Page 47 of The Midnight Princess
“Haggis is delicious.” She scooted the dish closer. “I’ve sincerely eaten every one of these things on diplomatic missions for my mother.”
I prodded the ooze. “Have you ever wondered if people hate Sondmark and this is their way to make sure you never come back?”
She propped her chin on her fists. “Dig in, Jacob.”
The way she says my name is what keeps me doing this, night after night. Every second we spend together, I have to act like I’m not interested, like her nearness means nothing, like I wouldn’t crawl over broken glass if she asked me to.
When it’s my turn to offer her a dish, I start simple, bringing Alma a container of raw pickled herring. She takes one look and smiles. “I’ll dish them up.”
I get a fire started in the fireplace, bending low to blow the embers into life, and wander around the sitting room, picking off the remaining sticky notes—vocabulary lessons which remind me of the man whose country and language she’s forcing herself to adopt—and toss them into the fire.
The frustration of her engagement feels like an ache in the palms of my hands, and I open a folder containing translations of select human interest columns from the Sondish news outlets to distract myself.
Over the last weeks, I’ve learned that the press is divided about the wisdom of Princess Clara’s lawsuit. Prince Noah receivesgenerally positive coverage except from theDaily Worker, whose columnists refer to him as “an inherently exploitative product of monarcho-capitalistic hierarchies.”
Princess Ella is a favorite, but the image the press has is one of their own creation, cobbled together from her candid photos and off-the-cuff remarks. The press is eking every bit of newsprint from Princess Freja’s elopement that they can, running constant photos of the newlyweds touring some of Florence’s best museums or wandering through markets.
I slide the folder onto the coffee table and crouch in front of the dollhouse. Alma’s upcoming marriage to Pietor is discussed in the press with a breathless disregard for named sources. An anonymous vendor claims they’ve set a June wedding date. A “close friend” suggests the groom’s conservationism will play a major role in the smallest details—locally sourced and seasonal flowers, organic elderberry cake, and bee-friendly seed packets given as favors.
All this royal nonsense should be a joke, but I’m not laughing. I hate Pietor. Even if he adopted stray puppies and donated a quarter of his income to rewilding the countryside, I’d still hate him.
Alma carries a tray in from the kitchen, gently negotiating the furniture, clad in a soft sweater and dark slacks.
I look away, training my eyes on the dollhouse. Focusing on it like I’m charged with its restoration, trying to forget my reaction to her. The roofline is a mix of craggy medieval crenelations and delicate French turrets. The face of it marries Ostphalian timber framing and stone, more harmonious than the actual palace, which meanders without order along the headland. These craftsmen cut away anything which couldn’t be contained within the sharp confines of a childish rectangle.
“Ready?” she asks.
I take a breath before I turn my head, bracing myself. “Can I open this?”
“Sure.” She scoots around the coffee table, and I unfold from the crouch, taking the tray and setting it down. Our fingers brush. I scrub the sensation away on my jeans.
“There’s nothing to see. All the accessories are packed away and stuffed inside,” she continues, nodding to the dollhouse.
“Why did you put it in here if you’re just going to keep it closed up?” Other people forget to put things away, get careless or lazy. Not Alma. If she carves out room in her life for a thing, it matters.
She shrugs like it doesn’t. “It was just taking up space in the nursery. It was a gift from the government of Schwascle when we hosted them for a state visit.”
I trace a finger along the ridgeline. “You played with it?”
She busies herself, loading up a plate with the Vorburgian delicacy. Her nose doesn’t even wrinkle at the scent of pickled herring when she hands it over.
“Yes. Our British governess taught us to handle priceless things in a careful manner.” My ability to distract her with questions about the dollhouse is a sign she might not be wholeheartedly looking forward to her meal.
Going to the dollhouse, she swings the front panel wide. I expected magic. I expected the inside to match the richness of the exterior. Instead, more than a dozen ornate rooms are packed to the ceilings with paper-wrapped parcels
“But?” She doesn’t like my questions, but she doesn’t lecture me every time I ask one anymore.
She lifts a shoulder. “We were five little kids. It was fragile. No matter how disciplined we were, pieces broke. That’s what happens when something is not just for show.” Her nose scrunches in memory. “There used to be a rocking-horse. Iwasn’t careful enough, and it broke,” she says, pointing to one of the highest rooms. The nursery.
“Didn’t you fix it?”
“I wouldn’t know how to fix it.” She nudges my shoulder, the light touch disturbing my calm surface. “Time for dinner,” she says, serving herself.
“That’s an…elegant portion.” I cock my brow and heap my plate.
She quickly finishes a thin sliver of pickled herring while I demolish mine and ask for seconds. The fact that she hasn’t gagged even once is disappointing, but returning the tray to the kitchen, I see the remains of the fish, lying in a row.
“Well, well, well.”
