Page 97 of The Midnight Princess
My hand snakes out and I slap him across the mouth, the crack loud and satisfying. “That’s rich coming from a man whose family tree resembles a stick.”
Pietor’s skin is red and throbbing, and I ball my hand, but Mama grips my fist. “Enough,” she commands, her tone furious. “That will do. The palace has no comment.”
“And when they run the photo anyway?” Pietor spits, holding his face.
Mama’s terrifying gaze swings between us. “All of us have things we need to protect, and we have a couple of days to work on the optics. Alma, are you willing to take part?”
When have I ever failed to support the monarchy? I loathe Pietor, but I know my duty. “I am.”
Mama nods. “Your engagement must appear solid for the sake of Sondmark’s trade deals and Himmelstein’s investments.”
“And Jacob’s future,” I add.
“And the health of Vorburg’s monarchy,” she allows, voice trembling with power. She pins Pietor and me with a look. “The two of you have a few days to play the devoted pair. Be as convincing as you can.”
She holds my wrist, not my hand. Curbing, not consoling. My throat crowds with thick emotion. She’s suggested a good, time-proven strategy. We need to get out in front of the news. Make the whole idea of a polished, firmly engaged princess running around with a rough-hewn giant ridiculous. The lie turns my stomach.
Mama gives Pietor a wintery smile. “VrouwTiele will send you an itinerary. Now, get out of my palace and never come back.”
Pietor stalks from the room, his shoulders rigid, and Mama flings my hand away. Her voice is deadly. “When were you going to tell me about the liaison?”
Liaison. Jacob would laugh at the word. It’s too French. Too insubstantial. Too fleeting. But this is how my mother sees it. Jacob, with his Americanness, blue-collar profession, and vintage concert tees, wasn’t ever going to be an option for Queen Helena.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.
She releases a shallow breath and taps the photograph. My mother wasn’t born yesterday. “Minimize the damage.”
“Of course.” I snap a picture of the picture before I go. I’ll have to know exactly what lies I’m supposed to be telling.
As soon as I’m in the hall, I text Jacob.
A photograph is about to be run in the papers. Us, in the landing at Freja’s party.
There are no emojis, no unnecessary caps, and no overabundance of exclamation points. Still, my hands are shaking. Dots bounce on the bottom of the screen, and I let out a breath. Good. He made it safe to Djolny. I don’t have to worry about him stuck in the mountains anymore.
Kissing???
Almost. They can’t identify you, yet. The curtain hid your face. Strong silhouette only.
I clip the photograph and send it. His response is immediate.
Northern Europe will put two and two together when we’re walking down the grand staircase. I’m ready to go public about us now.
My nose stings with unshed tears. Even after all these days of silence and formality, he hasn’t given up. I slip into a supply closet and perch on several boxes of printer paper, tapping my phone against my head before typing a response.
The picture proves nothing. I could be getting an eyelash off your face.
Woman.
I hear his voice when he sends that single word. Woman. Exasperation and frustration in every syllable. Something else, too.
In spite of myself, a smile brushes my mouth as I type.Don’t be dramatic. You look like a cousin, maybe. For legal reasons, the article will likely speculate that you could be.
And then systematically eliminate all possibilities with a graph. In color. They know.
They think they know. Don’t worry. You’re safe.
The bouncing dots appear and disappear.
