Page 61 of The Midnight Princess
My mind goes to Alma, dressed for a wedding, the brim of her hat revealing her mouth and the curve of a cheek, skipping after her fiancé in the rain like she didn’t matter and didn’t expect to matter. I swallow past the knot in my throat.
“Wear the clothes. Make us proud,” my father says.
“Yes, sir,” I say, finishing the call.
He’s not going to let this question of a bride go, but royal or not, I can’t change my nature. I have to love my wife. Gardner men do. Maybe it’s an idea which isn’t useful for the life I’ve accepted. Maybe Karl would say I am thinking like a peasant.Maybe Alma considers it middle-class or simple. But I can’t choose my wife strategically. It’s not how I’m made.
I return to my suite, change, and return to the hall, not even hiding the fact that I’m waiting for her. If Pietor comes, I’ll have sense.
I lean against the wall, releasing a breath when she mounts the stairs with her sisters. Clara peels away to her suite, but Ella sends me a wave.
Alma stops in front of our door, looking at me across the width of the hall. “What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you, boss.” I can’t tell her the truth—that I can’t stop thinking about her—but I can’t lie either. I bump away from the wall.
“It’s late.”
I hear the slam of a door and hurrying footsteps. Clara, having already changed, sprints down the hall, fishing her keys out of her purse. When the commotion passes, I look at Alma. Her lips are pressed together.
“It’s late,” I say.
“Max sails this week,” she explains, opening the door.
I follow her into our suite and flip the light on in the kitchen. I wait for Alma to hustle me out, almost hoping she’ll go so far as to place her palms against my back. She’ll tell me that she’s tired and doesn’t want to talk.
Alma unfastens her coat. “Heat up a kettle, will you?”
She heads to her room. Grinning, I open and shut cupboard doors, watching the steam rise from the kettle. I call to her, “What kind of tea?”
“No caffeine at this hour,” she says, returning. She looks at the tea caddy over my shoulder, bracing her hands on the backs of my arms. This room is tiny. All I have to do is turn around.
“No caffeine it is,” I say, scooping the loose-leaf chamomile into an infuser.
I pour the hot water and feel her soft breath against my neck, warming the skin. Setting the kettle down with a thump, I put a lid on the infuser and escape her light grasp.
“My father called,” I say, gripping both counters, trying not to notice that she looks as good in a pair of boxy silk pajamas as she did in the wedding clothes. Her hair is down, her make up hastily scrubbed off. There’s a dark line she missed on the rim of one eye. It doesn’t matter.
In this buttoned-up two-piece pajama set, she’s even more covered up than she was before. It doesn’t matter. My hands ball into fists. There’s nothing to do while we wait for the tea to steep.
Alma takes a chocolate digestive, nibbling along the edge. “Do you get along?” she asks.
I trace the rim of the counter with my thumb. “I thought we weren’t supposed to ask questions. I thought we were supposed to go through life as vanilla robots.”
“Robots don’t have flavors.” She smiles, playing with one of the buttons on her top. “I withdraw the question.”
“I’ve met my father in person twice. The first time was when he opened a new wing at the Royal Academy. He’d come to glance over his bastard whose school fees he was paying.”
“Jacob.” My name is a whisper—gently admonishing.
“The second time, he called me to Djolny Castle to congratulate me on a successful legal campaign.” I remember the exact words. “That’s when he told me I’d be learning the family trade and that he was shipping me off to Sondmark.”
Alma plucks her lip with her teeth.
“You have a question?” I ask.
No response. I release a breath and run a hand through my hair. “You have my permission to ask.”
“Why didn’t he just teach you himself?”
