Page 107 of The Midnight Princess
Queen’s Peace
ALMA
When the delegation from Vorburg departs for their quarters, I watch Jacob’s retreating form. He is exactly what I asked for. Reasonable hair, correct manners, and the ability to answer the demands of public conduct. There he is, the man of my dreams.
I don’t want it.
The reception room doors boom shut, and my sisters rush to my side, talking over each other and hugging me close. Farther down the room, Mama is in a rage, issuing orders to Caroline to dig up Pietor’s financials “yesterday” while Noah is on his phone, his tone blistering. “Destroyed. Do you hear me? We’re going to own Himmelstein by Christmas.”
It’s not a hug, but I’m comforted by their fury.
Père wades through a sea of princesses and cups my face, resting his forehead on mine. For several beats, we breathe the same air and my heart matches his easy rhythm. Gripping his wrists, I let the tears slip down my cheeks.
“Do you feel up to this?” he asks when Caroline reminds us of the schedule. I nod and move to follow my sisters, returning to their suites to prepare.
Mama looks up from her twelve-point plan to annihilate Pietor.
“Follow me to my office for a moment,” she calls.
When I stand before her desk, I’m conscious of the scraped knee and scuffed heels.
She’s barely spoken to me since I released a statement without running it through official channels, focusing her efforts on Sondmark, trying to stay in the national conversation when the prime minister keeps trying to sideline her. She feels more isolated than ever, and I don’t blame her, but the biggest headline in northern Europe was primed to be, “Neanderthal Mouth-Breathing Prince Falls on Face, Future of Vorburg in Doubt” and, in a few short, explosive sentences, I shifted the story. “Princess Alma: Cheater.” I don’t regret it.
Mama halts in front of me, her mouth set. We have not become accustomed to our new roles. I am not her faithful right hand or the keeper of the queen’s peace. I am trouble.
She takes a breath. “The crown prince”—she avoids his name—“saved your life. Though the gun had blanks, he had no way of knowing that. This is his first time in such a situation, and the fear would be incredible. I was watching it live.” Her mouth tightens, but her eyes are fixed on me. “What I saw was a man turn from the safety of an armored vehicle to run across open ground under a hail of what he supposed was gunfire to rescue my child.”
My child.
The words aren’t a commendation or a badge of honor. They’re not a title conferred because of my worthiness or merit. I didn’t earn them. Iamher child, and hearing her say the simplewords is as soothing as oil applied to a stubborn hinge, restoring it to proper working order.
“Are you going to offer him the Order of the Dragonslayer?” I ask, clearing the tightness in my throat.
The tips of her fingers press together, a light tapping that betrays her discomfort. “I wondered if he might prefer my eldest daughter.”
I stand up very straight, shock rippling through my body.
“Surprised?” she asks. Her gaze swings to the window and the ocean beyond. “You think I don’t know you? You think that being the firstborn princess under a monarch with high expectations is such a mystery to me?” Her smile is strained, and she releases a short breath. “Kissing on landings. Trashing your reputation in the press. You would never do such things for a man if it wasn’t serious.”
“Jacob,” I say, carrying his name as carefully as a crown jewel on coronation day.
She nods, a nod that says,Queen Magda never had to do this. “Jacob. If you’re determined to have him, I will approach his father to arrange a match.”
My lungs stop functioning. This offer is a stunning admission from a proud queen. King Otto would jump at the chance to borrow legitimacy from Sondmark. It’s the perfect solution. A contract marriage. Negotiated intimacy.
“No,” I murmur. “No, thank you.”
A line forms between Mama’s brow. “Alma, I’m giving you my approval to go forward with this relationship.”
I recognize the sacrifice Mama is making, and I attempt to be as diplomatic as possible. “This matter is not your concern.” Her brows gather and I explain. “I have no wish to time a wedding announcement so that we’re not interrupting commodities trading. If there is even one committee meeting about it, I would be tempted to follow Freja’s footsteps.”
My hand shakes with the effort to be as clear as crystal, and the spinning world slows to a crawl. “I mean this with the greatest respect in the world, Mama,” I say, drawing a sharp breath. “I love him, I hope he still loves me, and we will decide the course of our relationship on our own.”
Magda the Great would have called this treason and started a war. My mother closes her eyes and takes a breath, but the war is within, raging across her face. She wants to maneuver, make commands, and see that her will is done. She wants to find the next move in a larger game, working for the good of Sondmark. But I’ve given her no room to negotiate.
When she swallows, I know I’ve won. “A little discretion will go a long way to smoothing his path as a future monarch and making you, as a couple, more acceptable to both countries. Try to convince him to slow down,” she suggests.
I breathe a laugh. If he wants me, it won’t be possible.
