Page 70 of The Midnight Princess
Her words are interrupted with a loud bang, bang, bang on the exterior door. Before I can answer it, Ella charges through, coming at me with her phone extended. “The account is called @EarthCakes.” She turns the phone and reads the logo. “‘Composting responsibly since 2004. Sustainable. Delicious.’ Doubt it,” she mutters. “The comments are all over the place—”
I snatch the phone and scroll through, eyes darting back and forth over the lines of text.
@royalsroyalsroyals Squee!! I’m setting the date! Let’s get that #HimmelsteinHottie to the altar!
@højpumpkinspicecoffee Alma has waited long enough! Have a watch-party invite list growing. Planning the cocktails. Sourcing my vegan leather wedding handbag now!!!11!!
@trashpandaprincess Lighting a candle and waiting on word from the palace. #toogoodforhim #hewaxeshisbackhair
Not everyone is so sure the wedding date is set. I take some comfort in that.
“There is a wholeflamencrowd of photographers at the palace gates,” Ella says. I feel like a wild animal backed into a corner, and she holds her arms out. “Bring it in. Princesses assemble.”
We close up, an unpickable knot of princesses. I miss Freja’s light touch, but at least, I’m not alone. We breathe in and out until Clara gives me a squeeze.
“You’ll go crazy if you stay cooped up in the palace all day,” she says, fishing a set of keys out of her pocket. “You should go to Max’s cottage. Take a few hours, pack a picnic lunch, and watch a football match.” She eyes me closely. “The press has beenbarred from the nature preserve since the lawsuit, so you’ll have some privacy. But if you leave muddy footprints, Max won’t let me hear the end of it.”
I shake my head. “Nice offer, but how am I supposed to get past the photographers?”
I hear the clearing of a throat. Three heads pop up, all eyes on Jacob, too late to register the absence of off-key singing and the sound of water.
It’s Saturday. Jacob ignored my dress code in favor of a pair of low-slung jeans and a classic white t-shirt straining across his chest. He ruffles his hair with a towel. “I can bust you out of here if you give me a minute to brush my teeth.”
He disappears, and three heads dip into a huddle.
“Is he as hot as I think he is?” Clara asks. “Max broke my ability to gauge these things.”
“Not my type,” Ella says, flicking me a glance, “but I don’t think Alma would kick him out for buttering his bread with a fish knife.”
I pinch her and our heads conk against one another. We each rub the spot. “I have an ex-fiancé still haunting the palace. It’s too soon to be noticing hotness.”
Clara looks at Ella and giggles. “It’s too soon, she says.”
Ella offers a bland smile. “Hotness should text Caroline and make an appointment.”
“I don’t have feelings for him,” I insist, my voice tight. He could walk in at any second.
As if on cue, Jacob pops his head around the door, his hand gripping his damp hair, bicep flexing. My sisters turn away, biting their lips. “Meet me out front in an hour,” he says.
“The photographers—”
“No problem. I can get a vehicle they wouldn’t ever suspect you’d use. I’ll text Caroline.”
Ella snorts.
Precisely an hour later, I emerge from my suite holding a knapsack stuffed with supplies, passing footmen whose glances linger on me with unusual interest. My thumb pushes the opal ring on my finger.
Skipping down the palace steps, I find a large box truck blocking the driveway, the engine idling. I wait for the moment that it pulls away to reveal Jacob leaning against a sleek motorcycle. That’s his style. Instead, he hops out of the cab of the truck.
“What’s this?”
“Your getaway car. I can drive us through the gates while you hide in the back.”
“I dressed for a motorcycle.” Sort of. I’m wearing dark washed denim, stiff and tailored, as well as ankle boots with sensible heels. I imagined us shooting past the palace gates, my hair tucked under a dark helmet, arms around Jacob’s waist for safety. The press would never suspect uptight Princess Alma on the back of one of those.
He reaches for my hand, helping me scramble in through the passenger seat. “I wouldn’t risk you,” he says. My stomach dips. “It’s winter. There’s all kinds of debris and icy patches on the roads and the weather might turn. I want you safe.”
I step over tools to crouch in the back between a pair of steel-toed work boots and an empty rubbish bin.
