A Nordic King

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.

But let’s face it, Aksel has been making me feel beautiful every single night that I’m in his bed.

“Sleeping Beauty,” Clara says, looking me over. “That’s who you are.”

“Princess Aurora,” Freja clarifies.

Clara grabs her sister by the arm and starts twirling her around my bedroom. “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream,” she sings one of the songs from the cartoon. It’s terribly off-key and she shrieks more than she sings, but there’s something so utterly charming about the scene in front of me that I feel my heart breaking into a million pieces. It’s so strange how something can make you feel so happy, so good, it makes you painfully sad at the same time.

“You’re crying,” Freja says, once Clara has twirled her toward me.

“Am I?” I say, carefully running the edge of my fingers under my eye. “Probably just dust in the air.”

I head to the bathroom and look in the mirror again, making sure that my makeup isn’t ruined. I don’t know if it was the compliments that Maja was giving me earlier, or seeing Aksel give that rousing speech, or feeling like a princess, like I actually belong here for once, but my emotions all seem to be at the surface today.

As long as I don’t drink too much, I’ll be able to hold it together.

At about 7:30 p.m., after I get the girls into dresses of their own, shiny pink and green numbers with bows, I get a text from Aksel.

Where are you?

I breathe a sigh of giddy relief. I thought he’d forgotten about me.

I text back: Just got the girls ready.

He says: Come down. I need you here.

I need you.

Such simple words and they’re setting my heart on fire.

Be right there.

“Okay girls,” I say, putting my phone on the desk. I don’t have a clutch and the dress doesn’t have pockets so it’s better off in my room. “Let’s go.”

I take them by the hands and we head off to the ball.

The ballroom is located at the far wing of the palace on the first floor and other than playing with the girls and Snarf Snarf in there, I don’t go there much.

But tonight, it’s like entering another world.

You know those royal balls you see in the movies, people in fancy dresses dancing beneath glittering chandeliers, while butlers walk around with appetizers and champagne and a violin orchestra plays in the corner.

It’s like that.

Except everyone is a lot more modestly dressed.

And by that, I mean it’s all very sleek and Scandinavian and understated.

And I’ve just walked in the room in the world’s poufiest prom dress.

Heads turn.

People whisper.

“Who is that?”

“Is that the nanny?”

“Who does she think she is, a princess?”

Okay, well I can’t really hear or understand them from where I am, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re saying.

It doesn’t matter though. I hold my head high, ignoring the looks, and scan the room for Aksel.

I don’t see him at first, so, while still holding the girls’ hands with an iron grip, I slowly walk through the crowd, nodding my head at some of the staff that I know. But even they are giving me a look, you know, the one that says, aren’t you working too? Probably followed by, how on earth did she afford that dress on our wages?

The latter I don’t know. The label said Valentino and I really hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, because I don’t have those kind of funds.

And then, like the sea parting for Moses, the crowd disintegrates in front of me and I see Aksel, standing with the Danish Prime Minister.