Page 38 of The Midnight Princess
She elbows me, and I grunt.
“I like his braids,” I allow, holding a lock of my hair between us. “Mine is almost long enough. Could my makeover—”
She reaches to the back of my head and grabs a fistful of hair, tugging it, lifting my chin. A gust of wind shakes the car. “We’re here to people-watch.”
Our glances catch and hold. In the second before self-consciousness breaks through, before we can remember thatwe don’t fit or that a mountain of ‘shoulds’ and ‘supposed-tos’ divide us, my mind plays out a million different ways to love her.
I imagine pulling her into my arms, the sound of the ocean muffled against the glass of the windows. I see myself checking my phone after a session in my workshop, earmuffs perched up on my forehead while I scroll for her text. I can see myself stretching out on the grass and pressing a kiss against her neck in some park back in Djolny.
Alma blinks, and the moment is gone. Her hand works out of my hair, and she retreats into another hemisphere, maybe the one where her fiancé is.
“Sorry.” The word is hardly audible. “This game is called Captain of the Guard. You’re going to pick one.” She takes several slow breaths and looks out the window like she’s waiting for her own hailstorm of arrows.
I scan the harbor and pause on a group of students taking selfies, each using the magic of forced perspective to look like they’re picking Horst up by his head.
“Quickly,” Alma urges, herding me away from introspection. “It’s cheating if you wait for someone to break out in tae kwon do.”
“The girl in the heavy pea coat. She’s the only one prepared for the weather,” I explain, ticking off my observations. “She’s got heavy boots and one of those cross-body bags to keep her hands free for the martial arts.”
“Her friend is bigger,” Alma pushes back, pointing to the student balancing along the sea wall.
I snort. “He’s wearing canvas shoes without socks. In Sondmark. In January. If I take him on a black-ops mission, he’ll probably fall over and shoot me in the back.”
“Black ops?” she laughs. “What kind of crown prince do you expect to be?” Her smile disappears too fast.
By early afternoon, the slow plink of rain turns into a downpour, chasing the last tourists into the safety of cafes and hotels. We turn back to the palace, winding through the quiet streets of Handsel, when a string of lights blurs the raindrops on the windscreen.
“Stop,” I say, pointing to the small bistro with a black and white striped awning and a sign with gold letters. La Baiser Chaleureux. Against swishing wiper blades, the small-paned windows glow with light. “There was a line around the block when I came here last, and I couldn’t spare the time. Hungry?”
“Not really.” Alma shakes her head. She’s lying.
“Breakfast was hours ago. What did you eat?”
“Jacob,” she reproves, as though it could ever be a punishment to hear my name on her lips. “I told you not to ask personal questions.”
I shake my head. The line on when I’m supposed to treat Alma formally has been shifting with the tide. “Hot gluten, Alma. Hot.” I lean against the dashboard, peering into the gloom. “The place is deserted. You can lecture me on comportment the entire time.”
She plucks her lip with her teeth and cuts the engine. We run through the rain, and I hold the door for her, shaking out the umbrella.
“Stop being impressed at basic manners,” I whisper, catching the look on her face as she passes.
“Weelkomme,” a voice calls.
An old man with a crisp white hat is situated behind the counter. As soon as he sees the princess, he stumbles off his stool and doffs his cap, performing a deep bow. Alma doesn’t wave him off or protest. She simply moves forward with a smile as warm as the air fogging up the glass.
“What a lovely establishment you have,” she says. “Everything looks delicious.”
She flicks me a glance.Taking notes?
“What do you recommend?” she asks, leaning over the colorful display case. The owner, delirious with pride, takes her on a tour, and Alma holds my elbow, willing me to relax.We make our choices, but the proprietor fills a box with assorted pastries and Alma promises to share them with her sisters.
“May I offer you something to drink?” he asks.
“Espresso,” she answers.
He turns to me. “Hot chocolate.”
Alma swallows a smile.
