Page 92 of The Midnight Princess
I lay my head against his heart, feel the steady beat, and answer the old question. “The money and luxuries of royal life aren’t what set you apart from your subjects. In a sense, those things are just bribes to make it worth turning your life over to the country and becoming a national symbol. Though there’s always bound to be low-level grousing about the cost of running a monarchy, no one really expects a symbol to take the trash out and bring the wash in. To fight traffic or the national healthcare system.”
“Being a symbol doesn’t seem much fun.”
“It isn’t.”
I hear the smile in his voice. “My father had fun.”
I lift my head. “You willnothave fun like that.”
He grins and presses my head against his heart again. I go on, more reasonably. “It was a different time. No social media. No phones in every pocket. He could get away with behavior you’ll never be allowed. Also, he was their king when it mattered most.”
Jacob grunts. “You’d think he was the one who defeated Communism.”
“Stop thinking like an American. We don’t have the creeds you do. No, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men arecreated equal…’ For good and bad, it’s bloodier than that. We have land. A tribe. A king.”
I roll until I can look him in the eyes, chin against his chest. “The Cold War almost stamped out your national identity. Folk dress and traditional songs were outlawed. Feast days were repurposed for revolutionary figures. It was your father who kept the light burning.”
Jacob frowns. “He kept it burning with a lot of anonymous blondes.”
I hold his face between my hands. “His life is proof that Vorburg itself survived. When he dies, you won’t come to the funeral as his son. You’ll be expected to stand in the place of your people and mourn forthem—to be the public, uncomplaining, inhuman face of national grief. Strangers will cast themselves into your arms and expect you to comfort them.”
“I won’t know how to do that.”
I smooth the tightness around his mouth with a light touch. “I don’t believe that anymore.”
Each day we spend together is precious, and as they speed by, I can’t surrender myself to the simple enjoyment of being with him. There’s too much pain when I think of the future. In order to throw a cloak of protection over him when the time comes to meet the world, I redouble my efforts. I’m merciless, reviewing every scrap of information and demanding mastery.
I wake up one morning to discover there are only three days left, and when I meet him in the drawing room, I want to burst into tears. His greeting is practiced and smooth. He doesn’t need me anymore.
“You look beautiful this morning,” he whispers over my hand.
I imagine a future and close my eyes against it. “You said that yesterday.”
He picks up the agenda. “It was true yesterday,” he murmurs, wearing an expression that warms my cheeks. He lifts the page. “It just says staircase. What are we doing?”
“We have to practice our entrance for the state visit.” He follows me from the room, and from the top of the grand staircase, I explain the logistics, resting my hand lightly on his arm. The contact is at once comfortable and electric.
“The press will be limited to two journalists—one video feed, and a single photographer,” I say, pointing at a corner of the Great Hall. “There is no need to look at them until we hit our mark.” He starts off, and I tug at his sleeve. “Too fast. Remember, I’ll be in a tiara and ballgown. You will have to adjust your pace. Watch me.”
“I’m an expert at that.” He shoots me a smoldering look, too comical to hurt. It does anyway.
“Jacob,” I hiss, taking refuge in my role. “If the photographer captures that expression, we’ll be all over the papers for a month.”
His cheek tucks. “What am I supposed to look at you like?”
“Like I’m a cousin.”
He grins. “What, am I Moses? You can’t expect miracles.”
We’re halfway down the stairs when Pietor storms through the front door, his face shining and red. The doors shake on their hinges, and the tall mirrors throw dancing light onto the marble tiles.
“Alma.” He clips my name like I’m a dog being brought to heel. The muscles under my hand gather, and I grip Jacob’s arm.
“Pietor,” I clip back. “What brings you?”
“I was at the Grousehof.” A look of cold fury seeps into his watery blue eyes. “You said this”—he stabs a finger at me and then Jacob, words tumbling out of him—“was a job, but a reporter came up to me and made other insinuations. Do youknow what it makes me look like to have someone as uptight as you choosing a knuckle-dragging American bastard? Youvrou–”
With lightning speed, Jacob rips out of my grasp and runs down the stairs. He chokes off the obscenity with a fist around Pietor’s tie, and yanks the hereditary grand duke high onto his toes, propelling him backward, through the door and onto the front steps. Pietor makes indistinct squealing noises and claws impotently at the rough hand.
