Princess Indulan did not like waiting. However, she did it so well that most people took it for magnanimity.
The small raised platform above the ballroom of the Arena Hotel was intended for royal receptions, where no one wanted to sit yet everyone pretended the space was an honour, which is why it was also furnished with a throne. White wood, red ceiling panels, polished floors, Danish flags in narrow wall holders, a single polar bear skin. Through the tall window front, one could see the arena on the other side of the connecting corridor: glass, steel, ice, and beneath it the black harbour water, reflecting everything without explaining anything.
Indulan sat before the wall with the flags, calm, upright and so perfectly at home on the throne that everyone else suddenly looked as though they had turned to face her.
Beside her, de la Motte waited with a faint smile and an even thinner notebook. She wore the pale blue, austere evening gown of a woman who knew that technical authority did not become any less dangerous when dressed in silk simply because she worked for the United Nations. The World Energy Organisation brooch on her shoulder caught the light and reflected it back coldly.
Ravn stood two paces away, gauging the moment with impeccable poise.
For Ravn, emotions were not stirrings but organisational risks. Yet her right hand had already moved twice towards the small radio on her wrist, and each time Princess Indulan had asked a polite question at precisely that moment.
Now she asked another.
“Ms Ravn, would it be possible for the cadet to have another chair? He looks as though Austria has granted him five languages but no respite.”
Dennis Mutoi, class representative for the Bear cohort, immediately sat up even straighter.
“Your Highness, thank you very much. I’m happy to stand.”
“I believe you,” said Indulan. “That’s precisely why I’m asking, because I like to sit down and don’t want to have to look up at you.”
Dennis hesitated. You could see that his entire military-schooled inner self was wavering between obedience, pride and the fear of making a historical fool of himself in a group photo whilst seated.
Stromberg came to his rescue.
“A standing cadet looks better on a school newspaper page,” he said. “Youth, poise, the future. Editors and financiers love that sort of thing.”
Dennis looked at him.
“Our editorial team will thank you for that, Mr Stromberg.”
de la Motte lowered her gaze to her notebook, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
Indulan smiled openly.
Ravn took half a step closer. “We should take the photo now. Mr Stromberg is expected downstairs in the ballroom shortly.”
“As the sponsor of this evening, he is of course more important than we are,” said Indulan. “We’ll be happy to follow later.”
That was kindly said, which was why it was dangerous.
The school newspaper photographer, also a cadet, raised his camera. Dennis stepped up beside Princess Indulan, not too close, but visibly proud enough to be teased about it for years to come in Enns. De la Motte positioned herself on Indulan’s other side. Stromberg took his place beside de la Motte, Ravn beside Stromberg, slender, elegant, alert.
The photographer raised his hand.
“Just a moment,” said de la Motte.
Everyone stood still.
Ravn exhaled silently.
De la Motte turned his head slightly towards Stromberg. “Mr Stromberg, for the caption: should the facility be called the ‘Maritime Energy Efficiency Initiative’, or is there a snappier way of putting it?”
Stromberg smiled.
He smiled like a man accustomed to grand spaces who did not underestimate small questions.
“I prefer phrasing that doesn’t scare anyone.”
“That’s why ‘maritime energy efficiency initiative’ is probably better than ‘Karl’s Freezer’,” said Indulan. Only de la Motte laughed, whilst the ladies-in-waiting looked around indignantly and Ravn checked the perfect fit of her bracelet.
“Your Highness has a fine ear for administrative poetry.”
“Administrative poetry is a kindergarten game for princesses, unfortunately.”
Dennis opened his notebook.
Ravn saw it.
“Cadet Mutoi, this is just a group photo.”
“Aye,” said Dennis. “But our school newspaper likes to publish accurate captions.”
“How modern,” said Stromberg.
Dennis wrote with great seriousness.
De la Motte let her gaze drift briefly to the window front, behind which lay the connection to the arena.
“Energy efficiency, however, is not just a matter of captions,” she said. “Your publicly stated figures are remarkable. Low power consumption, stable ice temperature, barely visible load peaks. For a facility of this size at the harbour, that is unusual.”
“Unusual is a pleasant word,” said Stromberg. “I would call it innovative.”
“Innovation is only pleasant until someone wants to see the balance sheet.”
“The WEO will receive all the necessary documents. The financial burden is borne by my foundation.”
“Thank you for reminding the royal family whose fortune is greater in Denmark.”
Indulan turned to Dennis. “Feel free to write that down. Karl Stromberg’s wealth is scarcely any less in Denmark than it is in Sardinia.”
Dennis wrote it down.
Ravn said: “The technical documentation will be explained during the presentation. Anything else would be misleading at the moment.”
“I love my marine research station in Atlantis off the Sardinian coast. A masterpiece of French engineering in terms of energy technology and marine ecology,” said Stromberg. “I have never viewed the ocean as a problem that can be saved by explanations.”
“But rather?” asked Dennis, before Ravn could stop him with a glance.
Stromberg looked at him. Not unkindly. More interested in whether the boy knew that innocence could also be a weapon.
“Through action. Trivial chatter and moral appeals sink into the water,” said Stromberg. “The seas are too vast for human words. One must think bigger than a beach, bigger than a bay, bigger than a single state.”
“Bigger than Danish territorial waters?” asked Indulan.
“Significantly bigger, gigantic, Your Royal Highness.”
Ravn turned immediately to the photographer. “Now, please.”
“Not yet,” said the princess.
The photographer lowered his camera.
Stromberg looked out of the window, as if to make sure the water was still where it belonged.
