Page 11 of The Midnight Princess
Karl smiles and I want to smile back, tracing my finger along the edge of his lip. I blink several times, trying to clear my throbbing headache through sheer force of will. He leans forward. “I’m Jacob.”
“Pardon?” I must have lost twenty IQ points since yesterday, and I give his hand a desperate squeeze.Help me.
He looks over my head, an easy thing to do, and smiles at the queen. “I was brought up in the U.S. and prefer my mother’s pronunciation.”
It takes a second, but understanding hits like a nuclear warhead, rippling a path of destruction through my self-respect.I’m Jacob.This is the crown prince. I drunk-kissed the crown prince of Vorburg last night. If any more blood leaves my face,I’ll be as transparent as one of those spindly, deep-sea creatures camouflaging itself from predators.
“Thisis Crown Prince Jacob. Jacob,” Mama repeats. She looks at him. “Do you intend that to be your regnal name?”
“Regnal?” he says under his breath, brushing his thumb across my hand.
“The name you will rule under when you become the king,” I murmur, hardly pausing to wonder why a midnight kiss should make it natural for him to ask the question of me or why I would supply the answer like a faithful vassal.
“Do sit,” Mama says. I peel my hand from his and subside into a chair like I haven’t made the biggest blunder since…since midnight.
“My father’s health is excellent. Being a king is something I won’t have to worry about for a long time,” he tells my mother, taking a seat.
The conversation settles into the familiar pattern of royal audiences, and I withdraw into a support role, attempting to form an assessment of our guest. Nothing about this is ordinary. I laughed with him. I pressed my lips to his. I know that he smells like spice and fresh-cut wood. I know I want to push my fingers through his hair. I know how I’ll fit if I step into his arms.Perfectly.
I shake my head and try to look at him through Mama’s eyes. I note that Jacob is large enough to dwarf the chair on which he sits. He has pulled his long hair out of his face, confining it in a loop, but the loose strands brush along his jaw. He’s not comfortable here. I see it in the way his hands tug his cuffs and run down the length of his lapel. Body language experts describe these as self-soothing actions, but even if he’s out of his element, he’s not being knocked on his heels by Mama’s subtle disapproval, either.
Maybe he gets this quality from his father.
King Otto was exiled from Vorburg as a young man, and during the Cold War, he rallied the international community for support and intervention, broadcasting from secure locations in North America and the United Kingdom. He was tireless on behalf of his country, and they loved him for it.
When the occupation ended, he helicoptered into Djolny, leading a party in Liberation Square that didn’t stop for a week. Few modern monarchs have suffered the loss of their throne and gone on to have such a sweeping, victorious reversal of fortune. In the course of decades, he became a living, breathing symbol of resistance. A national saint.
Placing a knuckle against my lips, I check a laugh. King Otto never lived like a saint.
During his exile, he cut a swath through Hollywood and never met a blonde he didn’t like. He didn’t haveamours, the French press would say, only encounters—irrésistible,clandestine.
How much of the father is found in the son?
I glance at this hitherto anonymous litigant, and he tips his head almost imperceptibly.Hey.His eyes smile. Probably another skirt chaser.
I clear my throat and begin a calming litany. Monarchy is built on a history of strategic marriage alliances and established bloodlines. Now that armed rebellions and fratricidal stabbings are rare, the practice of primogeniture means the oldest child inherits the throne, making possible the peaceful transfer of power. Wars have been fought, entire religions schismed, by the single edict that no illegitimate child can rule. These essential truths were laid out to me as soon as I was old enough to realize that every park in Handsel contained one of my ancestors cast in bronze.
The litany is interrupted when Jacob, upsetter of divine law, catches me looking at him. He winks. Some feminine, adolescentreaction ripples through me, followed by a tardy bloom of disapproval.
My mother’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way off. “...happy to extend this personal favor to His Majesty. Princess Alma…Alma— ” Mama repeats.
“My apologies,” I blurt. Present.
Mama carries on, smoothing over my uncharacteristic lapse. “Princess Alma will act as your personal tutor, serving at my pleasure.”
Alma? That’s me.
The one, cold, shriveled kernel of comfort I harvested from my encounter last night was that I wouldn’t have many reasons to cross the path of the man I kissed. I wouldn’t even have to look him in the eye if the composition of my apology was precise enough.
I’m sorry for asking for a kiss.
I’m sorry for touching your neck.
I’m sorry for liking it so much.
I can lie.
“Everyday?” I say, the word squeezing through my narrow throat.
