3. Soothing Actions
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.”
I wince against the light. “You make it sound common.”
Ella shrugs. “You’re a person first and a princess second. A break-up is a break-up is a break-up. Stop trying to fight it, and surrender to the process.”
I give the smallest, tightest laugh. “The process?”
She taps away on her keyboard. “You cry your eyes out until your face hurts, and when that stops, you’ll think you’ve ascended to another astral plane—the one populated with all the Stoic philosophers. It’s very ‘Happiness isn’t found in a man but in Virtue alone.’ Then you’ll go somewhere with an open bar…” She waves a hand at my hangover.
There’s something reassuring about being on a well-trodden path with familiar checkpoints. I’ve always been a star student. Passing through the remaining phases should be easy.
“And then?”
“At some point you’ll decide to get your groove back.”
My brow furrows, and I want to take notes. “How?”
“The usual.” Her eyes sparkle. “Dance clubs. Low-cut dresses. Making out with strangers. I, for one, can’t wait.”
Blood rushes to my face, and I grip the coffee cup with both hands. There was a dance, I was in a low-cut dress, and I kissed a stranger. I’m flying through these phases.
Memories of last night flicker against my eyelids. There was nothing soft about him except the way he held me. I recall the touch of his hands, and a shiver of desire works across my shoulders.
Dominanstid . I squeeze my eyes tight and count slowly in my head.
One, two, three…
It was the champagne. That feeling of intense attraction wasn’t real, and when I open my eyes, I expect it—and this hangover, too, as long as I’m asking for the moon—to be gone.
…four, five, six…
It was the fireworks, whistling and booming, shaking the windows.
I can almost feel his lips.
“Alma?” Ella prods me.
My eyes snap open, and I blink against the lights. “I’m fine.”
I am. I am fine. I take a small sip of coffee and grimace. It’s little wonder I can’t stop thinking about last night. The whole thing is appalling. I kissed someone who might take his story to the press. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I try to work out the best wording for an apology.
To: The Personal Aide of the Crown Prince of Vorburg
Concerning: The kiss I begged you for in the palace orangery
Dear Sir—
That’s as far as I get before another groan escapes me.
Ella looks up, eyes narrowing, and I head off her inevitable questions. “How do you know so much about getting over a break-up? You haven’t had a boyfriend in—”
“Don’t start with me,” she snaps.
I manage a smile. “What are you up to this morning?”
She tilts the screen around. “I’m updating my app for the state visit.”
Ella is a princess, but she’s also a computer genius. She’s written an app that quizzes us on titles, modes of protocol, biographies, and faces—helping the royal family navigate tricky social situations with ease.
She taps the keys and grunts. “He may as well be a ghost.”
“Who?”
“The new crown prince of Vorburg. News sources in Djolny don’t have much more than a name—Jacob Gardner. King Otto locked down his heir as soon as the verdict was released because all we have is a street view image of his workshop, an extremely blurry photo of someone who might be him at a school reunion, and the barest biographical sketch from the lawsuit.”
I lean over her shoulder. “Didn’t he have to show up in court? I’m sure there were photographers.”
Ella shakes her head. “He was an anonymous litigant, and the court case wasn’t supposed to go anywhere. It was all done under his mother’s name.” Ella taps the keys and pulls up an old picture of a young woman in a sequined costume, her face made up for the stage, and another photo of an elegant middle-aged woman with ashy blond hair, exiting the courthouse in large sunglasses. “With their typical tact and generosity, the press call her Ludivo Nerzka —The Leggy Dancer. Her court case languished in dark judicial dungeons until, for reasons known only to himself, the king decided to let her win it.”
Ella scrunches her nose. Her glasses slip, and she pushes them back. “The prince was supposed to arrive last night, but I’ve seen no sign of him.”
I clear my throat. “He came. Late.”
“Ooh! What does he look like? Does he have the Biron nose?” Ella shapes the air around her face, outlining the comically prominent feature inherited by a string of Vorburgian kings.
“I only met his aide,” I say, a blush climbing up my neck.
Much about last night is hazy, but the details of that kiss are like a Lalique vase. They are clear, they are gorgeous, and they are going to cost me. Vede , I remember sighing against his lips and going in for more. I must have lost my mind.
A tingle travels up from my fingertips, and I frown. Returning the cup to the saucer, I think of several bracing, fortifying words that sound suspiciously like my mother. You don’t even know that man. His hair probably doesn’t feel like anything special. It meant nothing.
It has to mean nothing. If I developed an interest in such an unsuitable person, my mother would probably assemble a crisis management team.
My brother Noah would disapprove as well. I don’t know when he became the Grand High Inquisitor of Royal Human Resource Irregularities, but he has taken to reminding us that it’s not the Middle Ages. That royal secretaries and housekeepers can’t be expected to live for us, and us alone. He’d say the aide and I didn’t share a kiss. We shared a power imbalance, and I abused my side of it.
