Page 42 of The Midnight Princess
He’s too close. My hand forms into a fist and I uncurl it, turning to a stack of magazines and leafing through pages like my life depends on it.
Jacob perches against the table, his shoulder brushing mine, as calm as I am agitated. He’s too close.
“Does he trade them out every week?”
“Mm?” I manage.
He points at a collage of Noah and his dinner companions, and I incline my cheek to him, sensing the precise border beyond which are consequences I can’t control.
“A week isn’t even long enough to find out what kind of books they like,” he says.
Did Pietor ever know about my cozy mysteries? About how some of them come with recipes in the back and how I’ve tried a few? No. Once we decided we would suit, our conversations covered timing and logistics. When he told me he liked tropical locations, I went immediately into itinerary mode, asking Uncle Georg for the use of his private island for our honeymoon.
“Maybe he likes variety,” I counter, stacking stacks into new stacks.
“One awkward first date after another. That’s not variety.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“No? What is?”
His voice is easy, but I hear how careful he’s being with his words. He can’t hide the effort. Not from me. “Being with someone through every season, the good and the bad, the young and the old, in sickness and in health.”
He isn’t looking at the screen anymore, and the words sink into the narrow space between us, only the ragged remnant making landfall against my ears. Running the boat up the shore. Palms against the sand. Kissing the ground.
I can’t like him. I can’t. But even as I think it, I see the two paths opened up before me. One is well-paved and marked with reflective signposts to pleasant, predictable destinations. The other leads to a dark forest where apple-cheeked little children meet witches and get baked into pies.
I hold a stack of papers like a breastplate, and the dark unknown of the forest path dances on the edge of my vision. “Who would have tagged King Otto’s son as matrimony’s bravest soldier?”
Vede.I regret the careless words as soon as I say them.
He lifts a shoulder like it doesn’t matter. The shrug is a lie. “You always want what you never had.”
12
First Gentleman
ALMA
The afternoon brings more disputations. Jacob fights us about shoe fastenings, metal finishes, and sweater vests. He glowers at Karl, his patience as thin as the dense, dry bread we serve with tea. “Do I look like a sweater vest guy?”
I like this man, and I don’t want to. The feeling is like a tiny colony in a new territory, and my only hope is that influenza or a bad winter or hostile natives will wipe it out. In the meantime, the unwelcome emotion doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes. I like him, but Jacob Gardner is an obstinate pain in the neck.
I conduct a swift online search and find a British footballer, beard neatly trimmed, checked shirt under a sweater vest open at the throat, sleeves pulled up his tattooed forearms. The image is intensely masculine, showcasing the way a sweater vest can be a classic way to introduce color, texture, and pattern in less-formal settings. I hand over the tablet and go up on my tip toes, directing his attention over his shoulder.
“Is this that soccer player?” Jacob asks.
“Football,” I correct, reaching around him. I zoom in on the picture with the push of my fingers, feeling my pulse leap, noting it like a scientist clicking her pen. “You could get away with something quite fitted.” Our eyes meet, and I pin on a coaxing smile. “This decision could single-handedly revive the dwindling sheep breeds of northern Europe. You might even save the economy of the Vorburgian Isles.”
His chin tips up and away, an uneven, unwilling smile on his face. “I’ll tryone.”
I flash Karl a look of triumph, and the aide sends Jacob a glower. “Her Royal Highness says try it, you try it. I say try it—”
Mr. Tumwater digs into his notions box and hands me a slim leather notebook. “I’ll measure, and you’ll stand next to me and record.”
I’ve been measured thousands of times and know exactly what it entails. The idea of weaving myself around Jacob makes my knees soft. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Write what I tell you,” he says, dismissing my concern.
I position myself near the crown prince. I can do this. I can. I once faked enthusiasm for the workings of the internal combustion engine because I had a crush on a boy in the fifth form. I can certainly fake being bored by this task. Piece of cake.
