by Kirsten Boie
“C’mon, Perry,” said Jenna, trying to pull him back from the door. “It doesn’t matter.” She was afraid of the fair-haired man, though she didn’t know why.
“Doesn’t matter?” the man repeated. Suddenly he looked furious. How could his mood change so quickly? He sucked his chewing gum back into his mouth. “It does matter, Pizza Princess! You don’t seriously think we’re going to let you go, do you?”
“Perry, no!” cried Jenna.
But Perry had already hurled himself at the guard. “You’ll be sorry!” he shouted, hitting the man’s chest. “You’ll be —”
The young man gave him a push. He put so little effort into it, he might have been swatting a fly, but Perry stumbled and fell on one knee.
He shouted a stream of curses.
The guard just laughed. “You made a big mistake, little man,” he said. “Spying on the depot. After that, why would we want to set you free?” He tapped his forehead, then picked up the tray. “Don’t know? Can’t figure it out?” he asked. “Well, you’ve got time.” He shut the door and turned the key.
Still on the floor, Perry watched him go. He cursed some more, then got up and brushed off his pants. There was dirt and bird droppings stuck to his knees. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How does he know about the depot?” He looked at Jenna with consternation.
Jenna swallowed a large mouthful of water. She never knew it could taste so good. “No idea,” she said. “Or maybe … It could be from my phone. Remember? The video was on it.”
Perry sat down again on his rope and twisted the top of his water bottle. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I should have thought of that myself.” He drank until there was hardly any water left in the bottle. “The video. But why is that a reason not to let us go? It’s not logical, Jenna.”
Jenna stood on tiptoe at the window. She could hear the waves splashing against the pebbles on the shore, and a guard was walking back and forth in front of the door. Two other men were talking outside. There was no point trying to break out. She and Perry wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Um, because … No, you’re right. It’s not logical,” she murmured, going back to her own rope. She wriggled around to make herself comfortable. “If it was the rebels that set up the depot, why would it matter to Bolström that we found it? It wouldn’t put him in any danger. If anything, it would support his whole anti-northern thing.”
“Exactly,” said Perry. “So what is it about the depot that makes Bolström so determined to stop us from talking about it? Why should he refuse to let us go even after the ransom is paid? But it can’t have been him who set up the depot. He’s on the run himself.”
Jenna shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “And I don’t care. I’m getting scared, Perry. They’re not fooling around. If he’s not going to let us go, what’s he going to do to us?” She was beginning to feel sick just thinking about it.
Perry made a dismissive gesture. “We’ve got to figure it out, Jenna,” he said. “We’ve got to understand what’s going on. It’s our only hope of getting out of this.”
He closed his eyes. Superbrain, thought Jenna. Genius at work. Except that it wouldn’t be enough to grasp what was behind all this. He also had to find a way for them to escape.
“Got it!” Perry slapped his forehead, then looked at Jenna. “How could we have been so dumb? But if it’s what I think it is …” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Then it’s a lot worse than we thought. Then there might be no hope at all.”
During the drive to the train station, the driver never said a word to Jonas.
No one wants to talk to me now, thought Jonas. I’m the son of a traitor.
He heard the news on the car radio: He already knew that Jenna and Perry had disappeared, but the fact that they were being held hostage, to be exchanged for Liron, had come as a shock. What did it mean?
The driver made eye contact in the rearview mirror, looked at him contemptuously, then turned his attention back to the road.
At the station, the man did not even take the luggage out of the trunk for him, but just popped the lid from the driver’s seat, then watched the boy struggle, shouting, “Watch it!” a couple of times when it looked as if Jonas’s suitcase might scratch the paint. He drove off as soon as Jonas had slammed down the lid. He’d already been paid back at the boarding school.
Guess it was worth the fare to get rid of me, thought Jonas.
The station looked like most stations in small South Scandian towns: dark red brick with white frames around the tall, narrow windows. The entrance was exactly in the middle. In the old days, the station manager used to live on the upper floor, but now those windows were full of cobwebs.
Jonas went into the station. There was no agent. It was a small town, and the prosperous South Scandians generally traveled by car, anyway, since they found it more comfortable and convenient. Instead, passengers bought their tickets at the automated dispenser with its flashing screen, and withdrew cash from the ATM sponsored by Scandia’s largest bank.
Jonas heaved his bags into the middle of the room, where two benches sat back-to-back. He sat on the edge of one of them. A little boy was standing on the other, and he peered curiously at him. He was about four years old, and obviously regarded the benches as a kind of jungle gym.
“No, Albert, get down at once!” said a young woman sitting on the other bench with a load of bags and packages, next to an older woman.
The boy started climbing over the back of the bench, but his mother pulled him down.
“No!” yelled the boy.
Jonas smiled at him.
Above the entrance to the one platform hung a clock. I’ll take the first train that comes, thought Jonas. It doesn’t matter where I go. I’ve got to wait till Malena contacts me. She has to call. She’s never going to believe that Liron …
He stiffened. The three questions. He was still no closer to answering them. How could Liron have thought he’d be able to solve these riddles on his own?