Ella leans toward me and puts the back of her hand against my cheek. “Are you all right? You should drink lots of fluids. It’s the best way to get it out of your system.”
I remember the kiss. There’s not enough water in the North Sea for that.
A sound at the door jerks me to attention, and I see Mama’s secretary, looking like she allows herself a single glass of sherry every Christmas Eve to toast the holiday. Calm. Sedate. I used to look like that.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highnesses.” She bobs a curtsey.
Ella bucks her chin. “Hey, Caro.”
Caroline’s gaze shifts to me. “Her Majesty requests a moment of your time, ma’am.”
“Are you in trouble?” Ella’s laugh follows me out the door.
Caroline escorts me to my mother’s too-bright sitting room. My eyes sting, and a sheen of perspiration washes over my neck and up my face. Thankfully, a curtsey is second nature and, when Mama offers her cheek, I lean in for a kiss.
“Good morning, Mama.”
“Alma, may I present you to His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Jacob,” she says in the Vorburgian way, Yah-cup , “and his aide, Pane Karl Nowak.”
Aide? No, no, no. It’s too soon for this. My heart spirals to my toes, dragging every bit of color from my face as I reroute vital functions to make it possible to appear regal and self-possessed. One breath. When I think I’ve just about got it, I turn, smile set, eyes darting away from the dangerous minefield that is the tall, semi-feral figure who looks like he escaped from his bedroom in the middle of a natural disaster. I fix my gaze on the reasonably-sized man with creased trousers, meticulous tailoring, and a nose that seems to have escaped the worst outcomes of the genetic lottery.
I make a curtsey and offer the crown prince my hand. “A pleasure, Your Royal Highness.”
A bark of laughter escapes the Vorburgian giant, but I don’t break my concentration.
“Ma’am,” the prince says, hand at his throat.
I’ve already turned to the aide, who doesn’t look anything like a Karl. “ Pane Nowak, welcome to Sondmark.” I extend my hand and he takes it, eyes dancing with laughter.
A flutter of panic stirs my sour stomach. Stultes es, why is he smiling? Has he snitched on me? Is the prime minister going to get a briefing?
“Alma.” My head swivels at my mother’s sharp command.
Her posture is terrifyingly correct, her lips pressed into a flat line. Mama always looks queenly, but when her irritation is ignited, she’s the picture of Queen Ageltheld, standing over the body of her fallen king, holding the enemy back with a bloody sword. I can almost see the Wolffe family motto burned into the wall behind her. “Conquer, if you dare.” Something has displeased her.
Karl smiles and I want to smile back, tracing my finger along the edge of his lip. I blink several times, trying to clear my throbbing headache through sheer force of will. He leans forward. “I’m Jacob.”
“Pardon?” I must have lost twenty IQ points since yesterday, and I give his hand a desperate squeeze. Help me.
He looks over my head, an easy thing to do, and smiles at the queen. “I was brought up in the U.S. and prefer my mother’s pronunciation.”
It takes a second, but understanding hits like a nuclear warhead, rippling a path of destruction through my self-respect. I’m Jacob. This is the crown prince. I drunk-kissed the crown prince of Vorburg last night. If any more blood leaves my face, I’ll be as transparent as one of those spindly, deep-sea creatures camouflaging itself from predators.
“ This is Crown Prince Jacob. Jacob,” Mama repeats. She looks at him. “Do you intend that to be your regnal name?”
“Regnal?” he says under his breath, brushing his thumb across my hand.
“The name you will rule under when you become the king,” I murmur, hardly pausing to wonder why a midnight kiss should make it natural for him to ask the question of me or why I would supply the answer like a faithful vassal.
“Do sit,” Mama says. I peel my hand from his and subside into a chair like I haven’t made the biggest blunder since…since midnight.
“My father’s health is excellent. Being a king is something I won’t have to worry about for a long time,” he tells my mother, taking a seat.
The conversation settles into the familiar pattern of royal audiences, and I withdraw into a support role, attempting to form an assessment of our guest. Nothing about this is ordinary. I laughed with him. I pressed my lips to his. I know that he smells like spice and fresh-cut wood. I know I want to push my fingers through his hair. I know how I’ll fit if I step into his arms. Perfectly.
I shake my head and try to look at him through Mama’s eyes. I note that Jacob is large enough to dwarf the chair on which he sits. He has pulled his long hair out of his face, confining it in a loop, but the loose strands brush along his jaw. He’s not comfortable here. I see it in the way his hands tug his cuffs and run down the length of his lapel. Body language experts describe these as self-soothing actions, but even if he’s out of his element, he’s not being knocked on his heels by Mama’s subtle disapproval, either.
Maybe he gets this quality from his father.
