Page 58 of The Midnight Princess
He nods. “Mom can manage most of the Vorburgian vocabulary, but tenses and syntax are a mystery. You should see her try to buy lemons. She’s a menace.” I laugh and hear a low, answering chuckle.
I catch his eye in the reflection. “She sounds nice.”
His expression sobers. “She is nice.”
I turn my head when the windowpanes shake in the wind. Jacob reaches forward, a light touch at the lobe of my ear and along my neck, and a shiver brushes against my skin that might be me or him.
“You’re missing an earring,” he says, lightly guiding my head to tilt the other way. The chandelier of stones brushes my cheek. “I’ll find it.”
He crouches, running his hand along the patterned rug until he discovers the back and then the long earring, resting under a table skirt. From a kneel, he holds them to me in his palm, the lamplight flashing along each facet. This is nothing like the last time a man presented me with jewelry from this position. Even in my memory it feels like something that happened to a stranger.
“Do you like this kind of thing?” he asks. “Or do you wear it because you’re expected to?”
He lays the earring on my palm, and I place it in the case. “I like that it has centuries of meaning, and feeling connected to the people who wore it.”
I begin to work a solution into my skin, turning pink and shiny. “Vorburg has some of the best jewels in Europe.”
“Do we?” He reaches for my cozy mystery and smiles, cupping a hand behind his head. The hem of his t-shirt lifts a few centimeters, and I perch tingling fingertips on a tube of hyaluronic acid, not even giving my inner voice the satisfaction of reading me a lecture about decorum and hot, foreign future heads of state. I’m starting to go deaf to her.
I clear my throat. “Vorburg’s Viking raiders never saw a monastery they didn’t plunder. And of course, you’ve got all that amber.”
He finds my bookmark and starts reading. “Miss Pendragon inspected the doilies scattered around the tearoom to discover patterns of skulls and daggers dripping with poison in each one. Macabre, certainly, but the handiwork was extraordinary…”
I should stop him. Maybe give him a copy ofTimeless Manners for the Modern Royalto round out his education. But his reading voice is perfect, and I slide into bed, pick up my much-abused knitting, and stab out a few rows while he unfolds the mystery. A storm batters the stone walls of the palace, but I am perfectly content.
He turns a page, his voice soft and drowsy. “My wife will wear an amber tiara?” He places a finger to mark his spot and closes his eyes.
I let myself look at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
My own tiara is intimidating and regal, but the amber tiara is romantic—five wreaths of diamonds in a looping wildflowerpattern. Within each loop hangs a golden drop of amber, salvaged from the original crown given to the bride who traveled from Sondmark all those centuries ago.
I nod, though he can’t see it. “Diamonds and amber.” A vision of Jacob putting it into the care of his future wife hits me like a wave. “Take care not to fall in love with a blonde,” I say. A cloud slides over the moon, deepening the shadows in the room.
I yawn and yawn again. His reading continues, and the knitting slips from my hands. He takes it from me and arranges a blanket up to my chin.
“I won’t,” he murmurs, brushing dark hair from my face.
17
People Person
JACOB
Though we never talk about it, we begin to gravitate to the common room. She’ll have materials relating to one of her patronages spread out on the coffee table, and I’ll bring my dinner over, nurse a beer, and read through packets of obscure Vorburgian history prepared by Karl.
I’m never told to push off. She never scurries away. While the small fire in the grate warms the side of my face and the winter wind howls, we hardly leave each other alone.
We talk about everything but this.
On a Saturday morning in early February, I wander out of my room, determined to eat three bites of Pankedruss, wondering if the day will come when I ever look forward to it. Heavy clouds crowd against the windows, and I stretch hugely, scratching my stomach.
When I open my eyes, Alma is standing in her doorway, looking up at the ceiling like I am working on her last nerve.
I’d ask her why, but her hat is decorated with a huge flower, and the brim is tilted at a sexy angle.
I emit a low, teasing whistle, and Alma laughs, tucking her handbag under her arm. She tilts her head at an even sexier angle, trying to put on an earring.
“Where are you headed?” I ask, pulling up the camera feature on my phone so she can use it as a mirror.
