Page 64 of The Midnight Princess
I glance up, down, and up again. In the time it takes for an entire worldview to be overthrown, I scramble to my feet.
“The crown prince, at last,” Karl whispers, coming closer to inspect the tailor’s work.
The ensemble is simple and unfinished. Jacob has no watch or cufflinks, the pocket square is stuffed carelessly at his breast, and his tie is a basic half-Windsor. But the jacket skims his shoulders, framing them in luxury and quiet authority. Genius. I want to give Mr. Tumwater a royal commendation and name a Navy ship in his honor. I want to commission a bronze statue of him to stand in Liberation Square, scissors held aloft, measuring tape curling to his toes. What he’s done with Jacob—
Jacob suffers through our inspection, eyes closed, mouth in a grim line, annoyed that we’re making such a fuss, and I move around the back where the breadth of his shoulders is lovingly accentuated. Karl’s examination is more technical, and when he lifts the vent of Jacob’s jacket to check the drape, I bite my lip.
Expensive wool suiting falls away from what I am convinced is the most commendable backside in northern Europe. In future, government ministers will take credit for Vorburg’s soaring GDP and boom in tourism, ascribing the successes to financial policies or forward-thinking legislation. No one will chalk it down to the cut of a pair of trousers and the new crown prince wearing them.
Karl lifts his brow, and I give him a look of exquisite distress, shaking my hand and wrist—the universal signal for,The tailor did a nice job. So hot. Literally burning the palace down.
Jacob, still determined not to look at us, clears his throat. “Well?”
Stuffing the screaming fangirl into a box, I move to his front, squaring up to him in a brisk and businesslike way, and brush his shoulders. I straighten the knot of his tie, gaze trained onhow the blindingly white dress shirt looks against his strong neck. My hands halt and my heartbeat is deafening.
His eyes snap open.
“This is a good start.” I toss my hair and step beyond his reach with joints that feel tight and uncoordinated. “Ready to begin?”
I work like a demon, walking us through the titles held by early Germanic tribes and carried into the formation of the Holy Roman Empire, throwing so many conquering warlords and notable historical events at him that there’s no time for my mind—or my eyes—to wander. The honorifics—defunct, ceremonial, or existent—carry a dizzying array of meanings and significance, and I drill into each one.
“I’m just saying that ‘pretender to the French throne’ is an embarrassing title,” he argues. We’ve been working for hours, and my stamina is waning.
“It’s not exactly a title.”
“If it gets attached to someone’s name every time someone talks about them, it’s a title.”
“Score one for Vorburg,” I mutter.
He laughs and stretches his arms wide, his back a curve. His jacket moves with him, sitting snugly against his neck. Karl departed ages ago, leaving me alone with this new creature, His Royal Highness Jacob, Crown Prince of Vorburg, and I let my eyes linger on him while he moves, trying to make sense of the transformation.
“Time for lunch,” he says, running a hand over his flat stomach. “Hungry?”
He holds out a hand for me, an unconscious courtesy, and I walk silently beside him, trying not to stare.
As we near the Great Hall, we hear Ella’s roar. “Take the cat if that’s all you came for.”
She lifts a basket from Caroline and thrusts it in Freja’s hands, striding off in a thundercloud of furious muttering. Smitseems unphased, but the commotion draws my brother from his office. Striding past us wearing a severe, quelling expression, he scatters footmen to the secret recesses of the palace.
I move swiftly to smooth the awkwardness and kiss Freja’s cheek. “You look gorgeous,” I say, holding her at arm’s length. “Marriage suits you.”
My sister, faintly puzzled by the emotions of lesser mortals, gestures in the direction of Ella’s flounce. “Has she been like this the whole time?”
This is exactly what she’s been like the whole time, but I shake my head. “You know Ella. If she was really mad, she would have rehomed the cat,” I say. Freja doesn’t need to carry the burden of our sister’s anger.
Freja reaches a hand to the man standing behind her, bringing him to her side. “This is Oskar. You’ve met, once or twice, I think.”
She introduces him around. His bows are stiff but correct, and he holds my sister’s hand without self-consciousness. They can’t stay, she tells me. The cat has taken umbrage to the basket.
“Next time,” I echo, waving them away.
I turn to find Noah towering over Caroline. “Show me your arm.”
No one has ever dared ignore that commanding tone, and Caroline’s habitually calm face is strained. “It’s nothing,” she says, holding her sleeve where blood has spotted the cream silk. “Smit didn’t take kindly to his basket.”
“We have to see to it,” he insists. “Caro—”
“Your Royal Highness,” she cuts him off, “I refuse to bleed all over the Great Hall.”
