19. Misfit Toys
19
Misfit Toys
JACOB
Alma likes the suits. All it takes is a dozen palace mirrors and the application of simple geometry to work it out. But when I look up, she frowns at her notes or glances over a map of Vorburg. Still, it’s there. The way her eyes return to me makes it easy to adjust to these tailored jackets and close-fitting shirts.
If I cared less, I could make it a joke between us, peacocking around the drawing room.
If I thought this attraction could become something more, I’d be looking for my next move.
There are no next moves.
As my frustration grows, she wears the ring that isn’t meant to be worn every day, twisting it on her finger.
Mom calls. She reminds me to send something to my grandpa for his birthday and tells me about the latest book her club is reading. “Basia made the choice, and you know what she likes. Trauma, trauma, trauma.”
I laugh but want to ask her why she did this to me. I was happy with my life. Busy, anyway. Now everything I want feels just out of reach.
I work out in the gym, hoping Alma will find me. She never does, though I run into Clara and Ella. The exercise leaves me restless. Oma would say that there are only so many weights a man can lift before his brain starts turning into oatmeal. “There are fences to mend and holes to dig,” she would say. “Go do something useful.”
How useful can I be in a palace? I discover an answer one drizzly afternoon. My lessons finish early so that Alma can attend an official function, and I prowl through the halls, coming across a man working in a pair of coveralls, painstakingly replacing a length of crown molding.
Following him through an exterior door, he bends to remove protective booties, revealing shoes covered with paint and streaks of glue, a sure sign that he is one of my people. His English is bad, and my Sondish is worse, but we manage to work out that I want him to take me to his shop, and he leads me to a wide barn-like structure, bright and snug against the foul weather.
Crossing the threshold, I hear the harsh whirr of a bandsaw, and my blood pressure settles as gently as a sigh. That’s it. I tip my head and close my eyes. That’s the stuff. The air is fragrant with the smell of sawdust, metallic shavings, and the sharp tang of epoxy. Wood is sorted in slots along one wall according to type and size. Is this heaven?
Benn—we have exchanged names by now—gives me a look I take to mean, “Is this what you wanted to see?”
I place a palm against my chest. You’re the best, Benn.
“Workshop?” I say, slowing it down.
He nods. “Workshop,” he repeats, giving me a tour using the International Language of Power Tools.
I run my hand along a radial arm saw with a metal housing that looks ancient enough to have witnessed the early days of the Cold War. Benn whistles and draws a bead with his hand. “It still cuts true, huh?” I murmur. I like it. I like all of it.
Touch grass, the kids say. Go get yourself out of your head. I shake off Karl as often as possible, working through this attraction I have for Alma. I still see her every day, but now I have an outlet.
For the first time, I have hope that I’ll survive this.
The palace restoration team treats me with extreme politeness until I scroll through a collection of my builds on my phone. Then they put me to work carving a length of molding with traditional methods—hand planes, chisels, and gouges—vital communication coming through a translation app and simple demonstrations. We fall into a pattern.
One night, as I make my way back from the shop, I catch Alma returning from an engagement with Pietor. I stop, watching them from the shadows as Alma removes her coat, revealing a dark dress that sparkles in the low light. He doesn’t even look. Chol , what an idiot. Without a word, she strides across the black and white tiles.
She spent the whole day tutoring and then went to a second shift, throwing herself into uncomfortable clothes and making careful conversation.
Pietor just let her walk away. I would’ve kissed her. At least.
A voice of reason echoes in my head. Maybe they said goodbye in the car. I rub a hand across my sour stomach and Pietor calls to her, halting her on the lower treads with words I can’t pick out. She doesn’t turn, only lifts her chin and gives him the edge of her cheek as she makes a reply.
Something is off.
Even without a secret passageway, I beat her to the suite so that when she enters, I can wander from my room and look surprised to see her. “Did you eat?” I ask. These events are not for food, she’s told me again and again. You’re not supposed to actually enjoy anything.
“Not much.” She hardly lifts her eyes.
“I’ll make up a plate. Come get it when you’re ready.”
She doesn’t want to say yes, but she’s tired, no matter that her dress skims her curves like a second skin.
“I’ll try some more Pankedruss,” I coax, a heroic sacrifice at this hour. “Five tries. I might like it this time.”
She gives a small smile, and I take myself off to the kitchen, wondering what I’m doing. Alma’s problems are her own. If anyone has the right to help her handle them, it’s Pietor.
When she returns, she curls up on the couch. Her face is scrubbed, and her hair is brushed back from her pale face. I love it all the more because she doesn’t look this way for anyone else.
The smell of death hovers in the air as I set the tray down. Five attempts? What was I thinking?
She picks up a cracker and drags it through the gray goo with a smile that makes it suddenly worth it. “It’s a vehicle, Jacob. Think of it like queso,” she urges.
I swipe the cracker from her. “What did queso ever do to you?” I shove it into my mouth and throw back a swallow of water.
“One,” she counts, cupping her hand and rubbing a thumb over the back of it. The look of strain isn’t gone but it has retreated. “Just four more to go.”
I exhale. “Give me a second while I stare into the abyss of eternity and contemplate the purpose of suffering.”
“Such a baby,” she laughs, sinking into the cushions while I prowl around, scrubbing my tongue with a napkin. She begins to nibble on the nuts and cheese.
I return, as I often do, to the dollhouse. Avoiding the staircase with its broken banister, I reach into the nursery to unwrap a set of tin soldiers. A woven fire screen. A table and chairs. A birdcage. A birthday cake. A rocking horse comes apart in my hands, and I grunt.
“I’m sorry—”
“That’s the one I broke. Just wrap it back up.”
“You want to wrap it up and hope for magic? That won’t fix it.” I turn to find her leaning over my shoulder.
Her brow furrows. She’s close enough to kiss. “Isn’t it better to leave it tucked safely away than to make a mistake trying to repair it?”
Is that what she thinks? “You said it’s not a museum piece.”
“It isn’t,” she insists.
“So stop treating it like one. If it’s meant to be handled, you’re going to break things. It won’t hurt you to have a few misfit toys.”
I run a light finger along the tiny stair railing of the make-believe palace. My toys were indestructible—plastic superheroes, mostly, and a basket of die-cast cars in my grandpa’s shop. It’s another reminder that Alma and I are nothing alike.
These days, I need all the reminders I can get. I push the thought further. I thought that after I’d learned a few things about bowing and dressing, I’d feel more like a prince, but I don’t. All these weeks of training have only taught me how much I fall short.
A more unhelpful thought follows. She can teach me.
Alma, engaged and out of reach, looks up. “Fix things that break. Got it. I appreciate the professional advice from a bespoke furniture maker. Thanks for the consultation.”
“The first one is free.” I retreat, setting the crumpled parcel on the coffee table. “Two,” I announce, taking a second drag of the Sondish death yogurt. “Three,” I mumble around the bite. “Four.” I breathe hard through my mouth. Best not to get my nose involved.
“Take your time,” she laughs, settling down next to me and reaching for a handful of pistachios. “You need to savor the misery.”
“Is this a professional consultation from a royal princess?”
Her eyes dance. “The first one is free.”