Page 27 of The Midnight Princess
“I don’t understand the question,” she answers. “Every minute of the schedule has been designed for your needs.”
I drop the pages to the table. It’s pointless to fight when we don’t speak the same language.
Shortly before midday, a servant rolls in a cart of food, setting out two elaborate table settings and uncovering a series of complicated dishes. My stomach rumbles as soon as the scent reaches my nose, but I don’t recognize anything as satisfying as a piece of fried chicken or scoop of mashed potatoes. Instead, each plate has spears of vegetation jutting upward or unnaturally round deposits of semi-solid substances. There are fiddly bits.
“We’re supposed to eat this?” I ask.
“Not yet, you’re not.” Alma smiles and turns to the maid. “I’ll be serving. Thank you, Sibela.” Alma flicks me a glance. “First we’ll run through a state dinner simulation.”
“It’ll be cold by then.”
“That’s correct. We begin with walking in.”
She positions me on her left, as though the rumbling stomach had never been. I offer her my elbow but she lifts my arm, running her hands along it, setting it in a level plane
I tense from the contact, hating it in precisely the same way I hate the hunger gnawing at me when food is within easy reach. She pulls back. “My apologies. I should have asked.”
I rub a hand over my heart, pushing away the tightness. “You have my permission to manhandle, when necessary.”
She rests light fingers over the back of my hand.
“Will you be wearing gloves again?” I ask.
Again.I don’t mean anything by it, but the word—and the memory it calls—buffets against us like a sudden gust of wind, the kind that makes you correct the steering wheel and say, half-praying, “Almost home.”
She straightens her shoulders, and I smile. Alma’s going to start monologuing.
“The British monarchy do not touch when they do this in London. They simply walk into the room in pairs. Sondmark, in contrast, is old-fashioned. Every royal house in Europe has a slightly different protocol, and it will be your duty in the coming years to learn it, relying on trusted advisors. They want to make Vorburg look good.”
“Not me?”
“You and Vorburg are the same thing. You give the state a human form.”
I glance at a long mirror, taking in my rumpled suit and scuffed shoe, comparing it to the woman wearing pearl earrings and the kind of sweater you can’t throw into the wash with a pair of jeans. On the surface, there’s no way I can measure up, but my thoughts complicate when I think of the stammering, blush-pink girl from this morning. We’re not so different.
When I finally conquer the mechanics of sitting at a table—to be done after the monarch sits and with the aid of a footman—we move on to the actual food.
“This isSole Bonne Femme,” she says, offering an ice-cold filet of fish resting atop a swirl of frigid cream sauce. She sets it down. As my hand halts over the array of cutlery, she holds her breath in anticipation of my choice.
“Correct,” she whispers when I pick up a fork. “What goes in your other hand?” It takes me three tries to select the notched knife, and when I do, she reaches forward, adjusting my grip on the utensils, hands cupping mine, fingers gently molding them into position.Twelve weeks. Heat pours through my veins, and when she retreats, my hands go slack, the silverware clattering against the china.
“Again,” she prompts.
“Like this?” I ask.
Her hands return, and with them comes a slow and familiar eruption of warmth spreading from my palms and up my armsas she corrects me.Chol nia, Jacob. She’s engaged. I grip the utensil more firmly.
“Too tight,” she says, reaching again.
“I’ve got it,” I insist, forcing myself to relax.
She shows me how to slice through a wedge of Sondish pie with a quick, decisive stroke, instead of wiggling my fork against china. I make more mistakes. She catches every one, bending over my plate, breath on my skin as she instructs me on each point. If I could be perfect, I might escape this torture.
“The good news,” she assures me, “is that no one expects you to eat much at a state banquet. If you don’t know how to tackle a dish, you might discreetly observe your dinner companion or move the food around enough to be polite.”
“I’ll starve.”
She gives me a side-eye. “A crown prince will never starve. I suggest you eat something at the palace when you can let your guard down.”
