The Midnight Princess: Royals of Sondmark #3

1. Royal Weddings

1

Royal Weddings

ALMA

“You look happy, elskede .”

My uncle spins me around, and my dress, deep blue with a scattering of brilliant sequins across the skirt, swirls against my hips. Sleeveless and low-cut, I’m aware of how it frames the line of my shoulders and delicate collarbones, a daring look for a princess of Sondmark.

I give him a kiss and continue on my way, circulating throughout the ballroom, taking care of my mother’s guests—a wide network of family and friends—smiling at their jokes and dancing when I must. I have a word with the band leader when the songs get depressing. No one is allowed to be famished or friendless on New Year’s Eve. Not on my watch.

I’m halted in my course by Caroline. “The Crown Prince of Vorburg arrived, ma’am,” she informs me as we step away from the loud music.

“Finally.” My gaze arcs over the crowd. “Did he say what detained him?”

It’s almost midnight, and even though his arrival was always going to be discreet, the man is hours late. I’m not impressed. The requirements of my royal position suffocate me as tightly as the corset bodice giving structure to this gown, but I’m still doing my duty.

“Snow in the mountains,” Caroline answers. “We lodged him in the Tower Suite along with his aide, as you instructed, and communicated that Her Majesty will meet with him in the morning.”

Check, check, check.

My mother’s secretary melts into the background, and instead of running off to monitor the canapé situation, I take a glass of champagne offered by a passing footman. The queen’s last assignment of the year has been discharged, and I’ve earned a rest. I down the liquid in two swallows, and the bubbles wrinkle my nose. It’s a party, isn’t it? Depositing the flute on a side table, I lift another from a tray, giving it the same quick treatment.

Everyone deserves a night off. Even me.

I wait to feel the heavy load of royal responsibility roll from my shoulders. The relief. The peace. I wait.

And wait.

Maybe a little more alcohol will solve it.

I chase an ever-retreating serenity to the bottom of the next glass and the next, but the champagne does more than jostle the Pandora’s box of emotions I’ve kept padlocked for an entire week. It knocks the lid off, spilling the contents where anyone might see the betrayal, exhaustion, and pain.

As the clock nears midnight, I stand in the middle of the dance floor, and my cheeks burn hot. It would be nice to stand here and cry myself sick, but the horror of such a thing roars to life, its size and scope dwarfing every other emotion. I’m not supposed to have feelings. I shake my head, and my brain knocks against my skull with a bruising thud. I’m allowed to have feelings—just not allowed to show them.

A swirl of blue and red and yellow lights flash against my eyelids. I’ve never been drunk before, not even in college. At royal engagements, I’ve only ever sipped half glasses of champagne, nursing them along until the bubbles go flat.

This is not a comfortable sensation.

The room is stiflingly hot, and a burning pressure shifts from my eyes to my heart, affording a brief window of sobriety. Get out before you disgrace yourself.

Jolly good idea. Pressing a hand over a hiccup, I melt through a doorway into a narrow hall, following an instinct to find someplace cool and quiet.

Music follows me from the ballroom, a depressing pop ballad about the misery of meeting your ex in the boxed wine aisle of the grocery store on a snowy New Year’s night. Instead of turning around to have another talk with the band leader, I speed up, brushing heavily against a potted fern, wandering blindly until I find myself at the orangery—a little-used room with fountains, rows of south-facing windows, and blue moonlight streaming through the glass.

As soon as I step across the threshold, the relief is immediate, and I let out a loud sigh of pleasure, the sound of it swallowed up in the soft shadows. This is perfect. There’s no one here to ask questions about my engagement—about when stupid Pietor will be returning from his stupid charity trip to the other side of the stupid world. No aunt will tell me how lucky I am to have him or drop a gentle hint about wanting an early notification of the wedding date because she’s spending spring on the Riviera and needs to have this nailed down so the jeweler knows what to take out of the vaults.

A tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away with a white-gloved hand. Surely it won’t hurt to cry where no one can see.

I breathe slowly, deeply. No one in the palace will ask about the Italian bikini model Pietor had his hands all over because no one but my family knows about her yet. No one is going to congratulate me on the broken engagement and pronounce me well rid of my fiancé because no one knows about that, either.

No one is going to tell me that they thought I was the reliable one. That I’ve let down the family. That I’m causing trouble for the House of Wolffe. That will come later.

A distant bell chimes the last quarter hour of the year, and I shake my head to clear it, clapping my hands at my temples to make the clanging stop.

Am I sober enough to return to the party? A gust of cold air hits my bare shoulders and I shiver, peering into the dark shadows, past root-bound citrus trees in their ornate pots, their branches cringing against the high glass ceiling. Then one of the shadows moves.

“Who’s there?” I call, half-convinced I imagined it.

A dark form unfolds from a bench.

“ Hej ,” I yelp. I wait for an attack of manners, but inebriation hugs me like a massive marshmallow.

