Page 106 of The Midnight Princess
“Ma’am,” the driver says. “Police have his identity now. He’s a native of Himmelstein.”
Alma curses under her breath and meets my eyes. “Pietor,” she whispers.
My brow lifts.How?
“Not him,” she explains. “He’ll have employed someone to do his dirty work. Count on it—we’ll find out that the discharge was accidental or that the gun wasn’t even pointed in our direction. But this happens to be the first time you stepped onto the public stage, and he made sure to ruin it. He said he would.”
Alma runs a quick tongue across dry lips. She’s still shaking.
“I’m going to kill him.” We say this at the same time, and she breathes a laugh. “My mother will beat us to it.” Alma lifts her voice to the driver. “Aren’t we going around back?”
“Word from the palace is that the official reception will go forward, ma’am.”
“Stultes es,” she mutters, putting a hand to her temple. “I don’t think I can do it.”
I know Alma. As angry and upset as she is, she’ll be furious at herself if she doesn’t.
“Take off your nylons,” I say. “They’re ruined.”
I turn my head while she writhes out of the stockings, and I reach for a bottle of expensive water. Unscrewing the cap, I spill some into my pocket square, handing it to her over my shoulder. “See to your knee.”
She lifts it free, and a few seconds later I hear a gasp. Her fingers are in my hair, tugging the short crop back. “What have they done?” Her voice wobbles. “Jacob—”
I lay a hand over her fist and the car slows. Ready or not, we’re in the palace forecourt under the watchful eye of courtiers and clicking shutters.
I pull out of her grasp and look her over. There is a tiny gash on her knee, still, but she looks like my Alma. I take a large breath and drink in the sight of her. It has been too long. I brush her face with my fingertips. “It’s just a haircut.”
Her mouth tightens. “It’s not just—”
I buck my chin toward the palace and the long line of waiting dignitaries. “We’ll talk about it later,” I promise without an inkling of how I’m going to pull that off. Gone are the days when I wandered the palace without an entourage.
I know what Alma would want. She would want to remember her responsibilities. She would want to perform her duty to Sondmark and her queen without weeping through the introductions or keeping the whole delegation waiting.
“You look good,” I say, assessing rather than complimenting. “Let’s go stun them with perfection.”
“This isn’t finished.” She blinks away her tears and reaches for the door.
Chol.We haven’t said anything. Almost two weeks of missing her, and I didn’t grab her by the shoulders and speak in a loud and clear voice, “I need you. Let’s settle this.”
Too late to grab her back now. She steps from the car, swinging her knees in a careful arc, and strides forward.
I play my part as well as she does, laughing when Her Majesty passes off the security nightmare as a little hiccup, easily brushed aside. I recognize the pretense but appreciate the need for it. So much of Vorburg’s economic future rests on this historic meeting.
Caroline ushers us into a large reception room to examine a series of artifacts: a gift dating from the reign of Piasa II, one of many peace treaties which failed to halt the War of the Amber Cross, its heavy wax seal as dark as blood, and an original photograph of my father dangling from a helicopter ladder over the crowds at Liberation Square.
Cameras click, and the princes and princesses wander after our parents, drawing near when one of Their Majesties points out some interesting historical fact. Freja, on what must be her first official assignment since her wedding, walks with Alma. Ican’t be at her side and not want to touch her, so I keep pace with Noah. He pauses by the Amber Cross.
We’re beyond the range of microphones, and he makes a good picture as he points at the relic. “Alma is my closest sister,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what your father asked you to do—”
“My father has nothing to do with this.” My tone is level.
I glance up, catching Alma’s reflection in a mirror lining the wall. Her head is bent over an antique brooch, highlighting the soft skin of her neck. I must look too long because Noah coughs lightly.
“Anytime you want to return the rest of the jewels in the set,” he says, pointing at the Amber Cross, “we’ve got a place for them at The National Museum.”
“No deal.” My gaze returns to Alma. “My wife would never forgive me.”
32
