Page 98 of The Midnight Princess
I don’t care what they say about me. Alma—we have a chance to set the record straight. Tell them about Pietor. Us. The whole story. Ring up Neer Hjefdal, and you could have this on the news tonight.
I choke out a painful laugh. The press is not our friend. It never is. Talking to them will only make things worse.They don’t know who you are. You don’t have to involve yourself.
The silence between us stretches. I hear the coming and going of palace office workers beyond the door. Finally, he sends a screenshot of the photo, covered in scribbles.
“Me,” it reads, pointing at the darkened silhouette of his head. Another arrow points to me. “The girl I’m in love with.” Heat pours through my veins, but his caption is brief. “I’m involved.”
I want what he’s offering so much, but being connected with me, right now, would be a disaster for him. It’s too soon.
I tap out a message.The danger of Pietor. The grand duchy of Himmelstein. The Sondish economy. The Vorburgian economy. A historic trade deal. My mother. This isn’t as simple as you and me.
His answer slices through my excuses.Will it ever be?
29
Coming Storm
ALMA
Are you there?I tap the words out and hit send, watching the phone for any signs of a response.
Jacob???
Why aren’t you answering?
I’m ruined for meaningful work for the rest of the day, squeezing in what I can between checking my phone. I turn it off and on again. I look for a software update and ask my sisters to send me texts. Everything is in working order. Jacob has cut me off.
For good reason. What is there to say? I can’t apologize. I’m handling things in the best way I know.
A team from the palace and a team from the grand duchy agree on a series of pap walks, strategically positioning Pietor and me in places where we’re likely to be photographed. He surprises me with breakfast at La Baiser Chaleureux, but it was Caroline who secured a reservation for the popular bistro. We walk pasta line of people who whip out their phones, and I tuck my hair behind my ear, confident that social media will push these posts to thousands. The man behind the gleaming glass display smiles in welcome, even as his confused glance twitches between me and Pietor.
Pietor takes me to a concert in a dress that should have the fashion press talking for weeks. The slit is so high, I fear the wrath of my Lutheran ancestors, and on the ride home I shiver. He never thinks to offer me his coat.
This is a courtesy I wouldn’t have had to teach Jacob. As soon as we got into the car, he would have shrugged out of his coat and draped it over my shoulders. But being a prince, I have discovered, is not the same thing as being a gentleman.
I spend my days toting the opal boil from one end of Handsel to the other, giving Pietor meaningful glances in full view of paparazzi and cell phone cameras. When he puts a hand on my waist, I paste a smile on my lips.
The pictures popping up all over the internet, morning news shows, and on the homepages of every gossip site in Sondmark are convincing. We’re being talked about. It’s no longer about economics and state visits, for me. Over the last few days, my focus has shifted. This is for Jacob. I can’t fail him.
I spend Saturday night sitting cross legged in front of the dollhouse, touching a gentle finger against the tiny spindles of the staircase, moving objects around, and staring at my phone.
On Sunday morning, I wait in the breakfast room, prepared to face the worst. The maid lays the newspapers on the table, and I reach forThe Daily Missive, taking a deep breath before I read the headline.
Headlines.
“Princess Alma Making Sparks with Mysterious Man-bun”
“Don’t Break His Heart, Alma: Friends Weigh in on the Hereditary Grand Duke”
“More Scandal Rocks the Royal Family”
Sure enough, page two has the graph of possible Wolffe cousins with percentages under each name, giving the likelihood that the man was a relation—a cousin with a strange mole I needed to inspect. The graph is rendered in color. The conclusions are unscientific but damning.
I pick up my phone, scrolling through my text history.
I can still taste the Pankedruss.
It’s been days. That’s biologically impossible. For the pride of Vorburg…Suck. It. Up.
