Page 17 of The Midnight Princess
“Pass.”
5
Massive Rock
JACOB
Karl drags my duffel bag to the ironing board. “They have me staying in separate quarters, Your Royal Highness,” he says, frowning at the ceiling.
My stomach tightens. My new title produces the same reaction as a small-town bully with a baseball bat standing too near the Coke machine—it’s a risk to be assessed, a gauntlet to be run. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.
When Karl unzips the duffel bag, his face spasms. At least life holds these little joys.
“Sir,” he says, lifting the flannel coat I wear in the shop, which has holes everywhere. Tiny shavings of sawdust sprinkle on the rug. “For what occasion did you anticipate the need for this?”
“A gentleman is always prepared for every occasion.” I don’t think Karl appreciates hearing one of his little kernels of wisdom echoed back to him.
He continues his task, and I duck into the common area, picked clean of any signs of a princess save for a few bright pink sticky notes clinging lifelessly to a picture frame, a light switch, a vase. These are a reminder that however long our paths run on parallel tracks, they won’t intersect.
Chol.She should have said something. She should have been wearing her ring. She should have stayed safely in the ballroom where I never would have seen her. She should have been kissing her fiancé, and I should have been disappointing Karl.
I run my hand through my hair, gathering it into my fist.Chol nia.This little dream, this delusion, lasted less than twelve hours. She explained herself—about the champagne and the mistake—with an apology so watertight, I could launch it into the ocean. I’m not entitled to feel betrayed or to ask her what in the hell she was thinking, playing with a heart she found in the wild.
What began is over already. I should be thankful I escaped without any damage.
I make my way to the small kitchen, opening and shutting cabinets, finding basic cooking instruments and dishes. In the compact refrigerator, Alma’s few things are circumscribed on the top shelf, leftovers stacked neatly in matching glass dishes.
A note indicates my things, supplied by some palace servant—a carton of eggs and a container of milk, a few fresh vegetables, cheese, and a hummus dip. I pick up a small glass jar with a gold foil lid, stamped with a word I sound out: “Pan-ke-druss.” Peeling the lid back, I sample the thick, gray, contents with a knuckle.
Gagging, I turn the sink on, plunging my cupped hand under the tap and taking several long swallows. What is wrong with these people? My father, his ministers, and history warned me that relations with Sondmark would be hostile, but I expected a grace period before an attempt to poison me.
“Karl,” I call, returning to my room. The ancient door shudders as I close it.
“Sir?” Karl enters from the closet, a thick wood hanger hooked over his forefinger. Hanging from it is a faded graphic t-shirt.
I close my eyes. “Have you been ironing the t-shirts again?”
“It’s my responsibility to make sure you represent the monarchy well.” He points to a photo of King Otto he placed on the bedside table. Exhaling tightly, I move past him, grabbing a pair of jeans and shirt.
He shouts through the firmly closed closet door. “Sir, does this mean I’ll have a chance to work on your suit?”
He sounds so damned hopeful. Tugging my t-shirt down, I glance at the heap of clothes on the floor with a nagging sense of guilt. I drape the limp blue polyester over the ironing board, placing the white-ish shirt with the graying collar next to it—not helpful but suggesting a certain willingness to be so. I throw on my jacket and jam my wallet into my back pocket.
“Sir?” Karl says, when I return. It’s impressive how much mileage he can get from the word.
“I’m going out to get a feel for the city.”
“Advance work for the state visit. Excellent.” He reaches for his phone. “I’ll notify palace security.”
“No, no,” I turn my collar up. “No one knows who I am. Not for twelve more weeks.”
I escape The Summer Palace, a building which can’t decide if it’s a fairytale castle or an armed fortress. Traditional guards in deep red uniforms emblazoned with the dragon of Sondmark in gold thread keep watch in a frigid wind, feathered caps ruffling as they stand at attention in front of the impressive main gate. Those are for show. The iron bollards, well-armed security officers, and surveillance cameras are the real deal.
At the top of the hill, I catch a Ryde and it drops me in the heart of the tourist district near candy-colored shops andupscale restaurants ringing the harbor. Expensive. Inauthentic. Just as she’d said. Or I’d understood. I pause a moment to wonder what she’d say now that it’s midday and the champagne has burned off. I shove my hands into my pockets. She’d sound like a chamber of commerce brochure, but some part of me believes that no matter what she said, I’d know what she wanted to say.
Heading inland, I circle the park at the center of an expensive square and watch a man in tasseled loafers exit a townhouse.
“Historically speaking, markets in western Europe won’t stabilize until—” He slips into a waiting black town car, off to shape international monetary policy.
