The Princess Trap (23 page)

I
mmediately 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
friend
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.

Little Ylva had been all of these princesses, night after night, rainy afternoon after rainy afternoon: beautiful and gentle and kindhearted. But at the same time she’d been all the princes who had rescued, freed, and finally married the princesses. Because princes were also brave and strong, smart and kindhearted.

Ylva pressed her face into the silk covers. Why hadn’t she thrown them out the window ages ago? Whenever she’d slept in this room over the last few years, she’d vowed to do just that. The pink was hideous. But she hadn’t been here very often. Most of the time she was at school or at the von Thunbergs’ town house in the city. She spent the holidays skiing or sailing or somewhere in the sun. Perhaps she didn’t have the heart to get rid of the pink covers, anyway. They were part of the memory of those princess days, when everything was right with the world and she was Princess Ylva who was always perfect, whatever she did.

When had it all changed? When had she first realized that life was not a fairy tale?

There was a knock on the door. “Ylva?” said her mother. “Ylva? The headmaster just called to tell me that you left the school without permission. I told him you were here.”

Ylva said nothing.

“I told him you were ill,” her mother added hesitantly. “Ylva? He said he’d let you off this time.”

“Brilliant!” said Ylva sarcastically.

When had she first realized that princes weren’t all kindhearted, and swineherds weren’t all swine, and above all that life wasn’t always fair? And when had she first tried with all her might
not
to think about it?

The bedcovers had a slight scent of detergent, or fabric softener, or something. After every stay, the housekeeper would have the room cleaned. There could never be any trace that was truly Ylva’s, with her own smell, with stains she could recognize and remember making.

And then Jenna had arrived at the school. At last, a real princess. Ylva remembered very clearly how the headmaster had announced her arrival, and she had introduced herself as the roommate who was to help the new princess get accustomed to life at Morgard. It hadn’t bothered her in the least that it meant separation from Paula, who had been her friend since they’d first come to the school.

“You can understand why I have to do it, can’t you?” Ylva had said, and Paula had agreed, because everyone in the school knew that nobody was better suited to the job of looking after a new princess than Ylva von Thunberg.

But then Jenna had turned out to be Jenna. Plump, dark, and pathetic. Not like a princess at all — not beautiful, not smart, not kindhearted. Ylva’s nanny or the cook’s daughter — any other girl in the school, for that matter — was more like a princess. What kind of cruel joke was life playing on her? How could someone like Jenna be a princess? She was supposed to be wonderful, better than everyone else: How else could you justify one person being placed above the rest? And if life could play tricks like that, what did it mean for Ylva?

She’d begun to hate Jenna. This princess was the final proof that everything she had once believed about the world was nothing but a fairy tale. She’d begun to hate her, and she’d shown her hatred. It served Jenna right.

“Ylva?” cried her mother through the door, and knocked a bit louder. “Is everything all right, darling? You’re
not
ill, are you?”

Ylva sat up. She had made her decision.
Maybe life really isn’t like that
, she thought.
Maybe it isn’t like the fairy tales. But it’s going to be like that for me. I want it to be like that for me. All my life I’ve been almost-Princess Ylva, beautiful and smart and kindhearted. And no one’s going to change it.

She picked up the remote control and turned up the volume of her TV so loud that her mother would realize there was no point in expecting a response. There was a cooking show on Scandia 1 and a talk show on Scandia 2. Even after the change of government, Scandian television had stayed the same as ever. But, whatever you thought of the new regime, they had made it possible for everyone in the country to see what they wanted to see, including foreign channels — if the reception was good enough. And they’d provided telephone and Internet connections. For a few moments Ylva watched an old movie in a language she didn’t understand. Then she switched to a news channel in English. English was OK.

“Ylva?” cried her mother through the door.

Let her go back to Africa
, she thought.

At the corner of the station building, Jonas looked around. No one was watching. There were two women with shopping bags gossiping on the opposite side of the street, and there were just three cars in the large parking lot.

What came three years after the Kingdom of Scandia conquered North Island?

1732 plus 3 equaled 1735. He had been making it way too complicated. He wasn’t supposed to find connections between the questions or figure out what the answers
meant
. It was the numbers themselves. His father had given him a telephone number that he was to call if something should happen to him. A telephone number that Jonas shouldn’t even know he had, and that he would never be able to reveal to anyone if he were subjected to interrogation — though by whom? Liron had been certain that if there was a crisis, Jonas would figure it all out.