King Otto was exiled from Vorburg as a young man, and during the Cold War, he rallied the international community for support and intervention, broadcasting from secure locations in North America and the United Kingdom. He was tireless on behalf of his country, and they loved him for it.
When the occupation ended, he helicoptered into Djolny, leading a party in Liberation Square that didn’t stop for a week. Few modern monarchs have suffered the loss of their throne and gone on to have such a sweeping, victorious reversal of fortune. In the course of decades, he became a living, breathing symbol of resistance. A national saint.
Placing a knuckle against my lips, I check a laugh. King Otto never lived like a saint.
During his exile, he cut a swath through Hollywood and never met a blonde he didn’t like. He didn’t have amours , the French press would say, only encounters— irrésistible , clandestine .
How much of the father is found in the son?
I glance at this hitherto anonymous litigant, and he tips his head almost imperceptibly. Hey. His eyes smile. Probably another skirt chaser.
I clear my throat and begin a calming litany. Monarchy is built on a history of strategic marriage alliances and established bloodlines. Now that armed rebellions and fratricidal stabbings are rare, the practice of primogeniture means the oldest child inherits the throne, making possible the peaceful transfer of power. Wars have been fought, entire religions schismed, by the single edict that no illegitimate child can rule. These essential truths were laid out to me as soon as I was old enough to realize that every park in Handsel contained one of my ancestors cast in bronze.
The litany is interrupted when Jacob, upsetter of divine law, catches me looking at him. He winks. Some feminine, adolescent reaction ripples through me, followed by a tardy bloom of disapproval.
My mother’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way off. “...happy to extend this personal favor to His Majesty. Princess Alma…Alma— ” Mama repeats.
“My apologies,” I blurt. Present.
Mama carries on, smoothing over my uncharacteristic lapse. “Princess Alma will act as your personal tutor, serving at my pleasure.”
Alma? That’s me.
The one, cold, shriveled kernel of comfort I harvested from my encounter last night was that I wouldn’t have many reasons to cross the path of the man I kissed. I wouldn’t even have to look him in the eye if the composition of my apology was precise enough.
I’m sorry for asking for a kiss.
I’m sorry for touching your neck.
I’m sorry for liking it so much.
I can lie.
“Everyday?” I say, the word squeezing through my narrow throat.
Mama’s brow lifts. Alma. Get yourself in hand.
I scrub away every vestige of panic fighting for a piece of my voice. Taking a breath, I adjust my tone. “Everyday?”
“Weekdays,” Mama says, as though her plan to foist him off on Clara hasn’t been destroyed. She sounds friendly and conversational, but I’m not foolish enough to believe this is a request. “You’ll have to work efficiently in the short time, and I’ll have Vrouw Tiele redistribute your assignments among your sisters.”
My heart thumps so violently that I wonder if I may have an undiagnosed medical condition. This man has seen me tipsy and undisciplined. He’s been subjected to needy romantic advances I’ll have to explain away as mere Sondish tradition. He knows what my breath smells like.
I nod, inhaling through my nose.
Jacob reaches over, placing his hand over mine, and a war breaks out in my chest. His touch is improper, but it feels so good. “Are you okay?”
I look into his warm gray eyes, coating my answer in the thinnest crust of ice. “I am well, thank you.”
Mama glances between us, at our hands. “Perhaps you’re worried about the wedding.”
At Mama’s words, I pull my hand away, tucking my hair back and straightening my spine. This is the moment she’s decided to tell the world about my broken engagement? In front of the man I kissed last night?
He’ll see what a disaster my life is.
I smooth my skirt and lace my fingers gently together. Soothing actions.
“Don’t worry,” Mama goes on, pinning me with her level gaze. Bear up. “You did the most important part by choosing the groom. We’ll leave the planning to a team of professionals.”
She makes it sound like I’m still engaged—that Pietor and I only have to choose the seasonal flower scheme and recessional music instead of sorting out how I’m going to get his monstrous ring back to him and move on with my life.
Mama keeps up her easy-going monologue, allowing me to get used to the idea before expecting me to take my part in this exchange. “You can certainly be spared from your wedding plans to perform such an important task for our close ally.”
When Crown Prince Jacob speaks, it’s a single word, bare as a stone. “Wedding?”
Sondmark and Vorburg have a well-documented history of sinking each other’s ships over minor slights, and Mama’s lie makes me look like I’m a cheat. This is bad.
Mama smiles. “I don’t expect the engagement was big news in Vorburg. My daughter’s fiancé is His Royal Highness Pietor, Hereditary Grand Duke of Himmelstein.”
I can feel Jacob’s eyes on me, but I can’t correct my mother. I wouldn’t dare.
Silence stretches, and then Jacob nods. “Thanks for giving me so much of your time, ma’am. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead.” Though he’s the guest, his royal position conferred through a judicial process instead of Divine right, he’s in total command. “Are we good?”