Page 108 of The Midnight Princess
If. The word is like a hairpin, digging into my scalp.
Mama dismisses me. I return to my suite to surrender myself to the hairdresser, spending a good long time with my make-up and a magnifying mirror to erase the effects of a near-assassination and standing toe-to-toe with the most powerful queen in Europe.
I have chosen the dress I wore on New Year’s Eve—cut low and glittering. The fashion press will call wearing one dress for two occasions a sustainable choice. I might get lucky and they’ll say I’m a good example. I chose it simply because I hope Jacob will remember kissing me.
Ella puts her head around my door, not bothering to knock. “Have you seen social media?” she asks.
I step away from the mirror and examine the placement of the sash pinned to my bodice. “Not when I can help it.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a new GIF.” My heart sinks. Not another one. “It’s spawned hashtags such as #pietorwhatpietor,#herfaceisathreeactplay, and #onemoreprincess. It’s you on the tarmac today, and if you ask me, it’s a little soon for the internet to be doing its thing. Do you feel up for a look?”
Jacob is safe, and Pietor has people queuing up to make him rue this day. I can take anything. She holds up the phone.
The scrambling security guards and lumbering brass band have been cropped out. The camera lens is trained tightly on my face in the seconds before and after Jacob reaches me. I vaguely remember screaming at him to get safe and the GIF plays the tail end of that fury and terror. Then he has me in his arms and the panic drops away, melting into surprise. I’m not looking anywhere else but at him and then our eyes lock. I’m calm. Safe. My face…my cheeks burn. My face is a three-act play.
“It’s not that bad,” Ella says. “Everyone knows cameras lie.”
“It’s not lying.”
I smooth my skirt and drag her off to the reception room, where Mama inspects us, her exacting gaze sliding over our jewels and our gowns, the sashes and orders secured at our shoulders. Ella fidgets, her glittering tiara a little lost in her bright curly hair.
“We don’t jiggle in Sondmark,” Mama observes. Ella ceases tapping her feet and lifts her chin.
Mama nods at Freja, offering no criticism. It would sound silly if she did. As long as my sister might be forced out of the line of succession, fussing about her dress is like applying touch-up paint to the wreckage of the Hindenburg.
Mama’s gaze slides to me. I wonder if she recognizes her perfect princess anymore. This Alma hates pickled herring. She knits poorly. She dislikes the Lowenwald tiara (which she is wearing right now). She loves a Vorburgian bear who doesn’t know how to tie his shoes.
Mama looks like she’s searching for something nice to say when Père walks to her side.
“Helena,” he says, lifting his arm. Mama stares at it, the Zouvier diamonds swinging from her neck. Then she brings her fingertips to rest lightly on his sleeve. It feels as though nature and heaven and the entire country holds its breath.
He escorts her to her spot and Clara mouths from the end of the line, “What is happening?”
I lift my shoulder as guests begin to file into the room, finding their dinner partners. Caroline escorts Jacob to my side, and my heart lodges in my throat. He didn’t say one thing about missing me when we raced through Handsel in the back of the car, and I’m trying to wring every bit of comfort I can from his impeccable manners and first-class hug. It isn’t quite enough to quiet my nerves.
“Good evening,” I murmur. My eyes lift to his jawline and no higher. This affords me a stunning view of the way his tuxedo skims his broad shoulders, and I offer up a silent message of gratitude to Mr. Tumwater, his fairy godfather of precision tailoring.
The room is a crush of people bristling with orders and merits. Clara scoots past me to reach the Minister of the Exchequer, jostling me lightly, and I overbalance into Jacob, gripping his muscled arm though the material of his jacket.
He sets me on my feet, dipping his head to look me square in the face. His eyes lift to the tiara, and when I put a hand to my hairline, our fingers brush.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, mouth tipping in a smile. His eyes drop, skimming along my shoulders and over my curves. “Nice dress. It’s my favorite.”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes me. To say I missed him would be to say that the earth is round—true but a gross understatement. I haven’t thought of anything else in weeks, and the amount of sleep I’ve lost is beginning to place a heavy burden on my retinol cream.
“Has Miss Pendragon been solving any murders while I was away?” he asks, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Not one,” I manage. The trumpets begin a fanfare, and the tall doors swing open. Caroline nods and we follow, two by two, in the wake of elegant Mama and imposing King Otto.
Jacob’s pace is perfect, his posture formal but relaxed. We’re expected to exchange a few words as we go but I can’t think of anything to say. He gives me a few smiles as we descend the staircase into the Great Hall, careful to make way for my dress. The press will approve of that.
He pauses before the official photographer, and we smile. I know as I hear the click of the shutter that nothing can be made of this. Not even the grimiest gossipmonger will be able to wring the tiniest bit of juice from two grown adults performing official duties as bloodlessly and impersonally as we are.
I remember the GIF and almost stumble.Fool. No matter how professional we look, the stories will be about how he saved a Sondish princess—carried me off like I was his stolen bride—and about how I held onto him like he was my life. Nothing will matter next to that.
When the banquet gets underway, I tell myself the worst is over, but the food tastes like sawdust, and I blindly lift my glass when the monarchs toast one another. During the fish course I raise my eyes to find Jacob’s gaze on my hands, a shadow of a smile touching his mouth.
“Is the herring going to be studied under a microscope?” he murmurs, nodding to my plate. I look down, knife and fork in hand. The slices are paper thin.
