20. Let’s Go
20
Let’s Go
ALMA
Pietor has been playing the part of the doting fiancé. The problem is that he’s playing it too well.
Our segment runs on The Sun Rises on Himmelstein . He charmed the entire grand duchy by holding my hand the entire time and calling me ‘A’, excusing himself to the interviewer. “It’s a little pet name I devised between us. She calls me ‘P.’”
“And when may we expect your happy event?” the host asked, her alarmingly shaped eyebrows rising in expectation.
That’s when my solid grasp of the Himmelstein dialect suddenly failed me. I brushed through the rest of the interview without committing to any date.
We attend an event at the Grousehof, a former royal palace which houses the Sondish parliament, and he tucks me gently into the Mercedes at the end of the night. The pictures will make the newspapers. They’ll be folded next to the morning coffee and fresh rolls brought to the breakfast tables of northern Europe’s most influential bankers who will then, it is supposed, find it in their hearts to extend a more generous line of credit to the grand duchy.
Himmelstein won’t be the only ones to benefit from all this. Sondmark needs the appearance of Pietor and I as a happy couple, too. The trade negotiations with Vorburg have gotten tangled up with an obscure boundary dispute over a tiny island, sparking off a wave of protests. Queen Helena has her work cut out, trying to control the narrative. The last thing she needs is to be sidelined because another Sondish princess is in the press for the wrong reasons.
I inhale slowly. This lie serves me.
Me. I look out on streets slick with rain and release a bitter breath. The lie we’re telling serves Sondmark. Not me. Maybe for the first time in my life, I feel the difference.
Pietor enters from his side of the car and takes my hand. I would once have seen this as a promising gesture, but now I remove it before we travel even a block from the Grousehof.
“You’re being childish,” he says. Hair falls over his forehead, and he herds it back into place with the scoop of a hand.
I train my eyes on the rows of tidy townhouses and brightly lit cafes, at the people meeting for drinks and a leisurely meal. No one else is making romantic decisions based on GDP and access to rare earth metals.
“We were an excellent team back there,” Pietor says, adjusting the length of his cuffs. Checking them. Adjusting some more with a frown. “You backed me up nicely. Himmelstein will be left in the cold if some of those trade provisions go forward.”
Maybe he’s forgotten that I read the financial news as well as anyone. Himmelstein isn’t hurting. “You have a point?”
“We’re a relatively small economy, and when Sondmark sneezes, Himmelstein gets the flu. While these negotiations might erase some tariffs and ease commerce with Vorburg, the grand duchy will have to tamp down populist anxiety. We don’t have a seaport. Our alliances mean everything, and instead of backing us into a corner, I wish you would join us. Himmelstein could use a princess like you.”
I wonder if Pietor always spoke that way—advancing his own interests, indifferent to mine.
“You’ll turn my head with talk like that.”
“I wish I could. Think of us—Alma and Pietor, Sondmark and Himmelstein. Like Supernuss and wafer cookies, we go together.”
“Supernuss is disgusting,” I say. This opinion puts me out of step with the vast majority of Europeans, but the chocolate spread has never improved a crepe.
“We need you, Alma,” he says.
I tell him that there’s no need to see me through the palace doors.
When I return to the suite, a light shines from under Jacob’s door, and his low murmur emanates from within. I check my watch. Midnight in Sondmark would be…mid-afternoon in Blackberry. He’s talking to his grandparents. I wish I could push into the room and say hi to them over his shoulder. Maybe introduce myself as Alma—just Alma.
When did I become so hopelessly na?ve?
I enter my room and think how wise Pietor is to try to win me back. Himmelstein isn’t struggling, but the grand duchy is small. His alliance with me—with Sondmark—has been a diplomatic and economic coup. I can’t blame him. I’d done as much research as he had, when we agreed on the engagement. It was the responsible thing to do. But amidst these concerns about monetary policy and tariffs, Clara and Freja have been merely happy.
I take down my hair and begin removing my make-up. What good is happiness? I blink away gathering tears and look at my reflection, the smudged eyeliner and streak of brow pencil blurring my features.
