly and collectively deaf.

“I’m nervous,” I say. “Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “Maybe a little. Why are
you
nervous?”

“The TV cameras!” I say. “You know they’re going to zoom in and analyse my hair and my dress and my eye shadow.” I think for a moment. “And what if I have to pick my nose or something?”

“Royalty doesn’t pick its nose,” says Roman. “We have other people who do that for us.”

“Well, us commoners still have to pick our own noses.”

I check my peripheral vision for any sign of life amongst the royal handlers. Nothing. Not even a lip twitch or a raised eyebrow. Even Jason is playing his professional bodyguard role to the hilt, eyes forward. I resist the urge to smack him on the back of the head.
These people are no fun
, I decide.

The car slides up next to a nondescript entrance. Before it’s even come to a stop, thousands of camera flashes light up the night like lightning strikes.

“I still think there’s time to rethink the whole crown thing,” I say, pulling my dress up a little and scooting closer to the car door.

Roman laughs. “It’s a little late for that.”

“What’s the point of being king if you don’t get to wear a crown?”

“Have you ever
worn
a crown?” he says.

I stare at him, lips pursed. Clearly this is a rhetorical question.

“Well, I have,” he says, seeing my look. “They weigh a ton. You can’t move your head at all or it falls off.”

“When did
you
put on a crown?” I say, my voice accusing.

He chuckles and holds up his hand. “Relax, I was, like, twelve years old. My father was close friends with the curator in the museum where the Habsburg crown jewels are kept. He let me take it out of the display case and put it on.”

The woman across from Roman takes the papers from his hands. As soon as the car comes to a full stop, she starts barking orders like a drill sergeant. “Smile and wave the full three-sixty,” she says. “Mayor Slavik will head the meet and greet on the red.”

I’m not sure if she’s giving us instructions or ordering hash browns at the Waffle House. I shoot Roman a quizzical look.

“There are cameras on every side,” he explains. “Just make sure you eventually turn in all four directions so they can take pictures.”

“Meet the who on the what?” I say.

“The mayor of Vienna will shake our hands when we get out of the car,” he says. “Just follow the red carpet.”

The door opens. There is a huge roar of applause and cheering as he steps out. Roman smiles and waves once, then reaches back into the car for me.

“Don’t look into the camera flashes or you’ll be blind for the next hour,” he says.

I grab Roman’s hand with my white-gloved one, making sure that I have a good grip before I lean forward. Once my right foot is on terra firma, I push myself to standing in one fluid movement, my dark pink sheath dress elegantly slithering down to my feet.

Just like Elfriede taught me.

My smile and wave is one of triumph. The crowd wildly applauds my successful gross motor skills. I end up doing a two-seventy rather than a three-sixty, cleverly deducing that no one standing in the receiving line is going to be snapping photos, and they would probably consider it bizarre if I started waving at them like a high-schooler on a homecoming float.