Page 99 of The Midnight Princess
Clara rushes in, her hair clipped into fat rollers, with Ella hard on her heels. “What just happened? What is this? Do you want to sue?”
Ella snatches up the newspaper. “Is this the reason why you were doing pap walks with Pietor all weekend? Did Mama make you do it? What happened with Jacob?”
I look up, and something in my face—self-pity or bone-weary exhaustion—silences them. “Mama isn’tmakingme do anything.”
Ella snorts. “All she had to do was ask.”
My lips twist, and I blink.
“Oh,vede, don’t look like that.”
“Like what?” I’m fighting tears.
“Like Superman swallowed kryptonite. You’re the steady one.” She shakes her head. “This will pass. It always does. We’ve had eight hundred years of things just passing.”
I release a slow breath. I’m the steady one. The queen’s right hand. The one who can be counted on. I’m not supposed to need saving. My chin pulls with the strain of self-control.
“I have to see Mama,” I say. An excuse. I need to get out of here.
Clara nods and makes way when I pass. “No one blames you for having a rebound,” she states, turning the knife in my wound. “We’ve all done foolish things.”
The thought catches in my throat. I get it. The thought of him and me…it’s laughable.
The palace elects to make no comment, and we spend the rest of the day pretending six news trucks aren’t parked outside the front gates, gathering man-on-the-street reactions to recent headlines, and prepare to receive Freja, Oskar, and Max to dinner.
We are to dine in the old family apartment where Mama lives in solitary splendor since Père moved out, and I help Una select the linens and china. She entrusts me with the ironing and the table settings. The work is simple but precise and keeps my mind away from full-blown panic.
Dinner is delicious, and though our family has its problems, each member of the House of Wolffe knows how to make conversation and avoid tricky subjects. Freja and Oskar give us a diverse range of topics—updates about the museum, citizenship tests, and the weather in Florence. Max doesn’t try too hard to fill the silences, and Clara holds his hand under the table. He doesn’t bother fighting her off or being awkward about it, but he maintains the bearing of a military officer. Mama will like that, even if she doesn’t want to.
As we move into the lounge, Père kisses my forehead and gives me a quick squeeze.
“I like you,” he says, apropos of nothing. How can he say so? I’ve messed up. The prime minister was caught on a hot mic threatening to move up talks over Freja’s place in the line of succession, and the country has spent the whole day dissecting my morals—and not in a good way.
Still, my father’s easy affection warms me.
When the night grows late and our small talk is exhausted, the party breaks up. Noah holds me back as the others disperse, rolling a small measure of whisky around a heavy glass tumbler and eyeing me from the sofa. Though the weight of the crown is on Mama’s head, my brother, as her heir, has the right to take an interest in anything that threatens it.
“Do you blame me?” I ask, leaning against the mantel.
“I would have picked a better time to throw away a lifetime of good press.” He takes a drink and smiles into the glass. “Especially for Vorburg.”
“For Jacob. Do you blame me?”
He looks at me for a long while. “If it’s a matter of the heart, what do I know?” he asks, voice tinged with bitterness. “You have to be careful.” He lifts a hand. “I know you will. But still, things are unsettled. Freja. Clara. Even our parents.” He stands and stretches, pulling me into a careless hug and kissing the top of my head. “Mama actually gave the go-ahead for Freja to visit family in Pavieau. Heaven only knows what will happen next.”
When he takes himself off, I retire. But instead of turning right at the top of the stairs, I find myself outside Ella’s door. She buzzes me into a darkened room, and I find her lying on the bed with a Seongan drama projected on the opposite wall, subtitles spooling out above a chair rail. She pats the bed and I crawl in, reaching for a handful of peppermint puffs, watching the flickering lights, and letting them dissolve on my tongue one at a time.
Within minutes, Clara knocks, and Ella presses a button. Our little sister pushes through the door, dragging Freja along behind her.
“We sent our menfolk off. We haven’t had sister time in forever,” Clara explains, shoving aside the mountain of stuffed raccoons.
Ella glares as they push their way onto the bed, flopping haphazardly as they take in the drama.
It makes no sense. Men with sharp-drawn eyebrows and elaborate up-dos execute a series of gestures in a magical duel. A woman in a contemporary business suit collapses in her cubicle in another dimension. The hero is mortally wounded, falling into some alien, wind-scoured terrain.
“What is this?” Clara asks, scooching me over.
Ella reaches for the black licorice. “It’s a classic calledKnight: The Tormented and Forsaken Angel. He’s a thousand-year-old guardian spirit, and she’s the national security analyst who inherits him. Hijinks ensue.”