When I was a young girl, my mother read me her coronation oath, going over each word so I understood the covenant she’d made with God and her people. “It means that while I live, I live for Sondmark. It’s a tremendous burden.”
“Can I carry it for you?” I asked.
She smiled. “I have to carry it, but you may help me do so.”
We pantomimed another oath, perfectly tailored for the narrow shoulders of a serious-minded young princess. I would be my queen’s right hand and defender of our nation. It’s a vow I’ve never regretted, but I can almost hear Jacob’s voice in the back of my head. “Vow. Like a nun?”
He wouldn’t understand that kind of vow, but he would understand loyalty.
I wipe the lipstick from my mouth. My sisters are merely happy, but in a sense, they’ve cut themselves off from the path of duty, from performing a vital role for their country, and from laying everything down for the people of Sondmark.
I accept their choice. I won’t be jealous of it.
My sleep is fitful, and it’s early when I make my way to the breakfast room, nodding politely when a maid tucks the newspapers next to my place setting. Pouring out a cup of coffee, I glance over the headlines of The Holy Pelican . “Vorburg Proposes 2% Drop in Agricultural Tariffs.” Mama will be pleased. “ Neerheid van Heyden Gives Firsthand Account of Seong Crisis.” Marc, my brother’s oldest friend, has been on the ground for several months, monitoring the situation in his mother’s homeland.
I make a mental reminder to tell Jacob that Neerheid is Sondish for ‘Lord’ and turn the paper, scanning the headlines under the fold. “Royal Wedding Date Leaked, Waiting on Palace Confirmation.”
I stand and hastily spread out the paper so I don’t mistake a single word, murmuring in panicked fits and starts. “Palace spokespeople were unreachable Friday evening as news leaked on Pixy…an account specializing in sustainable, organic, non-dairy, free-range baked goods…September 20th…”
This isn’t a tabloid, but Sondmark’s most reputable news organization. My mouth dries up. The breakfast attendant is calmly arranging the table settings, blind to the fact that the bars of my royal cage are clanging shut. There ought to be a button, a bellpull, or an old air raid klaxon I can ring to get everyone out of bed and downstairs now.
I clear my throat and the maid looks up. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Has Her Majesty had breakfast yet?” My skin feels mottled and itchy.
“Came and went half an hour ago,” she says. “She’s preparing for a luncheon at the embassy.”
Vede. Vede, vede, vede. My phone flashes and I leap on it. It’s a text from Caroline.
Her Majesty expects you to stay out of the spotlight today as the palace considers a response.
“Excuse me.” I nod my way out of the room, donning a tight jacket of anxiety, the buttons going from my neck to my knees. I don’t need to worry. Mama is in charge. I’m fine. This is fine. The first order of business is to get to my suite. I race to the Great Hall and up the stairs.
“Alma!” Clara calls, chasing after me.
Vede.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she grabs my elbow, dragging me into my sitting room.
“Sure you are,” she says, dumping me onto the sofa. “Is there any truth to it?” she asks. “Did you agree to marry—”
I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh of her arm and tip my chin at Jacob’s door. Shh. But there’s no need to take such care. We can hear him singing in the shower, offkey as ever.
“I’m not marrying Pietor,” I hiss. Never. “I don’t know how this got out.”
“I think you should—”
Her words are interrupted with a loud bang, bang, bang on the exterior door. Before I can answer it, Ella charges through, coming at me with her phone extended. “The account is called @EarthCakes.” She turns the phone and reads the logo. “‘Composting responsibly since 2004. Sustainable. Delicious.’ Doubt it,” she mutters. “The comments are all over the place—”
I snatch the phone and scroll through, eyes darting back and forth over the lines of text.
@royalsroyalsroyals Squee!! I’m setting the date! Let’s get that #HimmelsteinHottie to the altar!
@h?jpumpkinspicecoffee Alma has waited long enough! Have a watch-party invite list growing. Planning the cocktails. Sourcing my vegan leather wedding handbag now!!!11!!