A man’s voice offers a greeting. “ Witma .”

Oh, no. A Vorburgian. I’m not supposed to encounter one of those until morning when I’m capable of good posture and representing the Crown as a princess of the blood. Instead of feeling properly horrified, the alcohol has its way, and a laugh bubbles up my throat.

I tip my head, encountering the gray eyes of a stranger. “Hello?” I say, trying English.

“Hey.” He smiles, the white of his teeth a contrast to the dark facial hair.

I take in his faded jeans and heavy-soled black boots, a leather and lambskin aviator jacket, and hair drawn back into a small loop. A few loose strands brush his jawline, and another pop of broken laughter escapes my lips. He doesn’t look like my mother’s secretary—neat, precise, fade-into-the-background Caroline. If this is who the Crown Prince of Vorburg has brought with him, we’re going to murder them in trade negotiations.

“Too hot for a royal aide,” I murmur.

“Excuse me?”

I’m sober enough to be deeply thankful my words were spoken in Sondish. I blink heavily. English, Alma. Speak English. “What are you doing here?”

I squint in confusion. My English is excellent but something about my phrasing seems off.

A smile touches his mouth. “Me and the stuffed shirt just arrived from Djolny. I thought I’d take a look around the palace before heading to bed.”

My brows lift. Stuffed shirt? That’s one way to refer to a future king. “You thought you’d go on a self-guided tour of a foreign palace? Were you going to poke your nose inside the linen closets, too?”

As soon as the words escape, I know they’re the wrong ones. There’s a diplomatic way a princess handles people who need to be put in their place, but I can’t quite remember it.

He wanders closer, his booted feet scuffing the tiles, and shrugs his massive shoulders. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t settle down.”

“You and me both,” I laugh. “Nothing good happens on New Year’s Eve.”

Memories of last year cut through my brain fog like a ceremonial sword through a birthday cake. Memories of talking with Pietor in the drawing room, when we decided it was time for him to propose with his great-grandmother’s opal. The sinking feeling that there would be no getting around the hideous, boil-shaped ring.

I glance down to my gloved hand. I remember Pietor’s self-conscious laugh as he hitched up the leg of his tuxedo pants and went down on one knee during the New Year’s ball—right in the center of the dance floor. How all eyes were on us. How we kissed at the stroke of midnight, congratulated by a crowd of family and well-wishers.

Everyone told us we were perfect for each other.

Were they wrong? Was everyone wrong? Tears threaten again, but as I stare into the warm gray eyes of the Vorburgian aide, the memories retreat until their echo is as soft as the music from the ballroom.

“What’s not to like about New Year’s Eve?” he asks. “I thought it was a time when anything was possible.”

I snort—a sound I haven’t made in twenty-five years. “It’s a series of unreasonable expectations poured into shapewear and a party dress, capped off with a disappointing kiss at midnight. Who builds a holiday around the three pillars of”—I tick my fingers—“dashed hopes, crushing loneliness, and alcohol?”

He laughs, tipping his head back, exposing the strong column of his neck. My eyes widen, and a primitive thought shoots from the tiny part of my brain beyond the reach of rigid control. He’s beautiful. Too wild and unkempt, but in the blue light of the moon, my fingers itch to touch him.

A flush spreads across my cheeks and down my throat. What is this? Attraction? I haven’t allowed myself to feel that since before Pietor, at least. I get rid of it in the same way I’d send back an over-seasoned dish. No. No. Do not want.

But the unwelcome thought returns with surprising resilience. Strange. But if I can force myself to wear high heels for eight hours in a row and smile into the lens of every camera pointed at my face, I can control this.

“You were supposed to arrive hours ago,” I say, gripping my hands together.

“There was snow coming through Elsum Forest,” he answers, his voice rich and low. “We were crawling over the pass and had a flat tire.”

Why is his American accent so flawless? My muddled brain gropes for an explanation. Maybe he’s a dual citizen, washed out of the U.S. diplomatic corps, and the royal family got him cheap. I look for clues to support my thesis, but the alcohol has made me slow and ridiculous. I keep getting sidetracked by how pretty he is.

“I bet you’re good in the middle of a blizzard. You look like you could rip apart tree trunks with your bare hands,” I blurt, placing a hand against my chest and enunciating clearly. “As a trained Girl Tracker, I could light your fire.”

He nods solemnly, but his eyes sparkle with laughter. “You could,” he answers, tucking his hands into his back pockets. His eyes drift to my lips and across my shoulders, and I catch an unexpected flare of appreciation lighting his eyes. When was the last time I got a look like that? At least a year. Maybe two.

“This is your first time in Sondmark.” The statement is a mess—half question, half declaration. I’m never this unfocused, but his eyes are gray.

“Yes. I’m touring the city tomorrow. What parts should I hit?”

I wander to the window, tapping against the pane. Remnants of the storm swirl around the palace grounds.

