“It’s true,” he laughs. “The gallery was founded in 1948, not long after the second world war, but the portraits in this hall date back to the 1200s.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Here you can see some of the earliest to have ruled over our nation,” he says before looking just beyond us to someone who has joined our small party. “Oh, there you are. I’d love to introduce you to our new Queen.”
“I believe we’ve already met,” a familiar voice says and I turn just in time to see something unpleasant pass behind Dahlia’s eyes.
“I didn’t know you’d met the vice admiral before,” the director says.
“We christened a ship recently,” I tell him. “The princess and I did.”
“Staying out of trouble, you two?” the vice admiral asks with a smile on his face.
“No,” Dahlia snaps.
“Yes,” I answer. “What brings you out today?”
“Your portrait unveiling, of course,” he explains. “Also, I’m on the board of the National Gallery.”
“He does more than that,” the director teases. “But we won’t bore you with the ins and outs today. Now if you take a liking to the art world, well of course we’ll drag you in and hash out all the dirty details.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“It really can be.”
“I’ll discuss it with the powers that be,” I reply in what I hope is a polite enough way to let him know thatI’m game if allowed but am also not at liberty to say that directly. He’s polite enough to smile in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and then leads us on to the next hall with more modern portraits.
Dahlia is quiet as the vice admiral makes snide comments to her at the back of our party. I’m upset with myself that I let the delightful gallery director lead me at the front and that I’m not able to keep her close.
“And here is the most recent portrait of our late king,” he says as we all circle around to admire it. Dahlia’s eyes are red rimmed, and I can’t tell if it’s because she misses her dad or because the vice admiral has been particularly cruel.
I hold out my hand and reach for her, pulling her into my arms in a comforting way. “It’s easy to forget our grief with the amount of joy our family has experienced recently,” I say quietly. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment.”
“Of course,” the director replies. “The ladies’ room is just around the corner here.”
“Thank you so much.”
Dahlia and I make our way to the women’s restroom with Leo trailing behind us. He knocks on the door and when there’s no response, he pulls it open and does a sweep of the two stalls and any corners he deems unsafe. When he’s sure that the window won’t open after testing it, Leo leaves us to it.
“Are you all right?” I ask, holding her by her upper arms and making her look me in the eye while sheanswers.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she replies. “It’s stupid really. I know the whole world thinks of me as a waste of time, and I was for a long time, but I was just—”
“Hoping that they would catch on pretty quickly?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I mean why does it matter that some old man doesn’t like me?”
“It doesn’t.”
“And then that picture of Papa…” she sniffs. “You were right.”
“How so?” I ask even though I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about. It’s still better for her to get her feelings out of her system. Bottling them up is what had her skidding off the tracks in the first place.
“I forgot to miss him for a second with all the excitement, but”—she sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand—“it hurts.”
“I know it does, sweets.”
After a minute, she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m okay now.”