Page 41 of The Midnight Princess
“He’ll be my fairy godmother.” Jacob bites his lip. Worried fingers play with the lapel of his suit, and I want to thread my hand though the crook of his elbow.
As the morning passes, our anxious Cinderella becomes grumpy. “I told you, just put me in whatever everyone else is wearing,” Jacob says, glaring at the swatches of seemingly indistinguishable gray fabric the tailor flings over his shoulder. “It’s just a suit, Karl.”
I rub my temples. “How can you say that when you’ve been wearing the clothing equivalent of a single-use plastic bag?” At this moment, I would kill to be laying the cornerstone of a community recreation center with a little bronze trowel instead of fighting a Vorburgian bear.
Jacob flings the swatches back and crouches in front of my chair. “I’m never going to be—” His gaze sharpens, and he pauses, pouring a glass of water and pressing it into my hands.
I take a long swallow, instantly refreshed, as he continues his protest. “Your brother is a crown prince. He looks fine. Ergo, get me a couple of what he’s wearing, and we call it a day.”
Karl pinches the bridge of his nose, and Caroline enters, bearing a tray of light refreshments.
I look over Jacob’s shoulder, conscious of his nearness—how his arms are braced against my chair and what it must look like. I take another sip of water, maintaining my posture, ignoring him but fitting neatly within the half-circle of his arms. “Caroline, how soon can you bring me a collection of pictures of Prince Noah? I need him in a variety of suits.”
“I have them ready now, ma’am.”
That’s Caroline. A total professional.
Jacob thrusts himself away, and a television emerges from a sleek modern console. Tapping the screen of her tablet, Caroline’s personal ThumTac account pops up on the larger screen with boards titled Family Gifts, Coastal Granny, and Noah.
Noah? I never imagined Caroline using his name. She knows the proper codes of conduct—the titles and the courtesies, the two paces she must follow behind Mama. That’s one of the things the queen appreciates most. Caroline knows her place. The heir to the throne would be the last person on earth to make her forget it.
Intense stillness comes over Caroline until her chosen page loads. “This is at the Ragnar Prize banquet,” she says, speaking matter-of-factly.
The photo was taken the same year I met Pietor. I can see my pale pink gown in the background—the tiara and sashes, the aged astrophysicist who escorted me into the room. Pietor, with his white shirt front and ramrod posture, was a perfect match. I swallow back a knot of humiliation.
“That’s a tuxedo,” Jacob says, raising his arms like a ref dispensing double yellow cards. “I’ll take one of those.”
Caught in a whirlwind of exasperation, I shoot from my chair and flick his forehead. He catches my hand, and we stand stock still—his brow arched, my eyes blinking. I don’t know which of us is more surprised.
I should be thinking of how assaulting Vorburg’s next head of state will impact bilateral investment or the Strategic Coastal Partnership proposal, but I keep forgetting that he isn’t just Jacob.
I keep forgetting that I’m Her Royal Highness Princess Alma. That we haven’t known each other forever. That he’s not someone I should touch without the permission of an ambassador.
I lift my chin. “I’m—”
He rubs his forehead and drops my hand. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
My cheeks burn, but I nod, gesturing to the screen. “Noah favors Italian-made suits with lighter material and a sleek silhouette. He’s got the build for it.”
The words are clinical, but halfway through this explanation I realize I’m staring at Jacob, running my eyes along the breadth of his shoulders. I jerk my gaze away, giving Caroline a blind nod.Carry on.
Caroline pulls up a few more photos of Noah in suits, and Karl points out the unstructured shoulder, high buttons, and tapered waist. These are paparazzi shots, and in all of them, a tall, slim model, dressed in startling high-end fashion, completes the picture.
“Are these recent?” Jacob asks Caroline
“Most of them within the last few months, sir.”
Jacob cocks his head. “Does your brother have commitment issues?”
“We are not going to discuss His Royal Highness’s private life,” I warn.
The clock on the mantel chimes the hour, Caroline bundles the others off to find refreshment, and Jacob braces his arms against the table.
British tailoring. That’s what he should wear. The image of him—properly suited with his expressive face and silky hair—walks into my mind. No pinstripes or flashiness, just substantial materials with a few well-considered touches. Supple pocket squares, rich gold cufflinks. Double breasted? I associate double breasted suits with old aristocrats and Slavic crime lords, but I can picture him in them easily.
“You have to participate,” I scowl, dropping my guard now that there are no witnesses. “Do you want to look like Horst wading out of the harbor?”
“Doyouwant me to look like Horst wading out of the harbor?”