“Tourists go to the harbor. You can take selfies with the statue of Horst the Invader, and there’s a cheese market where the workers wear folk costumes. They’ll charge you double if you don’t speak Sondish.”

I’m exhausted by the effort of organizing my thoughts and reining my tongue. The air coming through the glass is cooling my skin, but I want more of it. I twist the handle and crack the long window a couple of centimeters, holding it against the gusts of wind.

“But?” He wanders to my side.

“But what?”

“But you think I shouldn’t waste my time.”

How does he know what I think? I put a palm to my flushed cheek. “The harbor is really nice,” I insist. “Like a postcard.”

“Postcards aren’t real,” he submits, his voice a soothing touch.

It’s true. Handsel’s oldest quarters are a thin fa?ade of a Sondmark that doesn’t exist anymore.

Cool air swirls around us. “Where else should I go?”

“Roslav Cathedral.” I tap another pane to indicate the part of the old city miraculously untouched during the occupation. “You’ll get to see the wooden throne of Harald Dragonslayer. It’s where we hold coronations.”

He turns his head. “And royal weddings?”

I clap my hand over his mouth, palm soft against his lips. “We must not speak of royal weddings.”

I still for the space of several heartbeats, hearing the roar in my ears, registering a pressure in my chest. Gradually, the sensation shifts as his eyes hold mine. Warmth licks along my forearm and I snatch my hand back before it spreads.

“It’s getting close to midnight,” he says, looking out the windows, watching the yellow light spill from the ballroom. “You’re missing the party.”

“I’m not missing anything.”

“No Sondish traditions? Am I giving you a year of bad luck by keeping you here instead of doing the chicken dance when the chimes strike twelve?”

“The Handsel Hustle,” I say with a giggle.

His lips press into a smile, and he leans against the glass with one of his big shoulders. “What do you people do?”

You people. This man is no diplomat. “We fry dough and roll it in sugar—” I halt.

“And?”

I release the window latch. “There’s a kiss to bring luck. And then we sing ‘Wish You Health, Money, and Love.’”

“A kiss for luck? You have to get back in there for that.”

Vede. Pieter again. My broken engagement again. Failing my mother again. I swallow away the tears, but the effort takes a toll. “I told you, New Year’s kisses are always disappointing. Anyway, there’s no one to kiss.” There. I said it—the truth, even if it’s to a stranger.

His gaze sharpens, and he gives me a slow smile. “No one?”

My stomach flutters, and I blink several times, wanting to parse out his meaning. I could if I were sharp, sober, and clear. But if I were those things, I’d be back in the ballroom, thirsty, humorless, and duty bound.

Beyond the glass, fireworks begin to burst over the city, anticipating the New Year by a few seconds. I emit a squeak of delight. The explosions set off more blasts until the whole valley comes alive with spiraling light, crackling booms, and screaming whistles. Farewell, demons of the old year.

“It’s the wrong time,” I remember.

He laughs. “Is there ever a wrong time for that?” he asks, nose almost to the glass. A shower of sparks blooms in his eyes.

My breath catches, and the distant crowd begins to count. “Ten, nine, eight…”

A loud boom cracks over the harbor, rattling the window panes. Massive fireworks shoot from the decks of naval vessels, lighting up the valley.

“Seven, six, five…”

The light in the orangery shifts from blue to crimson to gold, playing against the planes of his face. I’m caught in a spell, carried along by champagne bubbles, a whole city of lights, and a man who makes me want to curl around him.

“Four, three…”

I take a breath, surrendering to my most inarticulate, foolish wish. “I can’t have bad luck all year.”

With a low laugh, he tugs me close, steadying me with his hand, warming me through the thin material of my dress. His eyes dance. “You won’t.”

I lift my face. This is nothing more than a quick kiss to usher in the new year, but when his lips touch mine, I know I’m wrong. He feels it too. I sense it in the way his body suddenly quiets, every shuddering dial turned all the way down until he tilts his head, angling his mouth for something that lingers, a kiss that takes the last brittle straw of the old year and spins it into gold.

I lean into him, forgetting that I’m a princess for a moment, forgetting that I have responsibilities and a reputation. Promising to pay tomorrow for the indulgences of tonight.

He gathers me close, and wind tears the window open, swirling through the room, fluttering sheltered leaves, and tossing my skirts. Something wild has been let loose in the palace, shaking my root-bound self.

It’s too early, I think. But the thought is pushed out by a warm thumb tracing the rim of my shoulder. No. There’s no wrong time for this.

“Two, one!” The distant chimes ring but I don’t hear the shout that pours from the ballroom. I want to push my fingers through his hair, but just as I lift my hand, he raises his head. A breath breaks from his mouth, and a smile plays on his lips.

My lungs catch, but sound rushes in on me. The guests are already halfway through the traditional song.

I take a large breath, eyes enormous. “That was—”

His voice is low, stunned. “Yeah.”