Page 71 of The Midnight Princess
“Do you know where you’re going?”
He chuckles, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, and pulls away. A deep rumble shakes the truck, lightyears from the engineered elegance of a Bentley.
At the gatehouse he stops, speaking briefly with Nils Helmut to reiterate the plan. “We’ll have an unmarked car follow you to the cottage and stay at the end of the drive until you’re ready to return.” Nils lifts his voice, tinged with a laugh. “I hope your cargo isn’t damaged.”
We proceed slowly through the gates and I shrink from the commotion of the crowd.
“We’re through,” he says, picking up speed.
“Can I get out now?” I ask every five minutes until we bump down the rough track leading to Max’s cottage.
Jacob’s answer is always the same. “Stop distracting me.”
When he cuts the engine, I unfold myself from the crouch, each joint screaming from such rough treatment. Tripping through the work supplies, I slither into the front seat, dropping out of the truck and into Jacob’s arms.
Fog, rolling from the lake, wreaths us in dewy air. I’m supposed to be able to find refuge out here, to escape from the watchful curiosity of palace flunkies and a waiting press, but Jacob’s eyes trace my face, lashes dipping as his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Do you have the key?” I breathe.
He tips his chin up. “You have the key.”
Oh. Right. I untangle myself from his arms and lead him up the path to a modest stone building covered in crisp white and black paint. We push through the door, and from the narrow entryway, I see a small kitchen on the other side of the main room.
It’s more simple and rustic than I imagined, but Max’s furniture, some of the pieces decades old, makes a cozy, accidental harmony. There are signs of him and Clara in a few snapshots on the mantel and a favorite blanket folded neatly over the battered sofa. It’s as tidy as a pin.
When Jacob stretches, he fills half the room. “Do you think Max would mind if I claimed the cottage for Vorburg?”
“I’d like to see you try,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “He has access to actual cannons.”
I begin to unpack while he prowls around every centimeter of the house. “You’ll be my secret weapon. We could share the spoils of war,” he promises, disappearing up the stairs.
“There’s only one room, though,” he reports on his return. “So we’ll have to flip for the bed.”
“Hmm?” My cheeks flush, and I open the fridge to soak up the cool air.
“When we move in,” he explains. “I’m too big for the couch.”
He stands over me, one hand on the fridge door, the other on the counter. Reaching in, he grabs a bottle of juice and I scoot backward. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The horde of press was a minor inconvenience compared to the danger of spending a whole day doing nothing with Jacob.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I need some fresh air.”
He grabs his jacket. “I’ll come with you.”
We walk along the shoreline, hardly more than an overgrown track. He goes ahead of me, pointing out obstacles, and I stare at the center of his back, wondering how long I can keep up the pretense that preparing him to take his place as the heir to the kingdom of Vorburg is just a job. It hasn’t been just a job in weeks. Every day I wrap him up in history, protocol, comportment, and the thin tissue of etiquette, praying it will be enough to protect him when the time comes.
We walk until the wind picks up and return for lunch. It’s simple fare—sandwiches and sliced fruit. I haven’t snuck in any death-yogurt, and he hasn’t brought along pickled herring, but every swallow is as awkward as a first date, our knees brushing under the tiny table.
After we wash up, Jacob finds a record from The Antidote in Max’s collection. “The best one,” he says, slipping it from its protective sleeve. The needle drops, and the opening strains of “Monday, I’m Falling For You” play through the speakers. “Do you dance?” he asks.
That’s one more thing he’ll have to know, at least a little. The melody is slow, and I map a simple two-step over the beat. “I can teach you—”
But he pulls me into his arms and guides me around the small space, more skillful than simply swaying to a beat, a satisfied smile tucking his cheek. At first, I hold my back stiff and my shoulders level, trying to make myself believe this is a diplomatic reception and I’ve been paired with a foreign minister. Trying to get it out of my mind that I’ve never been held like this.
His hand drops across my back, pressing the small of it, leading me with an easy self-assurance, and stealing the words from my throat. I want—
We complete a circle and my body curves to fit his shape. The difference in my limbs feels like suddenly surrendering to a current, rolling onto my back to stare up at the starry sky, hardly conscious of the dangers downstream. I could live like this forever.
I miss a step and he steadies me with one easy motion, smiling when my shoulders straighten.Vede. What if I never feel this way again? What if the perfect husband Mama produces from her list never makes me forget I’m a princess?
