Page 110 of The Midnight Princess
When I return, Jacob is waiting for me in the sitting room. Late as it is, he’s touched a match to the fire, and light spills across the patterned carpet.
He sets the fireguard, and we look at each other for a long while. I wonder how far we’ve traveled from those first tentative steps on my sister’s landing. He wanted a promise I couldn’t give. Every minute, I’ve wished to go back and give it.
It can’t be too late. It can’t. I close the distance between us, touching the close-cropped hair above his ear. “They cut your hair.”
He catches my hand and shakes his head, nuzzling into my palm. “Icut my hair.”
My chin trembles. “You swore you wouldn’t, no matter how much I tried to get you to.” Jacob’s hair was as much a part of him as Blackberry and concert tees. “I never should have—”
He bites the smile on his lip. “Are you about to admit you were wrong about something?”
“I have a whole presentation,” I say.
He kisses my palm, and I catch my breath. Even without the long hair, my heart turns over when he touches me. “You know how I love your monologuing. What’s it about?”
“My great aunt wore fashion turbans for thirty years—at least a decade past her prime. Powder blue turbans with brooches jabbed into the center. Queen Magda had tattoos up and down her arms—”
He chuckles, his low laughter warm in the shadows. “Magda the Great? That Magda?”
“King Frederick VI used to braid his beard and tie the ends with red bows. He tried to turn leather shorts into formal court dress, and no one ever accused him of not taking the affairs of state seriously.”
Jacob’s grin is lopsided. “He was the one with the high body count, so they wouldn’t.”
I flick his stomach.
“Oof,” he says, rubbing the spot, inching closer.
“You could have kept your hair long and still become a great king.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” he promises. “I’ll hold you to it for the rest of your life.” His look is like the touch of a match to dry tinder.
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “I loved your hair.”
“Now she tells me,” he murmurs, close enough to breathe in. “I saw that picture you sent. We didn’t need the press to start connecting the dots at a time like this.”
I nod. “Vorburg doesn’t need that kind of publicity.”
He tips his chin. “Agree.”
He’s so close, I can’t even think. “You’re admitting I’m right about something?”
A smile tucks his cheek. “Sometimes Vorburg will need me to get out of its way,” he shakes his head, “but that’s not why I did it. You were being chewed up by the press, and I couldn’t leave you on your own.” He touches a lock of hair, rolling it through his fingers. “Maybe there was a better solution, but I couldn’t ask you what to do. Karl took my phone and still hasn’t given it back.”
At his words, some painful tourniquet unwinds, and blood returns to starved organs, relief coming almost immediately.
“Oh…” Jacob digs into his pocket and places something into my hand. “While I was away, I had time for this.”
I hold the object up between us in the low light, picking out the chipped paint and playful curves of a tiny rocking horse, repaired and fitted with a smooth, newly carved forelimb. No one would mistake it for brand new, and the end result isn’t perfect. But it isn’t broken. I run a finger along the ridge of its back and see a flash of its future. Queen Ageltheld was reputed to be a white witch. Maybe this is her gift—to see curly-haired boysriding on their father’s back around the castle nursery, laughing as he growls like Ulek. One of them clutches the horse under his chin when his mama tucks him into bed.
I touch what is left of Jacob’s unruly hair, running my fingers through the length. He sacrificed his most precious thing—not the hair but the stubborn insistence that he wouldn’t fall in line with everything royal—because it would save me some agony in the press. I take a deep breath and feel every fiber and filament crowded with love.
My dreams used to be modest—to help Mama, to serve well, to behave always—but when I’m with Jacob, he makes every room feel too small and every horizon feel impossibly big.
“You cut it, just like that?” I laugh. I can feel how my eyes shine.
“Just like that.” He lifts a brow. “You don’t hate it, do you?”
“Don’t be silly.” I swallow. “I love you no matter what you look like.” His smile disappears. I’ve never told him so, and it deserves more than to be tucked into another conversation like a loose receipt, marking our spot. But we’ll come back. I’ll say it again and again for as long as I live.