He keyed in the first set of numbers.

Which was the highest building in Scandia for a long time, and why?

Liron must really think I’m a genius
, thought Jonas. The town hall was the tallest, because it was 300 feet high. He keyed in 300.

A train pulled into the station, and Jonas knew by the direction it had come from that it was going to Holmburg.

What have dwarfs and wonders got in common?

The answer was so simple: Seven. He keyed it in.

There was a pause while the display showed
CONNECTING
. Then he heard an automated woman’s voice saying, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. There is no further information about …”

Jonas pressed the
END
button. Could he have got it wrong? What other kind of number would Liron have wanted to give him?

It was too long for a PIN or a safe-deposit box or a postal code. It couldn’t be a house number, and it couldn’t have anything to do with web banking. So what else could it be?

He went back inside the waiting room. His suitcase was still standing next to the bench. The train beside the platform began to move, and swiftly gathered speed.

Jonas sat down on the bench. Maybe it
was
an account number. But what use would an account be if Liron was locked up?

It just had to be a telephone number. He must have done something wrong.

He took the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. Again the automated voice informed him that the number was not in service. Maybe it was someone’s number last autumn, when Liron had first posed the three questions, but they’d since changed it. If so, his last hope had gone, and he had no idea what to do next.

It had to be a cell phone number. In Scandia they all started with 173. Then suddenly he knew. The answer hit him like a bolt of lightning, and even before he’d finishing keying in the number again, he was certain that someone would answer. Cell numbers had nine digits.

1735300 … plus 7 dwarfs
and
7 wonders … so 1-7-353-0077.

As he waited for the connection, Jonas’s heart was pounding. In a moment he would know who it was.

“Hello?” said a voice. Jonas recognized it immediately. He wasn’t even surprised.

I
t was a while
before Jenna understood.

“What do we know about Bolström?” Perry asked.

“Why?” asked Jenna, but then she told him all about last summer — how Bolström had kidnapped the king and lied to the country that he was dead so that Norlin (she had to swallow hard just mentioning the name) could seize power.

“Exactly,” said Perry. “And why did Norlin suddenly have to become regent? Who was behind it?”

“You know that already,” said Jenna. “It was because the king wanted to pass that law — giving the north equal rights with the south.”

“So taking that thought one step further,” said Perry. “Who stood to gain by kidnapping the king, pretending he was dead, and putting Norlin in as regent?”

“The ones who had most to lose from the new law, I guess,” said Jenna. “The rich southerners, the aristocracy, people who own oil wells and real estate and mines …”

“Right!” said Perry. “But no one could ever prove anything, could they? And no one dared suggest it out loud, because there was no evidence. They were all so happy when Magnus came back alive and well to sit on the throne again. They were all disgusted with Norlin. But behind it all, behind it all …”

“… at least one of them must have been working under-cover with Bolström and Norlin,” said Jenna, nodding at Perry. “The very fact that Bolström and Norlin were able to get away so easily — someone must have helped them. Well, Genius-boy, did you really figure all this out by yourself?”

Perry shook his head. “Jonas told me the theory,” he said. “But no one could do anything about it, since there was no proof.”

“So it’s the same people still trying to stop the reforms!” she whispered. “And now that their campaign’s really taking hold, they’re working with Bolström again. And the depot …” She stared at him.

“Yes, of course!” he cried, then clapped his hand over his mouth and looked toward the door. When he spoke again, it was in whispers. “It all fits together. If the rich landowners make sure that the harvest goes to secret depots instead of the market, and the factory owners do the same, and the transportation firms take the goods to these depots instead of the shops —”

“Which they can, easily,” said Jenna. “We couldn’t understand how the rebels would be able to cause shortages. But if the owners themselves —”

“Bingo!” said Perry. “And meanwhile, they blame the government for mismanaging the economy! That’s how they’ve turned the people against the government, so that everyone starts wishing for the so-called good old days.”

“And then by the next election people won’t vote for Liron’s party,” said Jenna, “at least not in South Scandia.”

Perry laughed caustically. “I don’t think they’ll want to wait that long,” he said. “And that explains what the guard was saying. If Bolström really is working for these people, how could he possibly release us? We’d tell the media everything we’ve seen.” His tone grew darker. “Jenna, we’re in real danger.”

Jenna felt herself go cold. “I never should have shot that video,” she said, shaking her head. “If I hadn’t, they wouldn’t know what we saw.”