Perry, thought Jonas. The Superbrain. He could have figured it all out, but I wasn’t allowed to tell him. And I’m no good at these kinds of mind games. How could Liron have thought I was? He’s seen my grades!
There were still ten minutes to go before the next train. Why had the two women come to the station so early? The little boy was fidgeting and whining. His mother gave him a cookie.
Perry. He hadn’t wanted to think about Perry — or about Jenna. Had the rebels really abducted them? Just to trade them for Liron? That would make Liron not just a traitor but responsible for Perry and Jenna being taken hostage.
No. How could he even think that for a minute? Liron was not a traitor.
But then who had Perry and Jenna? Who else could it be but Nahira? And how were they being treated?
Perry and Jenna. Why hadn’t the kidnappers taken him instead of Perry? The thought gave him a warm feeling inside. I wouldn’t have cared if they did kidnap me — not if I was locked up with Jenna. But now she’s alone with Perry …
Jonas glanced again at the clock. I’d have been better off getting myself kidnapped than sitting here at the station, not knowing what to do.
Or should he try calling Jenna’s mother, Margareta? Or her uncle, the king? Would they help him even if they didn’t trust Liron?
If only I had their numbers, he thought. But I don’t, so it’s pointless even thinking about it.
The hand on the clock crept slowly from minute to minute, marking each movement with a click. The little boy was still sniveling on the bench behind him.
“No, Albert, leave Mommy alone! Mommy’s going to get some money,” said the older woman.
Jonas heard the boy clambering down from the bench, and then saw him running after his mother toward the cash machine.
“Me!” he shouted in a voice that would have drowned the sound of an incoming train. “Me, Mommy, me! Let me do it!”
The woman pulled a wallet out of her bag. “All right, come
here,” she said. She lifted the boy up and gave him her card. “Put it in there now, Albert.” The card disappeared into the slot, and she put the boy down before entering her PIN.
“Oh goodness!” she said to the other woman. “All these wretched numbers! Cell phones, passwords, online banking … I always get something mixed up. Luckily I wrote it down somewhere …”
She started rummaging in her bag again.
“That’s a risky thing to do,” said the other woman. “What if someone steals your purse?” She glanced at Jonas, as if he might be a potential bag-snatcher. “You should make up something to help you remember — then you wouldn’t have to write it down.”
The machine hummed and money poked out of the dispenser.
“Me!” yelled Albert again. “Me, Mommy, me, Mommy, let me!”
His mother lifted him up again.
An idea began to form itself in Jonas’s head.
“How do you make up something to remember? Like when you play the lottery?” the woman asked over her shoulder as she put the boy down and took her money from him. “All the family birthdays, that kind of thing?”
Jonas stood up. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
He went out through the main entrance to the station and looked around the parking lot. He’d left his suitcase by the bench — the women wouldn’t steal it.
Frantically he pulled his cell phone out of the duffel bag that was hanging over his shoulder. At last he’d found the answer.
Ylva had not told anyone that she was coming. She was certain her mother would still be at the estate, because there had been a few things to take care of after the party, and she’d been running around in Saarstad yesterday!
“All that way?” the taxi driver had asked when he’d picked up Ylva at the school entrance and she’d sat in the back and told him her destination. He’d sounded suspicious.
“Did I not say it clearly enough?” she’d asked. The von Thunbergs knew how to talk to inferiors, who would realize at once from the tone, the look, the slightly raised eyebrow, just who they were dealing with. “Afraid I might not be able to pay? Do I look poor to you?”
The driver had shaken his head and put the car in gear. During the journey, she’d gazed out at the countryside. Thinking wasn’t enough — she needed to ask some questions.
The taxi climbed the gravel drive to the house and came to a halt at the foot of the broad flight of steps.
“Is this it?” asked the driver. He looked at his meter. This one fare would earn him more than he would normally make in three or four days — or, in bad times, a whole week.
“Wait a moment,” said Ylva. She got out and summoned the housekeeper, who came hurrying out of the double doors with an immaculate hairdo and a bewildered face.
“Please pay the driver,” said Ylva, and walked past her into the house. She had intended to add, “And please tell my mother I’m here,” but instead she raced upstairs.
Music was coming from the second floor, which meant that her mother was exactly where Ylva had expected her to be. Her parents had their living quarters on the first floor, but about two years ago her mother had set up a studio in an unused room on the floor above. At that time, for some reason, all her friends had been taking up painting in addition to golf and tennis. To Ylva’s amazement, her mother now spent her mornings in this sparsely furnished room, with her hair severely tied back and an ever more colorful artist’s smock over her perfectly fitting designer jeans.
Just now, the theme was Africa, as Ylva could see at a glance. On her last visit to the studio, it had been still lifes.
“Ylva!” cried her mother, taking her brush away from a yellow canvas. The joyful surprise in her eyes changed almost immediately to anxiety. “Darling! What happened?” She put the brush down on the palette and wiped her hands on a cloth. She took a step toward her daughter, but stopped when she saw Ylva’s expression.
