Page 18 of The Midnight Princess
On narrow, ordinary streets, there are no tourists, only signs of everyday living—a local bakery, a parish church, a corner shop where I buy a plain white candle—but in every window facing the street, curtains are drawn back, granting a peek into a world of inviting wintertime warmth complete with fairy lights and colorful pillows. The Sondish like to present these little pictures, but they seem fake. When things get too much, I bet they retreat to a washroom and scream into the decorative hand towels.
Turning west, I discover a park where old men have gathered, wearing soft berets and heavy scarves, speaking a language that seems to be some blend of Italian and Spanish, their breath and laughter mixing in the piercing cold.
When the sun sets, when I have more memories of Sondmark than the upturned face of a girl reaching for a kiss, I return to the palace, grateful for cold ears and a red nose. I push through the common room door to find Karl waiting next to a sturdy gateleg table in the sitting room. He greets me with a bow.
“Knock it off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
He pulls out a chair and I frown at it. He frowns back. I drop into the chair, and he smiles. “I’ve prepared a dinner of French onion and beef stew, Your Royal Highness, with a side of—”
I can’t do this for the next three months. “I’m more than capable of looking after myself.” I tap the spoon on the bowl. “Don’t you have some Sondish interests to subvert? Some sleeper cells to contact?”
Karl’s brows tent. “It’s never a good time to jest about covert operations, sir.”
“Too soon?” His mouth pinches, and I laugh. “All right, here’s the deal. You bow and scrape from nine to five, but I need to turn off the royal protocol at the end of the day.”
“There is no on or off for a crown prince,” he insists. “Youarethe crown prince.”
Not yet, I’m not. While at the Summer Palace, I exist in limbo, in a kind of workshop situated between the virgin forest and the ancient castle. I’ve been sawn away from my roots, fighting and straining as I fell, only to be carted to a mill. I’m full of knots and raw edges and the marks of the saw. There’s no telling what I’ll become. What I’m certain of is that Karl can force these honorifics on me, he can iron my t-shirts and serve my dinner, but it hasn’t made me a crown prince yet.
“I’ll text you when I’m coming down for lessons,” I say. “You can pick up my laundry and leave it outside. Otherwise, I’m on my own.”
He leaves, possibly offended, but I can’t let him be the one to decide how much of Jacob Gardner remains when this is all over. If that means I’m in charge of the care and washing of my original Zombie NaBombie t-shirt, so be it. When I do my dishes, a podcast about bronze age societies plays over the Paige device. I’m content to hold on to these normal things.
I treat the rest of the night like I’m in my flat back home. Using the candle, I apply wax to the door frame, eliminating one nuisance. I call my mom. She laughs when I describe Karl traveling in wintertime conditions. I lay out my carving tools and scroll through my phone, looking for a project. When Iclimb into bed, wind shakes the windows. Just before I lose consciousness, I remember what I’ve been trying to forget.
Alma. I have to stop thinking of her, and I make a resolution. She’s just another one of these uptight royals. I won’t like her. I’ll keep my hands to myself. I’ll keep my thoughts away from that kiss.
That’s the plan. Remember who I am. Forget the princess.
When morning comes, I grab some fruit from the kitchen and my suit from a hook outside the front door. I brush my teeth, spitting my toothpaste out to repeat my name in the mirror three times like one of those games meant to conjure a vengeful ghost.Jacob Gardner. Jacob Gardner. Jacob Gardner.
I don’t meet the princess until Karl escorts me to my lessons in a drawing room on the main floor. This is going to be an ordinary occurrence. I’ll see her every morning for hours. The sooner I can make peace with these facts, the faster I’ll build up an immunity to being around her. I look deeply, exposing myself to the highest dose, wanting to get it over with. She’s wearing close-fitting slacks and a high-necked sweater that drapes over her curves and brushes the underside of her jaw.
I wait to feel nothing.
“Morning,” I say, still waiting.
She smiles—a Handsel harbor smile, tidy and meant for show. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness.” She greets me in English. “I trust you had a good night’s sleep.”
She pushes nutbrown hair away from her face, and I barely register the greeting for the massive rock on her left finger.
“Chol, is this the ring?” I ask.
She doesn’t glance down. “That’s it.”
Forgetting my resolutions, I hold my hand out. She rests her fingers lightly in the center of my palm. The stone is the same color as the bitter white milk found in a dandelion stem and the fittings look ancient, curling over the rounded corners of thegem like a pair of venomous fangs. I brush my thumb over its face, and it slips to one side.
“Used?”
She takes a shocked breath. “Heirloom. It’s eco-conscious.”
It’s ugly, is what it is.
She withdraws her hand and indicates a couple of chairs for Karl and me, offering refreshments.
Karl sets a thick packet of material on the coffee table. “His Majesty King Otto wished to supply you with all the pertinent details, ma’am.”
No. I intercept the binder and ruffle the pages containing testimonials from former teachers, several pages of photos, the financial details of my bespoke woodworking business, the results of several clean drug tests, and a whole section about my mother.