“There was no way you could have known,” said Perry. Jenna was grateful that he wasn’t blaming her. “And there might still be a way out,” he added.

“But how?” she asked wearily. She remembered Bolström from last year, and she knew that he would stop at nothing.

“We’re only in danger because they discovered the video on your cell phone,” said Perry. “Right? They know what we saw, and they want to make sure we don’t tell anybody. Because once we did … once the people of Scandia learned the truth …” He stopped. Jenna hoped he wouldn’t go on. She didn’t want to hear it. She’d already had the same thought herself. “The fact that we discovered their depot is our death sentence, Jenna. But suppose someone else, who’s not part of their plot, also knows about the depot? And suppose that someone else went to the media with the information? In other words, suppose there was nothing to gain by getting rid of us? Because at the very least they’d have to kill this other person, too, as well as everyone else that he’d told, and that wouldn’t be so simple …”

“Your father!” whispered Jenna. “You called him and told him that night!”

Jonas had always said that Perry was a superbrain. And now his superbrain might save them.

“Then we’ve got to tell the men outside!” cried Jenna. “Now, Perry! That your father also knows about the depot, so it won’t do them any good to kill us.” She banged on the door. “Perry’s father knows!” she shouted. “Hey, you out there! Perry’s father knows what’s going on in the old factory, too! And he must have already told the police! You can’t keep it secret any longer!” Her fists began to hurt, but she hardly felt the pain. “It won’t help you to silence us! Perry’s father knows!”

Someone outside the door laughed.

Jenna lowered her arms. Her hands were burning and she’d skinned her knuckles. “Then we’ll tell Bolström tomorrow, Perry, if he comes,” she said. “If these people are so stupid that they can’t see what it means … But when Bolström learns that your father knows …”

“… and that they can’t hush it up anymore, even if they silence us …” said Perry. But Jenna could hear the doubt in his voice. “Yes, we’ll tell Bolström, if he comes. He’ll know what it means.”

They were sitting at the large dining table in the princess’s private apartment at Osterlin. King Magnus had his arm around his sister’s shoulders. She appeared to be staring at the door, as if it would open at any moment and her daughter would appear. But in fact she was gazing into empty space.

Petterson was standing at one of the windows, drumming his fingers on the sill. Since he and Margareta had received the demand for Liron in exchange for the children, he had become very ill at ease. Now and then he ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, which was sticking up in a kind of crest.

“We’ve
got
to make the exchange, Magnus,” said Margareta. “Give the order to let them have Liron!”

“I can’t do that, Margareta,” said the king with a helpless gesture. “At least not on my own! I’ve just bypassed parliament with my order to mobilize the military, and it’s supposed to be parliament and the elected government that makes these decisions.”

“Some of whom may well be secretly conspiring with the rebels!” protested Margareta. “We’ve got the evidence now to prove it!”

“We’ve got what
may
be evidence, Margareta —
may
be — that Liron was in contact with the rebels,” said Magnus wearily. He raised his coffee to his lips without drinking. “
One
of the ministers! Just one! But the government is still the government. I can’t bypass them again.”

Petterson turned toward him. “The government’s a mess, Magnus!” he exclaimed. “The nation is looking to
you
for leadership!”

“I still can’t believe that Liron was planning a coup with the rebels to topple his own government,” said Magnus. “I’ve known Liron for years. Of course he’s always sided with the north, but he was always against violence.”

“But he said it over and over again,” said Petterson. “‘The reforms are going too slowly.’ If he got control, he could push them through.”

Margareta looked angrily at him. “Why do you keep talking about Liron?” she snapped. “It’s Jenna that matters to me. Magnus, imagine it was
your
daughter that had been abducted. How can you be so coldhearted?”

Petterson joined them at the table. “At least you should try to persuade the government for the children’s sake,” he said, wringing his hands. “I agree with Margareta.”

The king was surprised to see that even Petterson seemed to be losing his ice-cold composure. “You’re overestimating my powers,” he said. “Petterson, I know you’re as worried about your son as Margareta is about her daughter, and I’m worried about them both, too. But we mustn’t lose sight of Scandia’s interests. I can’t give in to the rebels. The country’s already on edge, with soldiers everywhere. Von Thunberg was a bit too eager, in my eyes, to let his men loose on the country.”

“You can rely on Thunberg,” murmured Petterson.

“In a situation like this, how can you —?” cried Margareta.

The king stood up. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.