Page 69 of The Midnight Princess
“We need you, Alma,” he says.
I tell him that there’s no need to see me through the palace doors.
When I return to the suite, a light shines from under Jacob’s door, and his low murmur emanates from within. I check my watch. Midnight in Sondmark would be…mid-afternoon in Blackberry. He’s talking to his grandparents. I wish I could push into the room and say hi to them over his shoulder. Maybe introduce myself as Alma—just Alma.
When did I become so hopelessly naïve?
I enter my room and think how wise Pietor is to try to win me back. Himmelstein isn’t struggling, but the grand duchy is small. His alliance with me—with Sondmark—has been a diplomatic and economic coup. I can’t blame him. I’d done as much research as he had, when we agreed on the engagement. It was the responsible thing to do. But amidst these concerns about monetary policy and tariffs, Clara and Freja have been merely happy.
I take down my hair and begin removing my make-up. What good is happiness? I blink away gathering tears and look atmy reflection, the smudged eyeliner and streak of brow pencil blurring my features.
When I was a young girl, my mother read me her coronation oath, going over each word so I understood the covenant she’d made with God and her people. “It means that while I live, I live for Sondmark. It’s a tremendous burden.”
“Can I carry it for you?” I asked.
She smiled. “I have to carry it, but you may help me do so.”
We pantomimed another oath, perfectly tailored for the narrow shoulders of a serious-minded young princess. I would be my queen’s right hand and defender of our nation. It’s a vow I’ve never regretted, but I can almost hear Jacob’s voice in the back of my head. “Vow. Like a nun?”
He wouldn’t understand that kind of vow, but he would understand loyalty.
I wipe the lipstick from my mouth. My sisters are merely happy, but in a sense, they’ve cut themselves off from the path of duty, from performing a vital role for their country, and from laying everything down for the people of Sondmark.
I accept their choice. I won’t be jealous of it.
My sleep is fitful, and it’s early when I make my way to the breakfast room, nodding politely when a maid tucks the newspapers next to my place setting. Pouring out a cup of coffee, I glance over the headlines ofThe Holy Pelican. “Vorburg Proposes 2% Drop in Agricultural Tariffs.” Mama will be pleased. “Neerheidvan Heyden Gives Firsthand Account of Seong Crisis.” Marc, my brother’s oldest friend, has been on the ground for several months, monitoring the situation in his mother’s homeland.
I make a mental reminder to tell Jacob thatNeerheidis Sondish for ‘Lord’ and turn the paper, scanning the headlines under the fold. “Royal Wedding Date Leaked, Waiting on Palace Confirmation.”
I stand and hastily spread out the paper so I don’t mistake a single word, murmuring in panicked fits and starts. “Palace spokespeople were unreachable Friday evening as news leaked on Pixy…an account specializing in sustainable, organic, non-dairy, free-range baked goods…September 20th…”
This isn’t a tabloid, but Sondmark’s most reputable news organization. My mouth dries up. The breakfast attendant is calmly arranging the table settings, blind to the fact that the bars of my royal cage are clanging shut. There ought to be a button, a bellpull, or an old air raid klaxon I can ring to get everyone out of bed and downstairs now.
I clear my throat and the maid looks up. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Has Her Majesty had breakfast yet?” My skin feels mottled and itchy.
“Came and went half an hour ago,” she says. “She’s preparing for a luncheon at the embassy.”
Vede. Vede, vede, vede.My phone flashes and I leap on it. It’s a text from Caroline.
Her Majesty expects you to stay out of the spotlight today as the palace considers a response.
“Excuse me.” I nod my way out of the room, donning a tight jacket of anxiety, the buttons going from my neck to my knees. I don’t need to worry. Mama is in charge. I’m fine. This is fine. The first order of business is to get to my suite. I race to the Great Hall and up the stairs.
“Alma!” Clara calls, chasing after me.
Vede.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she grabs my elbow, dragging me into my sitting room.
“Sure you are,” she says, dumping me onto the sofa. “Is there any truth to it?” she asks. “Did you agree to marry—”
I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh of her arm and tip my chin at Jacob’s door.Shh.But there’s no need to take such care. We can hear him singing in the shower, offkey as ever.
“I’m not marrying Pietor,” I hiss. Never. “I don’t know how this got out.”
“I think you should—”
