Page 6 of The Midnight Princess
“She doesn’t look like someone who would get carried away by emotion. Was he rich?”
“Hardly. I urge you not to say anything about the wedding to Her Majesty.” Karl suggests. “Avoid the topic altogether unless she introduces it. The Sondish are easily irritated when it comes to Vorburg, and this needs a light touch.”
I don’t need a reminder about light touches from a man who has never attempted to inlay birch in a mahogany panel. Good craftsmanship requires precision. The palace, for instance— I glance to the ceiling, surprised to see that the round room is offset from the central spire by at least a foot. Careless. Well, my point still stands.
Karl swipes to yet another princess—young, very girl-next-door. “Princess Clara. She’s dating a Navy officer.”
“Her mother approved?” I ask, shaking the pillows in their cases.
“Unlikely. She’s also currently suing the press for breach of privacy. Queen Helena has her hands full.” Karl flips the cover closed.
“You said four daughters,” I say, stretching my arms over my head with a huge yawn.
“Mm?” Karl clicks his tongue, scolding himself. “I got them out of order.” Giving another swipe, he holds the tablet out.
I glance at the screen in a cursory way and feel the recognition in my body first—in the way my stomach tightens and my pulse pounds. That’s her. I snatch the tablet out of his hands, fingers dragging across the screen and magnifying the image until I’m certain. Yes. That’s her.
“Who is this?”
“Princess Alma.” His answer is prompt, and even though I’m expecting it, the word ‘princess’ is like a jab to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. “She’s the eldest of the girls.”
“Was this taken at an official event?” I snap.
Karl leans in. “Yes, the Monument Day observances last year.”
The girl from last night is wearing a wide-brimmed hat and her face is covered in a veil, brown hair swept to the side in a knot. Her face is stiff and ceremonial. Her clothes are black and fit like a glove. Even her high-heeled shoes are perfectly aligned, each toe just kissing a line in the pavement.
I try to merge the images—the one on the screen and the one in my memory. The one who looks like she’s carved out of marble and the one who stole my breath. I shake my head and toss the tablet on the bed. “What’s her deal?”
“Deal?” he echoes, plucking it up.
“You said the queen has her hands full.” I am working very hard to sound like I don’t care. “What headaches does this one cause?” Does she wander the palace after a couple glasses of champagne, looking for strange men to cast under her spell?
Karl actually laughs. “Princess Alma is the perfect princess. The Foreign Office has intel on each member of the Sondish royal family, and this one has never stepped a toe out of line.” He looks me over, his gaze lingering pointedly on my bedhead. “If you want to take any royal figure as your model for correct behavior, you would do well to choose her. Now, sir,” Karl claps lightly, “we must respect the schedule.”
I head to the shower, where the fittings are spacious and the water pressure is good. I’m jealous. The royal residence in Vorburg, Djolny Castle, has four ghosts and a time-traveling witch. As a proper fortress, it comes complete with fire-stained walls, narrow gates, stumble stairs, and thick parapets atop which my ancestors displayed the severed heads of their enemies. On one of my brief visits, the castle tried to kill me three times.
I lather and rinse, cutting the hot stream of water, and brace myself against the tiles. The girl last night kissed me. When I held her, she fit. In an ordinary world, Jacob Gardner would get her number. What’s Crown Prince Jacob supposed to do?
I wonder what the chances are that the girl in that unreal photograph has a twin they hide in the attics and let out for parties. Maybe I should find an ax and start knocking down doors.
With a frown, I reach for a towel. No matter what organically-sourced, nitrogen-dense fertilizer Karl keeps shoveling about my titles and position, a princess is too rich for my blood.
“Seven minutes til eight,” Karl calls through the door.
I speed through the basics of hygiene, pulling most of my hair back into a confining loop, and throw on some clothes, returning to the suite.
“You said you had a suit.” Karl grips the back of a chair.
I look down at the blue suit, purchased from a secondhand shop for when I need something to wear at weddings and funerals. “This is a suit. It’s a classic,” I explain.
Karl inhales slowly. “From when? The Cold War?”
At least it’s my own. During these last few weeks, I’ve been slow to accept my father’s money. Slow to let his courtiers make me into someone I’m not.
Karl pulls a chair out, herding me to the breakfast table. “It’s better than what you arrived in. We’re incredibly lucky to get a second chance to make a first impression.”
“It would have been fine.”
