Page 8 of The Midnight Princess
“That’s King Otto, for you.” I shrug away the implications of having a father who doesn’t hesitate to use his son as a pawn.
The queen nods.“You will be placed in Prince Noah’s former suite for the duration of your visit. Your aide will be lodged on the next floor up. This will enable you to come and go as you like, prepare your own meals, and have a degree of independence you will, no doubt, appreciate.”
Stay clear of me and my family.The words might as well have been shot out of a cannon.VrouwTiele passes a binder of materials to Karl.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s generous. I’m supposed to choose a tutor.”
“Your choices are limited. Crown Prince Noah’s schedule will be full in advance of the state visit. Princess Freja is still on her honeymoon.”
I remember my father’s advice, doled out in Djolny Castle as he perched on the edge of a squat chair, his shirtsleeves rolled tothe elbow and a tumbler of vodka resting on his knee. It was the first time I met him after the legal decision. The first time I met him as his acknowledged son. His personal physician listened to his lungs with a stethoscope located and relocated across his back, the pink and white skin as wholesome as a freshly scrubbed baby.
“Disgustingly healthy,” the doctor pronounced before rolling up his tools and leaving.
King Otto pushed his sleeves down, absent-mindedly slotting a cufflink through a hole. “I like the look of you,” he said, eyes on his wrist. “You have a chance if you play your cards the right way in Sondmark. The middle girl wants out, and you might be the vehicle she’s looking for. You could do far worse.”
“Sir?” He’s my king. I returned to Oregon during the summers and holidays, but Vorburg has been my home since I was 13. My father’s picture was on the wall of every classroom and post office in the country. I couldn’t forget. “Far worse for what?”
He looked up, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Marriage.”
The word was a joke. It had to be. “I’m not looking for a wife.”
“You damned well should be. You’re my son if I say you’re my son, but to my people,” my father didn’t pause as he delivered the rough verdict, “you’re a bastard—a lowborn bastard. Get yourself a wife with an old title and a big tiara. Show her off and give us a bit of glamour. It’ll go a long way to securing your place.”
I realize now that he must have been talking about Ella, the rebel.
Queen Helena is trying to herd me in another direction. “Princess Clara has the lightest schedule and would be—”
The trouble with woodworking is that you can measure and plan and cut on the right side of the line and still have to bash the pieces together with a rubber mallet. Everyone knows I don’t fithere, and in my mind’s eye, I see the queen reaching for the tool that will bash me into her own plans.
I think of the last time I fit—slotting into position as softly as a kiss. My jaw hardens. “I’ll take Alma.”
3
Soothing Actions
ALMA
I wake to the wreckage of a life blown completely off course. My head throbs, and I squint as weak winter light shafts across my face. Groaning, I retreat into my fluffy duvet to escape the hard blow of each fresh memory. All that champagne. The tears. The orangery. The man.Stultes es, the man. The kiss. Another groan wells from my chest, and I muffle it against a pillow.Please be a dream. Please be a dream.
I present myself in the Great Hall as punctually as ever, prepared to discharge the queen’s first assignment of the year. Emotional breakdown notwithstanding, I can do this.
“You are in no condition to do this.” Clara’s matter-of-fact diagnosis comes with a wrestle for the clipboard. “I recognize a hangover when I see one. Go. Hydrate. Have a cracker,” she commands, waving the complicated list of family members departing for Paris, London, parts of Germany, and select enclaves of North America. I’ve recorded everything.Destinations. Transportation. Departure times. Luggage items. Notable jewels to be checked out of the vaults. I haven’t omitted one servant, pet, or child.
“Go,” she prods. “The palace won’t fall apart if you have a bad day. I’ve got this.”
I should put up a fight—remind her of the time we temporarily mislaid the 3-year-old heir to the Margraviate of Dacsu-Angoes and nearly caused a succession crisis—but the checkerboard tiles are giving me vertigo.
I nod, kicking off a round of throbbing, and give her my best advice. “Check everything. Trust no one. Frisk the teens.”
She gives me a crisp salute, and I retreat to the breakfast room to find Ella straddling the back of a Louis XV chair, her feet hooked around the elegant cabriole legs. She casts me a glance as I carry a cup of coffee into the dimmest corner of the room. “You look like a woman with regrets,” she says, hunching over her laptop.
“I had a little too much to drink,” I reply, picking my way carefully over each word.
“First time?”
“Yes,” I groan into the black depths of the coffee.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve had one of the roughest weeks of your life. You’re suffering the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. I’m not surprised you hit the sauce.”
