Page 73 of The Midnight Princess
He frowns. “You’ve been engaged for more than a year already.”
He pursues his point, but I skirt away. “It’s a shame you won’t let your father arrange a match for you.” The words are lighthearted, but my heart hurts.
The noise from the television escalates, and I catch the replay. Vorburg’s left striker sank a football into the back of the net like our keeper’s hands were made of air. The Sondish crowd starts singing an old, rowdy folk song, drowning out the celebration of the visitors.
One Sondish princess, but not one more.
Beg for our treasure and raid our shores
Shake your swords and beat your shields
No second princess we ever yield
I choke out a bitter laugh, and Jacob’s brows lower. “What are they singing?”
I give a rough translation. “It’s a friendly reminder that we’ll surrender a goal here and there, but you’ll never get another princess.”
The thread of frustration snaps, and he gets up and heads to the kitchen, clattering against the coffee table. I cup my neck and feel blood pounding through my veins.
“That’s one thing I’ll never understand about you people. There you are, living your lives, watching a football game…” He returns with a plate, a packet placed in the center. His tone islight, but there is bitter irritation around the edges. “You’ll fight to the death over something that happened in the Middle Ages.”
Unfolding a wax paper wrapper, I uncover a brownie and give it a sniff. Mint. My favorite pairing. I love mint and chocolate.
“We’re nothing without our binding grudges.” I take a bite and then another. My sweet tooth is almost never satisfied. I pay for treats like some sinner saving up for indulgences, but when these hit my bloodstream, all thought of denying myself disappears. “Where did you get this?” I ask, holding the remains of an edge piece between my fingers. Saving the best until last.
“My mom made them. She sent them over in the diplomatic pouch.”
That’s maybe the best use the diplomatic pouch has ever been put to. “I’m sure Sondmark has brownies somewhere.” I pop the remaining piece into my mouth and kiss the crumbs off the pad of my thumb. Just one. I don’t need more than a little taste.
“Sondmark doesn’t have these brownies. Anyway, she sent them because she’s sorry I’m homesick.”
“Homesick for Vorburg?”
He lifts his eyes.Think again, boss.
“Have another one,” Jacob says, offering the plate when Vorburg denies another Sondish goal. “It’ll make you feel better.”
I never get seconds. I hardly allow myself firsts. When I take it, he hides a smile.
Sondmark loses the game. Despite the song, the team surrendered more than one goal to the hated enemy.
Dusk begins to settle beyond the windows, and we pack up. He extinguishes the fire and cleans the grate. I take some paper wipes, dampened with tap water, and erase our footprints as far as the tiny entryway of the cottage. We stand there, too close in the confined space, and look around the refuge.
“It’s like we were never here,” I say, hand on the light switch. I bite my bottom lip.
Vede.I can’t go back. Pietor will be there. My mother and her expectations that I’ll handle this the perfect way will be there. I’ve spent a lifetime practicing self-denial and doing the right thing. This is just one more day. But the days stretch into the future, and I can’t see any hope of rest.
A gust of wind shakes the cottage. “Alma.” Jacob’s fingers tangle with mine. His smile is gone. “We have to talk.”
I look up, and my breath catches. I know what he’s going to say. I’ve been running but not fast enough to evade the conversation that started in the orangery when a simple New Year’s kiss turned into something more. If he speaks, a line will be crossed, and we can never go back.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I stiffen. He releases a shuddering breath, which shakes through my frame, easing the tension between my shoulders. “I’m not trying to change your mind. You just look like you need a hug.”
I burrow into him and try to forget the press waiting for a response, forget that I’m bound to my ex-fiancé for heaven knows how long. Forget that I’ve not belonged to myself for even longer.
I don’t know when I start crying, but I feel his hands stroking my back and the low, soothing noises he makes.