@trashpandaprincess Lighting a candle and waiting on word from the palace. #toogoodforhim #hewaxeshisbackhair
Not everyone is so sure the wedding date is set. I take some comfort in that.
“There is a whole flamen crowd of photographers at the palace gates,” Ella says. I feel like a wild animal backed into a corner, and she holds her arms out. “Bring it in. Princesses assemble.”
We close up, an unpickable knot of princesses. I miss Freja’s light touch, but at least, I’m not alone. We breathe in and out until Clara gives me a squeeze.
“You’ll go crazy if you stay cooped up in the palace all day,” she says, fishing a set of keys out of her pocket. “You should go to Max’s cottage. Take a few hours, pack a picnic lunch, and watch a football match.” She eyes me closely. “The press has been barred from the nature preserve since the lawsuit, so you’ll have some privacy. But if you leave muddy footprints, Max won’t let me hear the end of it.”
I shake my head. “Nice offer, but how am I supposed to get past the photographers?”
I hear the clearing of a throat. Three heads pop up, all eyes on Jacob, too late to register the absence of off-key singing and the sound of water.
It’s Saturday. Jacob ignored my dress code in favor of a pair of low-slung jeans and a classic white t-shirt straining across his chest. He ruffles his hair with a towel. “I can bust you out of here if you give me a minute to brush my teeth.”
He disappears, and three heads dip into a huddle.
“Is he as hot as I think he is?” Clara asks. “Max broke my ability to gauge these things.”
“Not my type,” Ella says, flicking me a glance, “but I don’t think Alma would kick him out for buttering his bread with a fish knife.”
I pinch her and our heads conk against one another. We each rub the spot. “I have an ex-fiancé still haunting the palace. It’s too soon to be noticing hotness.”
Clara looks at Ella and giggles. “It’s too soon, she says.”
Ella offers a bland smile. “Hotness should text Caroline and make an appointment.”
“I don’t have feelings for him,” I insist, my voice tight. He could walk in at any second.
As if on cue, Jacob pops his head around the door, his hand gripping his damp hair, bicep flexing. My sisters turn away, biting their lips. “Meet me out front in an hour,” he says.
“The photographers—”
“No problem. I can get a vehicle they wouldn’t ever suspect you’d use. I’ll text Caroline.”
Ella snorts.
Precisely an hour later, I emerge from my suite holding a knapsack stuffed with supplies, passing footmen whose glances linger on me with unusual interest. My thumb pushes the opal ring on my finger.
Skipping down the palace steps, I find a large box truck blocking the driveway, the engine idling. I wait for the moment that it pulls away to reveal Jacob leaning against a sleek motorcycle. That’s his style. Instead, he hops out of the cab of the truck.
“What’s this?”
“Your getaway car. I can drive us through the gates while you hide in the back.”
“I dressed for a motorcycle.” Sort of. I’m wearing dark washed denim, stiff and tailored, as well as ankle boots with sensible heels. I imagined us shooting past the palace gates, my hair tucked under a dark helmet, arms around Jacob’s waist for safety. The press would never suspect uptight Princess Alma on the back of one of those.
He reaches for my hand, helping me scramble in through the passenger seat. “I wouldn’t risk you,” he says. My stomach dips. “It’s winter. There’s all kinds of debris and icy patches on the roads and the weather might turn. I want you safe.”
I step over tools to crouch in the back between a pair of steel-toed work boots and an empty rubbish bin.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
He chuckles, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, and pulls away. A deep rumble shakes the truck, lightyears from the engineered elegance of a Bentley.
At the gatehouse he stops, speaking briefly with Nils Helmut to reiterate the plan. “We’ll have an unmarked car follow you to the cottage and stay at the end of the drive until you’re ready to return.” Nils lifts his voice, tinged with a laugh. “I hope your cargo isn’t damaged.”
We proceed slowly through the gates and I shrink from the commotion of the crowd.
“We’re through,” he says, picking up speed.
“Can I get out now?” I ask every five minutes until we bump down the rough track leading to Max’s cottage.
Jacob’s answer is always the same. “Stop distracting me.”