“Denmark lies at one of Europe’s most sensitive junctions,” he said. “The Baltic Sea, the North Sea, the Kattegat, the Sound, the Belt. Every international shipping route that passes through here brings heat, exhaust fumes, ballast, noise, risk. The ships sail through Danish territorial waters, but their consequences do not remain Danish.”
“That is a very fine justification for international oversight,” said de la Motte.
“Or for private investment by those who have the sea’s best interests at heart.”
Ravn moved her hand towards the radio again.
Indulan looked at her.
“Ms Ravn, could you please inform the ballroom that Mr Stromberg is being detained by the school newspaper for a moment? I wouldn’t want his absence to be misinterpreted.”
Ravn paused.
She knew that this request was no mere request. A princess rarely made a request by mistake in her own country.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
She typed a short message. Very brief. Too brief to betray her annoyance.
Dennis continued taking notes.
“Our readers will certainly be interested in how energy efficiency and shipping are connected,” he said cautiously.
“Your readers are cadets,” said Stromberg.
“Precisely for that reason,” said Dennis. “We’re learning that supply lines sometimes reveal more about power than speeches do.”
De la Motte now looked at him with undisguised sympathy.
“You shouldn’t go into public relations later on,” she said. “You’d be a waste.”
“I’m hoping for cartography,” said Dennis.
“Even more dangerous,” said Indulan.
Stromberg laughed softly.
It sounded pleasant. That didn’t make it reassuring.
“Energy efficiency,” he said, “is the civilian name for a military truth: whoever consumes less lasts longer. A city, a port, a fleet, a continent. If we reduce cooling requirements, we’re not just easing the burden on bills. We’re easing the burden on water.”
“And if your technology is scalable?” asked De la Motte.
“Then we relieve the oceans.”
“Or control them?”
Stromberg looked at her.
“Ms de la Motte, you speak as if control and salvation were opposites.”
“The United Nations is the only form of control that saves, which is why I have less trust in private initiatives that are not subject to the obligations of state members.”
Indulan clasped her hands loosely together.
“Denmark is a large kingdom with plenty of water,” she said. “We have learnt that you own the sea when it ripples past your own windows.”
“A very nice sentence for the school newspaper,” said Dennis. “Austria would never speak so grandly, given its limited military capacity.”
“That was quite a dig!” said Indulan.
Dennis wrote immediately. “Like my pencil, Your Royal Highness.”
Ravn looked towards the staircase again. Two security guards were waiting halfway up. One of them gave her a barely visible signal. Nothing urgent for ordinary guests. But for Ravn, it was. Lind, she thought. 
She couldn’t leave.
The princess sat between her and any excuse like a crown of polite delay.
“Mr Stromberg,” said the representative of the World Energy Organisation, “I’m looking forward to the presentation. Especially to the explanation of how your plant balances peak loads without any discernible grid reaction.”
“You’ll be delighted,” said Stromberg. “It’s far less mysterious than clever women hope; it’s pure science translated into technology.”
“Foolish women hope for secrets; clever ones reveal them.”
Dennis raised his hand, pen in hand.
“May I quote that?”
“No,” said de la Motte.
“Absolutely,” countered Ravn, “The whole of the Leopoldine Military Academy should recognise the modesty of the World Energy Organisation.”
Stromberg was amused. The photographer raised his camera again. This time, no one stopped him.
Dennis stood up straight, his notebook pressed against his side. Princess Indulan looked calmly into the lens. De la Motte awkwardly smoothed out a crease in her sleeve. Stromberg smiled as if the ocean were already spread out before him on a conference table. Ravn smiled too, perfectly, coolly, tense right down to her fingertips.
The flash went off.
For a breath, everything was white.
When the light returned, someone in the ballroom next door clapped exaggeratedly loudly at a successful curling shot on the arena ice. Plastic waste sculptures glittered on the screens between the lanes, as if humanity had decided to sort its guilty conscience at least decoratively.
Ravn immediately took half a step back.
“If Your Highness would permit—”
“One more question,” said Indulan.
Ravn stopped.
De la Motte picked up her handbag from the floor.
Indulan turned to Dennis. “Cadet Mutoi, what does a good school newspaper ask for after a group photo?”
Dennis thought for only a moment.
“When Austria will get Franz Josef’s land back.”
Silence, a very brief, very clean silence.
Stromberg looked at the boy and then smiled.
“Write: whenever the ocean pleases.”
Dennis jotted it down.
A second, brief beep sounded from outside. Only on Ravn’s device. She placed her hand over it, but everyone had heard it.
“Well,” said the princess gently, “we’ve kept you from your studies long enough now.”
“Education,” said Stromberg, “is never time wasted.”
The security guards were waiting by the stairs. One of them was paler than he ought to have been.
Stromberg went down first, still calm, still imposing, still in command of his voice. Ravn followed him close enough to be able to whisper immediately.
Indulan lingered for a moment with de la Motte, the ladies-in-waiting and Dennis.
“Cadet Mutoi,” she said, “please send me a copy of the school newspaper.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“And the notes?”
Dennis glanced briefly at de la Motte.
The representative of the World Energy Organisation ordered: “Make two copies!”
Dennis didn’t understand why he should have to carry out this unnecessary task, but shrugged: that’s how the United Nations is sometimes. But he understood enough to hold the notebook more firmly.
Through the windows, one could see the arena opposite, the smoothed-out ice, the sculptures made of plastic waste, and behind them the black waters of Copenhagen.
Indulan gazed at it long enough to no longer look merely like a talking water lily.
“The ocean,” she said quietly, “forgives a great deal. But it also sinks cities and ships.”
De la Motte slipped the notebook into her open bag.
“Then we should find out what they intended to subject it to this evening.”
In the ballroom below, the applause began again.