“You tell me,” said Ylva, leaning against the doorframe. Would she also live like this one day? Golf and tennis and watercolor giraffes? I’d rather shoot myself, she thought. Once upon a time her mother had been class president and captain of the field hockey team, too, though not at Morgard. So what was it that made people into what they became?
“I don’t understand, darling,” said her mother. She was still wiping her hands, over and over again, on the cloth between her fingers.
“I saw you on television,” said Ylva.
At last her mother dropped the cloth. “Oh?” she said.
“The cameramen should have known better,” said Ylva. “Even the best headscarf is no use if they get a close-up of your face! Or maybe they didn’t know exactly what was going on. And you should have worn different shoes! Honestly, Mother, have you forgotten what people like that wear? Have you never looked at your cook’s feet?”
Her mother seemed shocked. Maybe she was trying to decide whether she should deny the accusation.
“How did you get involved in something like that?” Ylva went on. “What was it all about? Whose idea was it?”
“Ylva!” her mother said. “How dare you talk to me like that?”
“Tell me whose idea it was!” cried Ylva. “I want to know what’s going on!”
“Baroness von Eskyll spoke to me at the party,” said her mother, looking like a sulky child who thinks she’s being unfairly told off. “To all the ladies, in fact. She asked if we didn’t think it might be fun to —”
“Fun?” exclaimed Ylva. “Fun?”
“… to skip our usual Monday morning book club and go to Saarstad instead. The poor hungry people there are suffering so much, she said, and we should hold a demonstration to show our support. We owe that to Scandia, she said. All those unfortunate souls who can no longer buy anything in the shops —”
“But up until Sunday you were obviously able to buy anything and everything you wanted!” said Ylva. “Unless I was imagining all that food at our garden party!”
“Yes, but one also has to think of other people,” said her mother, almost pleading. “One mustn’t always think just of oneself, Ylva — that’s our duty as aristocrats, to take the side of the ordinary people —”
“That’s a load of baloney!” said Ylva. “So you thought you’d just go and pretend you were a poor peasant woman? That you were hungry? You didn’t think that was fraud? It never occurred to you that you were a fake?”
“One must think of Scandia,” said her mother. “Perhaps not everyone knows how terrible conditions have been in our country since this new government started ruining everything! And we have to show them — that’s what Baroness von Eskyll said. How bad things are, and how hungry everyone is!”
“Oh, thank you, Mother, thank you so much,” Ylva said, turning on her heel. “And you never even noticed that you were part of a game, did you? With rules you knew absolutely nothing about? You never thought they might be using you?” She slammed the door behind her.
“Ylva!” cried her mother.
Ylva opened the door again. “Just go back to painting your African sunsets!” she cried. “Although you know nothing about those, either! But at least you can’t do any damage with them!”
Then she ran down to her bedroom and locked the door behind her.
Immediately after school, Bea went to the police to report the theft of her cell phone. She had to answer a list of questions that the police receptionist read off a computer screen, and then she had to sign a statement.
“If the phone was switched on, you’ve lost it,” said the policeman. “So don’t get your hopes up. If it was off, there’s still a chance.” The school custodian had said the same.
The policeman gazed thoughtfully at her, his eyebrows knitted. “Why do I get the feeling that I know you?” he asked. “Have you lost your phone before?”
“Nope, first time,” said Bea. “I’m not that careless!”
A smile lightened the policeman’s face. “Wait, now I remember,” he said. “Last time it was your fri
end you reported missing, right? And you kept saying you’d seen her on TV. And she looked like a princess.” He typed something into his computer. “I thought then: The things teenage girls get into their heads!” He laughed.
Bea wanted to leave.
“And the craziest thing about it was that it was true, right?” He looked up from the keyboard. “My partner and me, we’ve seen a lot of strange stuff in our time — that’s what the police are for — but someone reporting a missing princess …”
Luckily the door opened at that moment and a very agitated woman in a torn dress came storming into the police station. Bea didn’t wait to find out what had happened to her.
“Thanks much!” she called over her shoulder. Whoever heard of a stolen cell phone being recovered, anyway?
Ylva sat down on her bed. Pink silk covers with gold trim — a princess’s bed.
“And you’re my princess,” her father had said when she was little. It had been one of the wonders of her childhood that it had almost been true. “Almost” was also the word her father had used. He had told her how close the von Thunbergs were to royalty, and all they had to do was find a prince for her somewhere in the world, because a von Thunberg would be just the right person for a prince to marry. And then she really would be a full-fledged princess.
“Unbelievable!” said Ylva.
She remembered the fairy tales her nanny had read her every evening before she went to bed, or on gray winter afternoons over a cup of cocoa, or on rainy summer days in the garden house. She remembered all the princesses who really were what she almost was, and one day ought to be. They were beautiful and gentle and kind. That was the most important thing, because only a kind princess was a real princess, as all the fairy tales kept repeating, and if a princess was mean or stuck-up or stupid, then either she’d be punished or she’d have to change before she got her reward — the handsome prince and the kingdom.
She stood up, pushed the covers back, and threw herself down on the bed.
