Page 5 of The Midnight Princess
Karl shoves the drapes aside, his voice cutting me away from the illusion that I might be in the flat situated above my workshop on the outskirts of Djolny, nursing a cup of coffee and going over my accounts before the day’s work. It cuts me away from the pretense that I’m still plain Jacob Gardner, dual citizen, a man who might have lived in Europe since he was thirteen but whose roots belong in Oregon.
I silence the music and grin into the crook of my elbow. No matter who I am, I’ve already had an unforgettable welcome. My mind retraces the curve of her back as she leaned into me, remembering her laughing eyes and the way she asked to be kissed.
But Karl won’t quit fussing around the room, making pretentious adjustments suited to my new title. Finally, my feet hit the floor. “Chol nia, Karl. Can you give it a rest?”
“Never, sir. I took the liberty of setting my alarm an hour before your own. Your robe?” he asks, turning a sour smile onmy pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He holds the robe open, but I scowl and snatch it out of his hands.
“My name is Jacob,” I say, shrugging it over my shoulders.
Karl bows. I swear thezeklelooks for reasons to do it. “Of course, sir.”
A gust of wind rattles the windowpane and I wander over, bracing my hands on the frame to inspect my view. Handsel is a mix of modern skyscrapers, orderly rows of townhouses, and public squares. Parish churches with narrow, elegant steeples dot the valley floor, but the stony gray heft and flying buttresses of Roslav Cathedral dominate the center of town.
We can’t talk about royal weddings.
I run a thumb along my lower lip and cover a smile.
“Sir?” Karl asks.
My hand drops, curling into a fist. “The nudists are going to freeze their toes off,” I say, pointing at the whitecaps in the harbor. “It’ll be a cold New Year’s Day plunge.”
My answer disguises my one, driving thought. Who is that girl, and how do I meet her again?
Karl clears his throat. “We don’t have much time, sir,” he says, opening a leather portfolio. “Your meeting with Her Majesty The Queen begins in little more than an hour. In that time, you’ll need to have breakfast, shower, shave, and dress before we present ourselves.”
“I’m not shaving.” I’m surprised he hasn’t brought in a barber to cut my hair, too. Karl thinks he’ll wear me down with repeated asking. Never.
Even though I’m the crown prince of Vorburg, that’s one decision I can still make.
My American mother, an otherwise sane woman, waged a battle in the Vorburgian courts, taking the better part of two decades, to have me acknowledged as King Otto’s biological son. Her depositions and legal filings seemed a strange hobby—onethat took up half the dining room table but required nothing more of me than a careless prick of the finger—until the sudden decision legally declaring me King Otto’s child, a prince of the blood, and his only heir.
Who knows what Mom hoped for when she moved us to Vorburg and started all this? A house? Money? For my father to take an interest in his biological son? She couldn’t have imagined a victory of this magnitude.
Legal or not, no royal command or parliamentary edict could’ve persuaded me to become the heir to a kingdom I only half belong to. But Mom cried when the verdict was read.
She doesn’t cry for anything.
Karl takes a pen and strikes the item off his agenda. “If you’re not shaving, we have more time to acquaint you with the situation in Sondmark. You are woefully unprepared for your meeting with Her Majesty.”
“I had deadlines to meet,” I remind him. “Clients I had to satisfy.”
“A crown prince doesn’t have clients.” My aide pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s not yet 8 AM and I’ve destroyed his patience. A new record.
“I appreciate that the king let me fulfill the outstanding orders. It’s a shame I lost a finger.” I hold my hand up, bending a knuckle. Karl blanches. I grin, unfolding the digit.
“Sir,” he scolds. He can’t be more than a year or two older than me, but he sounds like an old man meeting God, prepared with notes on how to order the universe. He clears his throat. “Her Majesty Queen Helena has reigned for over thirty years. She has one son and four daughters.”
“Names?” I ask. I wonder if the girl from last night is someone like Karl—a royal aide, scurrying somewhere in the palace with a sheaf of papers and her own agenda. No. I can’t imagine someone like Karl getting tipsy, even on New Year’s Eve.
Karl holds up a tablet. “This is Crown Prince Noah. He’s unmarried and hasn’t had a serious relationship in several years. The queen will only approve of the right sort of consort.” He swipes his finger. “Princess Ella. She’s a bit of a rebel.”
The picture shows a smiling girl with a curvy figure and a bright shock of curly red hair. I like her already.
Swipe. “Her twin is Princess Freja.” This time, the girl is tall and slim, her hair straight, and her expression something out of a medieval triptych—the Virgin Mary slowly finishing her chapter while Gabriel the archangel waits impatiently in an adjoining room.
I look over my shoulder as I make the bed. “This is the one who eloped last week?”
Karl gives me an approving nod. The fact that Freja’s wedding took place in a Vorburgian chapel sparked off a crisis between our countries. It’s the reason I’m in Sondmark.