When he cuts the engine, I unfold myself from the crouch, each joint screaming from such rough treatment. Tripping through the work supplies, I slither into the front seat, dropping out of the truck and into Jacob’s arms.
Fog, rolling from the lake, wreaths us in dewy air. I’m supposed to be able to find refuge out here, to escape from the watchful curiosity of palace flunkies and a waiting press, but Jacob’s eyes trace my face, lashes dipping as his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Do you have the key?” I breathe.
He tips his chin up. “You have the key.”
Oh. Right. I untangle myself from his arms and lead him up the path to a modest stone building covered in crisp white and black paint. We push through the door, and from the narrow entryway, I see a small kitchen on the other side of the main room.
It’s more simple and rustic than I imagined, but Max’s furniture, some of the pieces decades old, makes a cozy, accidental harmony. There are signs of him and Clara in a few snapshots on the mantel and a favorite blanket folded neatly over the battered sofa. It’s as tidy as a pin.
When Jacob stretches, he fills half the room. “Do you think Max would mind if I claimed the cottage for Vorburg?”
“I’d like to see you try,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “He has access to actual cannons.”
I begin to unpack while he prowls around every centimeter of the house. “You’ll be my secret weapon. We could share the spoils of war,” he promises, disappearing up the stairs.
“There’s only one room, though,” he reports on his return. “So we’ll have to flip for the bed.”
“Hmm?” My cheeks flush, and I open the fridge to soak up the cool air.
“When we move in,” he explains. “I’m too big for the couch.”
He stands over me, one hand on the fridge door, the other on the counter. Reaching in, he grabs a bottle of juice and I scoot backward. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The horde of press was a minor inconvenience compared to the danger of spending a whole day doing nothing with Jacob.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I need some fresh air.”
He grabs his jacket. “I’ll come with you.”
We walk along the shoreline, hardly more than an overgrown track. He goes ahead of me, pointing out obstacles, and I stare at the center of his back, wondering how long I can keep up the pretense that preparing him to take his place as the heir to the kingdom of Vorburg is just a job. It hasn’t been just a job in weeks. Every day I wrap him up in history, protocol, comportment, and the thin tissue of etiquette, praying it will be enough to protect him when the time comes.
We walk until the wind picks up and return for lunch. It’s simple fare—sandwiches and sliced fruit. I haven’t snuck in any death-yogurt, and he hasn’t brought along pickled herring, but every swallow is as awkward as a first date, our knees brushing under the tiny table.
After we wash up, Jacob finds a record from The Antidote in Max’s collection. “The best one,” he says, slipping it from its protective sleeve. The needle drops, and the opening strains of “Monday, I’m Falling For You” play through the speakers. “Do you dance?” he asks.
That’s one more thing he’ll have to know, at least a little. The melody is slow, and I map a simple two-step over the beat. “I can teach you—”
But he pulls me into his arms and guides me around the small space, more skillful than simply swaying to a beat, a satisfied smile tucking his cheek. At first, I hold my back stiff and my shoulders level, trying to make myself believe this is a diplomatic reception and I’ve been paired with a foreign minister. Trying to get it out of my mind that I’ve never been held like this.
His hand drops across my back, pressing the small of it, leading me with an easy self-assurance, and stealing the words from my throat. I want—
We complete a circle and my body curves to fit his shape. The difference in my limbs feels like suddenly surrendering to a current, rolling onto my back to stare up at the starry sky, hardly conscious of the dangers downstream. I could live like this forever.
I miss a step and he steadies me with one easy motion, smiling when my shoulders straighten. Vede . What if I never feel this way again? What if the perfect husband Mama produces from her list never makes me forget I’m a princess?
“Where did you learn how to do this?” I ask, forcing myself to swim against the current again, struggling against the dance and the cottage and the man I never want to be without.
“My mom was a dancer. Don’t you remember?”
Of course. The notes of the song die away, and I peel myself out of his arms, avoiding his gaze. I lift the needle on the record player. He bends over the hearth and lays a fire, working in silence. “I approve of him,” he says, at last.
