Page 101 of The Midnight Princess
“Oh.” Freja reaches for my hand, feeling her way through her thoughts. “You like him.”
Freja doesn’t grasp interpersonal relationships like the rest of us do. Things have to be an astronomically big deal before she drags her attention away from her pet obsessions. Though it’s a massive understatement, my sister has hit the nail on the head. Yes. I like him.
Ella falls back and stares up at the ceiling. “I thought you were making out and flirting. No judgment,” she lifts her hands. “Youneeded an outlet. But a Vorburgian prince—” The lyrics of the drinking song come into my head.One Sondish princess, but not one more.
She points at Clara, Freja, then me. “Commoner, Immigrant, Enemy. This is Mama’s nightmare timeline.”
Clara whacks her. “What are you going to do? Date in secret? Outingen Huis is closer to the border. You could meet—”
Bless my littlest sister for thinking of logistics. In happier circumstances, I would need love nest recommendations for my clandestine romance, but Jacob has given me days of radio silence, and I don’t know what to do.
“I don’t have a plan.”Wedefinitely don’t have a plan. “I have to keep things quiet through the state visit so he can be in the spotlight without the added pressure of scandal.”
I look down, twisting my fingers. My sisters take a position on every side of me, arms tight, warm breath stirring my hair.
As bad as Sunday is, Monday is worse.
Caroline finds me working in my suite. Her mouth is tight when I answer the door. After years of service to the Crown, she’s never ventured into the private residential area of the palace, always staying in her place—the admin wing, with her neat, compact office out of which she conducts the affairs of Queen Helena.
“Ma’am, you need to see this,” she says, handing me a stack of newspapers comprising every outlet in Sondmark and several more in a language I recognize as Vorburgian.
My heart rate spikes, and sourness rises up my throat. “Come in,” I say, making my way to the sitting room and setting the newspapers on the floor. I fishThe Holy Pelican, the most sedate newspaper in Sondmark, from the pile, and take in the headline. “Bastard Prince a Heartbeat from Throne of Vorburg”. I scan the article, “Tiffani Fawn Gardner of Blackberry, Oregon,U.S.A. was a dancer when she ensnared His Majesty King Otto of Vorburg…”
The story contains salacious elements. A girl running away from a small town and heading to Hollywood. A performer who thought she could catch a king. An unplanned pregnancy. A child raised in exile. A cancer diagnosis. A payoff.Payoff.The word pulls me up. That’s the word they chose to describe a man taking responsibility for his child’s education. The bare details are true, some of them well known in Vorburg, even, but the light shining on them is not the soft glow of positive coverage. This is the harsh illumination of a hit piece.
She doesn’t have anything to do with this.
Those were almost Jacob’s first words to me. I remember it being the first thing I liked about him—his loyalty to his mother and his desire to protect her, recognizing the same impulse in myself. My hands are stiff and cold as I turn the pages over. The world is being introduced to Crown Prince Jacob of Vorburg, future head of state.
“How could the courtiers in Djolny allow this?”
Caroline shakes her head. “They never would. It can’t have come from those loyal to the crown.”
My hands shake. “Did my mother leak this?” I have to ask. I hold my breath, waiting on the answer. If she has, I won’t forgive her.
Again, Caroline shakes her head. I sense her gentle pity. “She doesn’t want unnecessary drama to overshadow the state visit.”
“Karl? He looks like a weasel.”
Caroline flashes an expression that tells me I am unworthy of that thought and she will pretend she didn’t hear it. “He’s a loyal servant to His Majesty The King. Vorburg needs things to go well, even more than we do.”
Who else even knew Jacob was in Sondmark? My mind spins through the possibilities, a kaleidoscope of faces and names, until it comes to rest.
Of course. “Pietor.”
Caroline looks like a teacher, tapping the tip of her nose when I find the right answer. “I have no confirmation of that.”
Never trust a reptile. Never turn your back on a snake. I take a breath and allow myself to see the whole picture—the mess of newsprint, the number of words dedicated to tearing into Jacob’s heart and ripping the crown from his hands.
What protection will he have from his father? Heaven knows. I can’t trust it. Who else will fight for him?
My hand balls into a fist, crushing the limp, gray sheets of theDaily Worker(“Newest Royal Set to Overturn Oppressive Trad-Fam Norm”). This is my fault. Like a skyscraper, rigged with explosives, I seem to collapse in on myself in a blast of dust and smoke. I have come, at last, to the truth.
I love Jacob.
These headlines make me want to grab ties and push people down stairs in Jacob’s defense, no matter how many cameras are pointed at me.
I wade through the headlines (“Dancer High Kicks Her Way to the Crown” fromThe Daily Missive) and perch on the edge of the sofa. Holding a hand over my mouth, I try to make sense of the change. I have lived for my mother’s praise, expecting a bright red ribbon with a portrait of my queen as my reward. It could never love me like he does.
