Page 96 of The Midnight Princess
I sway on my feet. He’s gone. He’s really gone, but I can’t take it in. It’s as though I’ve dropped a penny into a bottomless well, and keep listening for the plink.
“Your mother wishes for a few minutes of your time,” Caroline says.
At my mother’s door, I brush my cheeks and check my expression. My face is pale and my eyes are hollow, but Mama doesn’t see it. She glances from the papers in her dispatch box with a smile. “Has the barbarian finally departed?”
“Yes.” But the penny is still dropping.
She hands off the final preparations for the state banquet. “Can you put a few hours into this? I’ve missed your support.”
I nod and go to my formal office, a little-used room that has the benefit of not reminding me of Jacob at all.
For the remainder of the day, I work with half an eye to the queen’s interests. The other half watches out for Jacob, making certain that things don’t go wrong for his inaugural event.
By late afternoon, Mama summons me to her office again, and I’m brought up short by the sight of my former fiancé.
I’ve seen his picture in the press. After Jacob threw him out of the palace, he took a skiing holiday at a carbon-neutral resort in Switzerland, tanned skin visible in a band under his helmet, eyessquinting against the sun on snow. A balaclava hid his swollen nose and fat lip.
It’s almost back to normal, I note, performing a curtsey to the queen. I can’t bring myself to give Pietor the smallest sign of respect.
Hypocrite.
I’ve been furious at Jacob, raging that he must swallow his pride. Do the correct thing. Bow. Bend. Beg.
I can’t.
Mama’s brow lifts, but she escorts us to an arrangement of chairs overlooking the lawn and the ocean beyond. Dark clouds gather in the west, but Jacob should be over the mountains by now.
“Pietor,” Mama prods, “may I ask—”
Pietor tosses a manilla envelope between us, and the rudeness of it shocks me. “My press secretary received this fromThe Daily Missive. They purchased it from a citizen photographer and want a comment before they run it.” The look he gives me is scathing. “One of their journalists made contact several days ago. I denied everything, but they have evidence.”
Mama removes a photograph, shaking it out and holding it up. I know how bad it must be when she goes completely still.
Obviously, Pietor and his philanthropic bikini model were caught. Stupid mistake. Stupid man. You never have ready access to a guillotine when you need one.
“What have you done?” I ask. “You know how careful we’ve had to be this month.”
“I’ve done?” He snatches the photo from Mama and thrusts it into my hands. It takes a second to make sense of the blurry, truncated image, the play of shadows turning two figures into one.
Then I discern the outlines of vintage Sergei San Martin and gasp. No need for a guillotine. The image is of me and Jacob,moments after a kiss. His arm is around my waist and my soft eyes are lit by a streetlamp.Dominanstid. Is this how I look at Jacob when I think no one is watching?
Jacob’s silhouette makes a bold stamp on a thin, white valance, but his identity is not immediately obvious. Nothing else matters.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Pietor asks. His voice is petulant and furious. I would have spent my lifetime with him, running around, putting out fires, managing his emotions. “What am I supposed to tell my financiers?”
My lips feel cold. “When do they plan to run the picture?”
Already I’ve shifted into crisis management mode, but underneath it all I feel panic. I think Jacob—of all our long afternoons of northern European history, our bowing and walking, the security protocols, and the Pankedruss he tried to like. We have to make it count.
“Sunday. My fiancée will parade across the pages ofThe Daily Missivewith another man.” His eyes narrow and he adds with withering contempt, “I didn’t think you’d need reminders about propriety, Alma.”
“How dare you?” I accuse, my voice low and menacing. “Howdareyou? The picture shows nothing.”
“Nothing?” Pietor counters, snatching the photo and slamming it down on the coffee table. “How much more did the photographer miss? Was the crown prince trying to get an heir? You’ve been throwing yourself at that consolation prize for months.”
“Consolation prize?” I grit out, the words containing a deadly warning.
He ignores it. “Couldn’t you have found anyone better?”
