Page 53 of The Midnight Princess
My jaw sets.
He was out of the country for six months on his expedition to save the world. The globe, stubbornly unsaved, turns on, indifferent to a man rowing across an ocean in a dinghy.
He’s tan and sleek, but I met his type every day at the Royal Academy. They walk around with a face full of old money, the question, “Do you know who my father is?” never out of reach. If you peer into the depths of their soul, you discover it’s not such a great distance to the pebbly bottom.
These things are forgivable.
What isn’t is how he didn’t miss Alma.
It’s not that I needed him to look at her like a carved saint in a church—eyes upturned, gazing into heaven, soft hands touching in prayer, a look I’m afraid I could wear too easily. But he needed to cross some lesser threshold to keep my contempt at bay. Relief. Longing. Pulling her into his arms no matter who was watching.
If I hadn’t seen Alma in six months, I would have kissed her so hard it would have shifted the earth’s axis. It would have solved climate change. Maybe even had a go at world peace.
Pietor grimaced.
“So, pickled herring,” I say. “Ten out of ten? You’re serving it at the wedding?”
She smiles. “I have to improve before the state visit.”
“If I can do Pankedruss, you can do herring.”
“You said Pankedruss tasted like a crime scene,” she says, flying through these miles, her pace eclipsing mine.
Her nose crinkles with silent laughter and I tip my head up, looking at the ceiling. How? How did he stay away for six months?
“You all right?” she asks.
“Mm. I’ll get used to the death yogurt if you come around on the herring. Do we have a deal?”
She reaches over and bumps my knuckles. “Deal.”
I last another mile, male pride holding me up by the back of the neck for most of it.
“How long can you run?” I ask when I’ve had enough. My chest is heaving, and bracing my feet apart, I punch the hexagonal “STOP” button and wipe my face on a towel. Hair brushes along my jawline. I can barely speak.
“How long do I have to run?” She gives me a lopsided smile. “Between eight and fifteen kilometers.”
I work out the conversion. “Between five and ten miles.”
Her eyes widen. “Jacob. You were a bespoke furniture maker—”
“Iama bespoke furniture maker.”
“You used the metric system every day.”
I hop off the treadmill and lift a pair of dumbbells, curling them slowly from the elbow, one at a time. “Not if I could help it. Metric is cold.”
“Cold like the vacuum of space where everything is measured properly by international scientists using the metric system?” she asks, half laughing, totally appalled.
I glance up, catch her watching me in the mirror, and begin using exceptionally good form. “Try telling a fairy tale using kilometers. You’ll bore yourself to death.”
“Speaking of death,” she says, her strides lithe, “do you ask your doctors to prescribe vital medications by the pennyweight?”
I look down, hiding a grin.
“You’ve lived in northern Europe almost twenty years,” she says, hitting some keys and turning her speed down to a brisk walk. Lightly sweating, she tips her chin, taking a swallow of water.
She belongs to someone else, but try telling my hands that. Try telling my eyes. She only has to walk into a room, and attraction sparks along my nervous system. To what end? Alma went to Harvard, and I went to trade school. I shuttered my business, and I’m giving up my anonymity to step into the monarchy. I’d be a fool to throw my heart after them, too.
