Page 25 of The Midnight Princess
Hot.
I close my eyes tight. The number of times I caught myself checking him out today… Too many. I steady myself on the bars of the treadmill, sweeping the mental image almost all the way out of my head. I can blame Pietor and our broken engagement for this. Nature abhors a vacuum.
I glare in the general direction of Lijuela, south, southwest. If I were still firmly engaged, I would be thinking of Jacob as an inconvenience with a jam stain on his shirt, figuring out ways to solve him, not thinking, “Take it off. Let me pop it in the laundry while you wait.”
My sisters glance at each other and I school my expression. “If he were a civilian I met on a walkabout, he wouldn’t make any kind of impression.” Every word is a lie.
“As things stand, the gulf between Jacob Gardner and The Future Monarch of the Entire Country of Vorburg is wide. I have to construct a big enough trebuchet to fling him across the gap,” I say.
Clara laughs, never failing to be amused by medieval siege engines, and Ella hops on the treadmill next to mine.
“It’ll be all right. He sounds like me.”
What is meant to be a bit of encouragement makes me uneasy. Ella’s commitment to being the perfect princess is nonexistent. She only gets away with it because with four other children to choose from, Mama can deploy her strategically. Vorburg has but one king and one prince.
Clara hops from the bike and joins us.
“I just have to break through his resistance,” I resolve.
“I was resistant, too, but I’m just as royal as you are,” Ella says. “I’m just not like the rest of you.”
“How’s that?” Clara asks.
“Insufferable.” Ella makes a face of disgust.
Clara is distracted by a text, and Ella’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Our ancestors split skulls to get on the throne. They weren’t philosopher-kings,” she reminds me. “There’s room for all kinds of royals in this world. Let Jacob be Jacob.”
7
Boiling Pitch
JACOB
Karl hovers at the door of the tiny kitchen, a dry-cleaning bag hooked over one finger.
“Hang the suit over the door and go,” I say, reaching up to tighten a cabinet screw with my multipurpose tool.
“VrouwTiele sent me your schedule. She used bullet points and a color-coded calendar.”
“What’s that smile for?” I ask, swinging the door back and forth. I make another adjustment to perfect the alignment.
“She’s wonderfully organized,” Karl admits, the tips of his ears lifting. “We’ll be going over state visit details this morning. Her Royal Highness would like to see you in the Chevres drawing room to begin learning the Fundamentals of Eating.”
This is Little Duckies all over again. “I know how to eat.” I snap the tool closed. In the few days I’ve been here, I haven’t seen so much as Alma’s heel rounding the corner of our suite. “It’sinsulting. The pride of Vorburg won’t stand for it.” Karl will back me up.
He doesn’t. “Eating in public is a different matter, sir.” His eyes start at my bare feet and continue up, his expression sour. “I’ll leave you to change.”
I glance down, brushing the back of my hand over my ‘JohnnyFlamenMarr’ concert t-shirt, and carry the dry-cleaning bag into the sitting room. Even after having been washed and pressed each day, the cheap materials of the suit remind me of 70s era imitation wood paneling. No one is mistaking it for the good stuff.
Ever since the verdict came down, the king has been trying to make up for the fact that I grew up wearing hand-me-downs from my cousins and looked forward to Mac & Cheese Surprise—a dish requiring Mom to slice hotdogs into the boxed noodles—every Friday night. But he’s trying to pay off a debt that can’t be wiped out, attempting to erase the things that shaped me into the man I am.
A distant timer sounds, Karl’s warning that I can’t commit the Sondish sin of keeping people waiting. I should be out the door now.
I shuck my jeans and jump into the suit pants, buttoning them at the waist. Jeans get tossed against my bedroom door to land in a crumpled heap at its base. Quickly, but with all due care for the bangers he produced, I peel off my vintage concert tee, draping it over the arm of the sofa, and thrust my arms into the sleeves of my dress shirt, the starched material flying around me as I locate the buttons.
I hear a tiny squeak and see Alma spinning quickly around. She hits a side table and steadies it. “I didn’t know you were still here,” she breathes. “I came— It’s fine. I didn’t see anything.”
I glance down to make sure I’m not actually flashing her. The pants hang off my hips but the barn door, as my grandma would say, is closed. Maybe she’s never seen abs.