“Of whom?”
“Your sister’s boyfriend. I assume everyone is freaking out about Max.”
I don’t even think about holding my answer back. “A little. He’s not what we expected.”
Jacob’s hands still. “He’s got great taste in music. A bit old school, but nobody who has that album collection just wants to play around.” He lights the tinder and nurses the fire until it catches.
Returning to the sofa, he digs into my bag, removing the paperback, and hands me the knitting.
“Go ahead,” he says, plucking out the bookmark and opening to my spot. “I’ll read to you. We’re still on the adventures of Miss Pendragon?”
“It’s a series,” I say, sorting out my yarn. I hold up the ball, looking for somewhere to put it, and he places it in his lap.
His voice drops into a warm cadence as he begins. “It was the third murder in a month. One was forgivable. Two was a tragedy. Three meant it was time for Agatha Pendragon to postpone the Tea and Rummage Sale in Support of Rural Midwife Retention at the Women’s Institute to catch the scoundrel. The vicar would be cross.”
I knit to the sounds of the clicking needles, the irregular pop of the fire, and his resonant voice until he puts the book down, slides more deeply into the sofa, and watches me.
I keep up a regular pace, dropping more stitches than usual.
“Does this happen a lot?” he asks.
Never. No one else—
“The siege of reporters at the palace gates,” he clarifies.
The sofa is crowded with the two of us. “A wedding date is big news.”
“The palace hasn’t confirmed it.” He holds the ball of yarn in a loose grip.
I don’t want to lie. Instead, I search for a clean, discrete piece of truth to give him. “Mama doesn’t like to have her hand forced.”
The real answer is that we’re damned if we refute it—all but inviting the press to discover that Pietor and I are on rocky ground and that their interest is justified—and damned if we don’t. I’m sure this leak wasn’t an accident.
It’s Pietor. He likes his deal—marrying into the Sondish royal family and getting all the economic benefits which naturally accrue when your mother-in-law owns a sizable portion of the North Sea. There’s no way one of his assistants accidently called an organic, high-end bakery and floated openings on a particular day just for, as Ella might say, funsies.
His move was meant to trap me—trap Sondmark—into going forward with this marriage or at least offering Himmelstein concrete cover for a much longer stretch of time.
“You’ve had a long engagement,” Jacob says, switching on the television, navigating to an exhibition soccer game between Vorburg and Sondmark. The teams are playing in a sunny southern latitude, and the score is nil-nil. I’m thankful for any distraction and put aside my knitting.
“Not so long,” I murmur, watching Mallok make a cross in front of the goal. Kepler barely misses the connection, and the goalie makes a long throw as the team retreats.
Jacob glances at me. “In September the weather will be chancy.”
I tiptoe carefully around a falsehood. “The whole family shifts their August holiday for September weddings. It’s not so long to wait. Americans regularly have engagements lasting a year.”
Jacob grabs my knees and hauls me 90 degrees to face him. A thread of frustration tightens between us.
“Royal timelines don’t work like that,” he says, his voice low, scraping along the side of my neck. “It’s maybe six months between an official announcement and the actual royal wedding.”
I force a smile. “You’ve been doing research?” Emotions crowd against the bridge of my nose and behind my eyes while I make room for false ones that slip through, as thin as water. “If you’re prepared to think about marriage, I could ask Caroline to draw up a preliminary list.”
It’s supposed to sound like I’m teasing him, but my throat hurts too much to get it right.
He frowns. “You’ve been engaged for more than a year already.”
He pursues his point, but I skirt away. “It’s a shame you won’t let your father arrange a match for you.” The words are lighthearted, but my heart hurts.
The noise from the television escalates, and I catch the replay. Vorburg’s left striker sank a football into the back of the net like our keeper’s hands were made of air. The Sondish crowd starts singing an old, rowdy folk song, drowning out the celebration of the visitors.
One Sondish princess, but not one more.
Beg for our treasure and raid our shores
Shake your swords and beat your shields
No second princess we ever yield
I choke out a bitter laugh, and Jacob’s brows lower. “What are they singing?”
