Page 83 of The Midnight Princess
“Not one. Every royal spouse before Oskar was hand-selected by committee. There’s no guidance inThe Red Bookabout princesses who step out of line.”
Alma clears her throat. “That’s not quite true. The section added by Frederick the III has an annotated list of good nunneries to pack them off to.”
I try to imagine the committee that would select me. Anti-monarchists bent on sabotage. “Your father was selected by committee?”
“Even him. The King’s Privy Council locked Sondmark and Pavieau in such a marriage contract that not even the rise of a military dictatorship could undo it.”
I rub my hand across my midsection. “Your mother still sacrificed herself to it?” I must sound like a peasant.
“They’re a strong partnership,” Alma answers.
Ella snorts.
When we reach Freja’s flat, I touch the knot of my tie. Alma brushes my hand away. “Trust me,” she whispers. “Ready?”
Oskar is at home in his suit in a way I’ll never be, but I remind myself that a sledgehammer isn’t a precision screwdriver. Each tool has its uses.
We get along using his broken English and the few snippets of Sondish I’ve picked up. He drapes an arm casually around Freja’s waist, and when she shifts, he catches her fingers. The papers have turned brutal in the last weeks, implying he’s as much a disaster for the royal family as an oil spill—grasping for citizenship, access, and a leg up in society. Even in such a short time, it’s obvious that Oskar’s goals are far simpler and more elemental. He can’t be without his wife.
Alma introduces me around the room as Jacob Gardner, skating over questions about my identity and translating when necessary. Eventually, she finds us a couple of chairs in a corner, and we wait for the arrival of Her Majesty.
When she comes, music and conversation grind to a halt. “To your feet,” Alma whispers, rising with everyone in the room.
The queen receives the greetings of her hosts, and Alma grips my forearm, leaning into me. Throughout the tense byplay, I don’t need her to tell me that Oskar has the protocol exactly right. The proper depth to the bow—for a monarchandfor a mother-in-law. I understand the set Sondish phrases.Your Majesty. Honored. Home. It’s so different from my own awkward, infrequent interactions with the queen as I travel to and from the Chevres drawing room.
She makes a remark in Sondish, and the room erupts into laughter. Something is loosed among the guests. It’s like unclamping a delicate piece of woodwork, holding my breath that it’ll maintain its shape, and discovering that it has.
“What was that she said?” I ask, turning my head slightly, almost meeting Alma’s lips in a kiss.
She jerks slightly and finds my ear. I cover her hand as she leans into me. “She told him he carried away a treasure—like a true Sondish Viking. But look”—her grip on my arm tightens—“here comes Clara.”
The youngest princess weaves through the crowd, intent on intercepting her mother, who is being introduced to every Pavian in Handsel. The lieutenant commander follows in her wake.
“He didn’t stuff himself into a suit,” I grumble. “Why couldn’t I have worn a sweater?”
The party has grown louder, and Alma, smelling like a garden in full sun, has to practically wrap herself around me to hold aconversation. I hear her low laugh. “Because you always look like you’re about to be overcome by a frenzy of lumberjacking.”
Max Andersen looks like a man who sorts his kitchen implements by color and type. Even in his collared shirt and sweater, he looks capable of calling in an airstrike.
When Max bows, the queen nods. A few words—lost in the noise of the crowd—are exchanged. When Her Majesty moves on, Clara goes up on her tiptoes and kisses Max on the lips. The kiss lingers a little too long, and he has to pull her off him. But he looks satisfied, and they exchange a fistbump.
I fill a plate of food for Alma, content to watch the party as she explains the nuances. An hour in, the lights dim, and the Pavians cheer. Ella is perched on the sofa in her party dress, and several men pick it up and carry it to the wall as she laughs.
Freja comes to check on us. “Ella doesn’t look murderous anymore. Will you do me up?” she asks her sister, scooping her hair to the side and turning around. “This button keeps coming loose.”
“I thought this was what husbands were for.” Alma’s fingers are nimble.
Princess Freja gives an arch smile as she goes. “It’s the opposite of what they’re for.”
Oskar pulls his wife into a dance, and on the opposite side of the room, one of his uncles invites the queen to take the floor. Alma’s breath catches.
“What—” I begin, but Alma grips my forearm and claps a hand over her mouth.
Alma’s father, Prince Matteo, stands on the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, eyes pinned on his wife. He allows the couple exactly two turns before tapping the man on his shoulder and cutting in.
We watch the queen and her consort move around the floor to slow music. There isn’t a sliver of light between them andthe song ends before he lets her go. Guests applaud, and Alma releases a long breath.
“You look like you could use something to drink,” I say, heading to the kitchen where I find Freja at the sink, rinsing out a cup.
