Page 2 of The Midnight Princess
A dark form unfolds from a bench.
“Hej,” I yelp. I wait for an attack of manners, but inebriation hugs me like a massive marshmallow.
A man’s voice offers a greeting. “Witma.”
Oh, no. A Vorburgian. I’m not supposed to encounter one of those until morning when I’m capable of good posture and representing the Crown as a princess of the blood. Instead of feeling properly horrified, the alcohol has its way, and a laugh bubbles up my throat.
I tip my head, encountering the gray eyes of a stranger. “Hello?” I say, trying English.
“Hey.” He smiles, the white of his teeth a contrast to the dark facial hair.
I take in his faded jeans and heavy-soled black boots, a leather and lambskin aviator jacket, and hair drawn back into a small loop. A few loose strands brush his jawline, and another pop of broken laughter escapes my lips. He doesn’t look like my mother’s secretary—neat, precise, fade-into-the-background Caroline. If this is who the Crown Prince of Vorburg has brought with him, we’re going to murder them in trade negotiations.
“Too hot for a royal aide,” I murmur.
“Excuse me?”
I’m sober enough to be deeply thankful my words were spoken in Sondish. I blink heavily. English, Alma. Speak English. “What are you doing here?”
I squint in confusion. My English is excellent but something about my phrasing seems off.
A smile touches his mouth. “Me and the stuffed shirt just arrived from Djolny. I thought I’d take a look around the palace before heading to bed.”
My brows lift. Stuffed shirt? That’s one way to refer to a future king. “You thought you’d go on a self-guided tour of a foreign palace? Were you going to poke your nose inside the linen closets, too?”
As soon as the words escape, I know they’re the wrong ones. There’s a diplomatic way a princess handles people who need to be put in their place, but I can’t quite remember it.
He wanders closer, his booted feet scuffing the tiles, and shrugs his massive shoulders. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t settle down.”
“You and me both,” I laugh. “Nothing good happens on New Year’s Eve.”
Memories of last year cut through my brain fog like a ceremonial sword through a birthday cake. Memories of talking with Pietor in the drawing room, when we decided it was time for him to propose with his great-grandmother’s opal.The sinking feeling that there would be no getting around the hideous, boil-shaped ring.
I glance down to my gloved hand. I remember Pietor’s self-conscious laugh as he hitched up the leg of his tuxedo pants and went down on one knee during the New Year’s ball—right in the center of the dance floor. How all eyes were on us. How we kissed at the stroke of midnight, congratulated by a crowd of family and well-wishers.
Everyone told us we were perfect for each other.
Were they wrong? Was everyone wrong? Tears threaten again, but as I stare into the warm gray eyes of the Vorburgian aide, the memories retreat until their echo is as soft as the music from the ballroom.
“What’s not to like about New Year’s Eve?” he asks. “I thought it was a time when anything was possible.”
I snort—a sound I haven’t made in twenty-five years. “It’s a series of unreasonable expectations poured into shapewear and a party dress, capped off with a disappointing kiss at midnight. Who builds a holiday around the three pillars of”—I tick my fingers—“dashed hopes, crushing loneliness, and alcohol?”
He laughs, tipping his head back, exposing the strong column of his neck. My eyes widen, and a primitive thought shoots from the tiny part of my brain beyond the reach of rigid control.He’s beautiful.Too wild and unkempt, but in the blue light of the moon, my fingers itch to touch him.
A flush spreads across my cheeks and down my throat. What is this? Attraction? I haven’t allowed myself to feel that since before Pietor, at least. I get rid of it in the same way I’d send back an over-seasoned dish. No. No. Do not want.
But the unwelcome thought returns with surprising resilience. Strange. But if I can force myself to wear high heels for eight hours in a row and smile into the lens of every camera pointed at my face, I can control this.
“You were supposed to arrive hours ago,” I say, gripping my hands together.
“There was snow coming through Elsum Forest,” he answers, his voice rich and low. “We were crawling over the pass and had a flat tire.”
Why is his American accent so flawless? My muddled brain gropes for an explanation. Maybe he’s a dual citizen, washed out of the U.S. diplomatic corps, and the royal family got him cheap. I look for clues to support my thesis, but the alcohol has made me slow and ridiculous. I keep getting sidetracked by how pretty he is.
“I bet you’re good in the middle of a blizzard. You look like you could rip apart tree trunks with your bare hands,” I blurt, placing a hand against my chest and enunciating clearly. “As a trained Girl Tracker, I could light your fire.”
He nods solemnly, but his eyes sparkle with laughter. “You could,” he answers, tucking his hands into his back pockets. His eyes drift to my lips and across my shoulders, and I catch an unexpected flare of appreciation lighting his eyes. When was the last time I got a look like that? At least a year. Maybe two.