I give a rough translation. “It’s a friendly reminder that we’ll surrender a goal here and there, but you’ll never get another princess.”
The thread of frustration snaps, and he gets up and heads to the kitchen, clattering against the coffee table. I cup my neck and feel blood pounding through my veins.
“That’s one thing I’ll never understand about you people. There you are, living your lives, watching a football game…” He returns with a plate, a packet placed in the center. His tone is light, but there is bitter irritation around the edges. “You’ll fight to the death over something that happened in the Middle Ages.”
Unfolding a wax paper wrapper, I uncover a brownie and give it a sniff. Mint. My favorite pairing. I love mint and chocolate.
“We’re nothing without our binding grudges.” I take a bite and then another. My sweet tooth is almost never satisfied. I pay for treats like some sinner saving up for indulgences, but when these hit my bloodstream, all thought of denying myself disappears. “Where did you get this?” I ask, holding the remains of an edge piece between my fingers. Saving the best until last.
“My mom made them. She sent them over in the diplomatic pouch.”
That’s maybe the best use the diplomatic pouch has ever been put to. “I’m sure Sondmark has brownies somewhere.” I pop the remaining piece into my mouth and kiss the crumbs off the pad of my thumb. Just one. I don’t need more than a little taste.
“Sondmark doesn’t have these brownies. Anyway, she sent them because she’s sorry I’m homesick.”
“Homesick for Vorburg?”
He lifts his eyes. Think again, boss.
“Have another one,” Jacob says, offering the plate when Vorburg denies another Sondish goal. “It’ll make you feel better.”
I never get seconds. I hardly allow myself firsts. When I take it, he hides a smile.
Sondmark loses the game. Despite the song, the team surrendered more than one goal to the hated enemy.
Dusk begins to settle beyond the windows, and we pack up. He extinguishes the fire and cleans the grate. I take some paper wipes, dampened with tap water, and erase our footprints as far as the tiny entryway of the cottage. We stand there, too close in the confined space, and look around the refuge.
“It’s like we were never here,” I say, hand on the light switch. I bite my bottom lip.
Vede. I can’t go back. Pietor will be there. My mother and her expectations that I’ll handle this the perfect way will be there. I’ve spent a lifetime practicing self-denial and doing the right thing. This is just one more day. But the days stretch into the future, and I can’t see any hope of rest.
A gust of wind shakes the cottage. “Alma.” Jacob’s fingers tangle with mine. His smile is gone. “We have to talk.”
I look up, and my breath catches. I know what he’s going to say. I’ve been running but not fast enough to evade the conversation that started in the orangery when a simple New Year’s kiss turned into something more. If he speaks, a line will be crossed, and we can never go back.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I stiffen. He releases a shuddering breath, which shakes through my frame, easing the tension between my shoulders. “I’m not trying to change your mind. You just look like you need a hug.”
I burrow into him and try to forget the press waiting for a response, forget that I’m bound to my ex-fiancé for heaven knows how long. Forget that I’ve not belonged to myself for even longer.
I don’t know when I start crying, but I feel his hands stroking my back and the low, soothing noises he makes.
I wrap my arms around him. I was doing everything right—carefully considering every step before I took it. In choosing the spreadsheet instead of trusting my gut or heart or whatever lesser organ seized the steering wheel, I would make my future foolproof. No mistakes. No missteps.
A bitter laugh chokes out. I’ve been on the wrong road this whole time.
Vede. The waste of it.
I feel feverish, like a seed before it breaks the husk and sends out its first shoots. A shiver works its way up my back, and Jacob chuckles.
“Cold?” His arms tighten like he’s never going to let me be cold. I close my eyes and enjoy it for a moment. I pretend it’s uncomplicated. Pretend it’s friendly. Pretend it can last.
It’s none of those things.
My eyes are red-rimmed, and I sniff, shaking my head.
“Ready to go back?” he asks.
He looks at me and seems to hear all the things I wish and cannot say. His fingertips brush the side of my face. His hand takes mine.
“Let’s get you home safe.”