Page 102 of The Midnight Princess
“I was fighting him,” I say, the words strained, “the whole time. I was trying to force him to see that the country needed to come first. Not sometimes. Always.”
I don’t look at Caroline, and she doesn’t ask for explanations but stands, ghostlike, on the edge of the room, crowded aroundwith dozens of other shadows—my ancestors, pressing close to hear their child discover a novel idea for the House of Wolffe.
A laugh chokes from my throat. You’re not supposed to change for love. That’s the idea. Advice from every women’s magazine and opinion piece is that love is something you have to walk into after you’re fully actualized, killing it at work, and with a year’s saved wages or a real estate portfolio. An iced Americano you grab on your way to some other destination.
This isn’t like that. I didn’t want to love him—I was fighting—but now I have new eyes that can’t unsee my government’s backroom dealing, my family’s shoddy alliances, and the emptiness of living like an arm of the State.
He refused to put me second to anything.
I cover my eyes but still see it. What a mess. I spent all my time worrying about Jacob’s introduction to the world being perfect, but if he stepped into this room right now, he would fold me into his arms and kiss my head. He’d say that now is the perfect time to tell Sondmark that he’s my man. He’d refuse to come second to a country.
Okay. I nod my head briskly. New plan. I’m going to war.
“Caroline,” I say, getting to my feet, “I’m putting out a statement.”
She nods. “I’ll call your mother.”
“No, this will come from the office of Her Royal Highness Princess Alma, Duchess of Lowenwald,” I say, using my most formal title. I sound polite. But I also sound like I could sever the heads of my enemies without a drop of regret. “It’s nothing to do with my mother. I’m not asking for permission.”
She nods and lifts her pen, prepared to take dictation. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“No,” I repeat. “I don’t want to get you into trouble. Just forward a list of email addresses. Oh,” I say, holding a finger and darting into my room to return with the opal monstrosityin a small red box, “and send this back to Himmelstein via the diplomatic pouch.”
She takes it with a tiny smile. “Right away.”
My statement goes out less than an hour later with no input from courtiers or secretaries. It’s simple. “Her Royal Highness Princess Alma and Pietor, Hereditary Grand Duke of Himmelstein have mutually decided to go their separate ways. During this difficult time, they ask for privacy as they look forward to the historic visit between Sondmark and Vorburg. No further comments will be given at this time.”
I forward the email to several news outlets and Pietor.
Mama is going to explode, but my nation will have to build its economic policy off someone else’s back. The trade negotiations will be shoved off the front pages as the press continues to speculate that I’ve been cheating on Pietor, but so will news of Jacob’s past and parentage.
I have no realistic expectations of privacy. The press is going to be vicious, but my finger didn’t hesitate to hit the send button. For once, I don’t think about all the people I might be disappointing.
I see the storm coming, but I think of the submerged amber forest, waiting to give up its treasure when the waves begin to pound.
30
Bring Marshmallows
JACOB
A storm chased us from the East Gate to Djolny, dark clouds visible in the rear-view mirror. We arrived at the castle at midday, and as I waited on my father, I received Alma’s text messages and the photo.
The first time I saw the image of us standing in the window, wrapped up together, I grinned. She’s stuck with me. Further messages complicate the simple idea of that. If we are aboard a sinking ship, she plans to shove me into a safety vest and lash me into a life raft. “Stop being so stubborn,” I type, enlarging the photo. “You’re not alone.”
Before I have a chance to send this message, my father enters a drawing room, breathing heavily.
I bow. Unlike the stilted effort I was capable of almost three months ago, the action is smooth and practiced. He keeps me at a distance, looking me over. I didn’t travel over a snowy pass in leather-soled shoes—I’ll never be that stupid—but the rubber-soled leather boot is a good compromise. Alma would be pleased I’ve paired some well-tailored denim with a brown belt, checked shirt, and wool blazer to meet the king.
“She hasn’t destroyed your animal spirit,” my father says. I lift my brow. “Ideally, a king of Vorburg should look like he could steal your wife but also beat you to death in a bar fight.” He winks from a fleshy, red face. “It’s the duality.”
He turns to Karl. “Confiscate the phone. We’ll leave for thedachaimmediately.”
He lumbers from the room. No wonder he has a decent working relationship with Queen Helena. They have the same arrogance. The same assumption of being obeyed.
Karl takes my phone and hands me off to a footman who looks like a bouncer. “This way, sir.” He leads me through a series of convoluted passageways to a side entrance of the palace where three rugged vehicles are parked.
We find Karl, stuffing my duffel bag into the boot of one of the utilitarian vehicles. He catches my look. “The king likes to know he has the ability to outrun armed communists, should the need arise.”
