23. Good Nunneries
23
Good Nunneries
JACOB
“Vest or no vest?” I call through the connecting door.
“I told you,” she replies, “use your best judgment. Dressing for the party is tricky. It’s a private event, but it will also be full of royals. I want to see what you think is appropriate.”
“Are you laughing at me?” I respond, scratching my neck at the closet full of clothes—the old Jacob pushed to the side.
In other circumstances, they would be enough to last me through the end of my natural life, but Karl tells me I’ll be spending my whole stipend each quarter because it wouldn’t do to have the country see me in the same leather belt too many times.
“Jacob?” she prods.
My hand hovers over the ties. No tie, I decide. The party is not formal. “I’m ready.”
Her muted voice is doubtful. “Let me see.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
I hear a low laugh as I swing the door open. I take a drag of air, and even without a tie, my throat is suddenly tight. Alma is wearing a black dress, not too short, not too long, and her hair is pulled to the side, exposing the line of her neck. I want to nuzzle into it and find out what she smells like up close.
I want to tell her that it’s insane to throw herself away on Pietor, a man who wouldn’t cut down a forest of briars or fight off a dragon to be next to her. My eyes flick to her hand. No ring.
She takes in my appearance, and her eyes dance. “I want you to explain the reasoning behind this look.” I’ve gotten it wrong somehow, but I don’t care because she’s gorgeous when she laughs.
I pick up one of my feet. “I’m wearing boots because it’s snowing.”
She brushes past me, the air stirring with the scent of flowers. “Are you going on a hike? No. Also, this is a Pavian party, which always means there’s always a risk of dancing. Boots off.”
I sit on the edge of my bed and tug the laces, dropping the black boots with a thump.
“Socks, too,” she says, rummaging in the closet and glancing over her shoulder. “Those are too thick to wear with dress shoes. Tell me about the shirt.”
“A white shirt goes everywhere?” I say, wandering to her side.
She leans away for a critical look, tugging the seams at my waist. “Technically, yes, but it’s sending it into formal territory. Remember, Oskar’s relations will be there too, and we want to blend.”
“I don’t blend,” I say, undoing the buttons on my shirt. The only place I look remotely at home is in the shop or back in Blackberry.
I tug the hem out of my waistband and peel the shirt off my shoulders with a grin. “Why is it that everytime you see my virile, hairy chest, you’re struck dumb?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” The words are cool but her cheeks are flushed. She hands me a striped Oxford, her face averted, and I shrug it on, doing it up one button at a time.
“Pants?” I ask.
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.
I pull on dark dress socks, slipping into leather shoes the color of cherry wood, double-knotting them for security. She hands me the waistcoat that goes along with the suit pants, and after I do up the buttons, she brushes my hands away. I stand stock still, as she slips a button from the hole. The pink on her cheeks has traveled as far as the tips of her ears. “Leave the bottom button undone.” Her chin lifts but her eyes don’t. “Always.”
Taking a breath, she crosses the room, returning to hold rolled ties near my chin. “This one with a Windsor knot,” she says, handing me one of her choices.
“I only know half-Windsor.” Every boy who ever sat in a church pew with Oma Gardner was expected to know a half-Windsor. “Anyway, won’t it be too formal?”
“I love it when you listen to me.” She grins, forgetting the distance she’s placed between us over the last several days, blind to the danger of being kissed. “It’s got polka dots. Think of it like making a trade—you’ve got a formal Windsor but in a playful pattern. You have to get the balance just right.”
She turns up my collar and lays the tie against my neck, adjusting the length and weaving the fabric this way and that. She fumbles and retreats a step—right up against the closet door.
I catch her waist. “Careful.”
We’re as close as we were that night in the orangery, but this time I know she’s bossy and straight-laced. Knits badly and blushes. This time, though, I know she’s not free. When she cinches the tie, I step back and check myself in the mirror. “Good?” I ask.
She only nods.
“That’s nice,” I say, pointing at her black dress. My compliment is the understatement of the century. Alma looks like every dream I never knew I had. “What is it?”
“Vintage Sergei San Martin,” she says. “It’s Freja’s favorite designer.”
That’s one more factor I haven’t considered when choosing my clothes. “It’s like I’m playing checkers and you’re playing inter-dimensional chess.”
Her smile flashes, and I let my eyes drop, skimming along the outline of her figure. The sleeves extend just beyond the soft bend of her elbow. “You look good.” Her lashes flicker. If she were mine, this would be my cue to take her in my arms.
“Get on the bed,” she commands.
“What?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Jacob.”
She pushes me, and I fall back, propping myself up on my elbows, curious to see how events unfold. Her gaze has a dangerous weight—like a running saw with faulty safeguards.
“Your shoelaces are appalling,” she says. She pivots a chair into position and guides my foot to the seat. I’m at Little Duckies again.
She doesn’t waste her time with instruction, only pulls apart the knots I learned in kindergarten and does them up. The bows no longer look thick and stubby but lay flat, the loops dripping with money.
“What’s that?”
“A Parisian knot.”
I tilt the shoe back and forth. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“I’ve had a lifetime to learn.” Her gaze drifts from my eyes to my waistcoat and back again. “Don’t be hard on yourself.”
“Should I do it this way every time?”
Alma shakes her head. “There are lots of ways I didn’t even think to teach you.” She moves around the room, tidying up the mess, tucking neckties away, and straightening my shoes. Opa does this sort of thing for Oma , coming after her in the kitchen after she gets breakfast on, wiping down the counters and cleaning the cast iron skillet. Like the afternoon turkeys crossing at the end of the drive, it is a sign that all is well in their little world.
A wave of longing knocks the words from my chest. “You don’t have to get married,” I say, as if it’s as simple as exchanging one tie for another. Hard pressure builds in my lungs.
“If you come to Vorburg, I’ll make you my master and I can be your apprentice,” I say, using the familiar language of tradesmen. Her hand goes to her finger, twisting an invisible ring, and the room shivers with the words I haven’t spoken. You could be my girl. I could be your man.
Alma’s face is pale, but she forces a smile. “And spark off another war between our people?”
One Sondish princess, but not one more. She knows what I want. She has to. And she thinks the idea of us is impossible.
I sit up, hands braced behind me. “I’d go to war for you.”
She stands at the dresser and closes a drawer with a snap. “Thank goodness it won’t come to that.” The sound she makes isn’t a laugh, but it tries to be. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.” Alma is always running.
We drive across town. Ella sits in the front seat with the security detail, keeping up a steady stream of conversation and filling me in with just enough family gossip to keep me from making a massive idiot of myself.
“And of course, Clara has been dying to introduce Max to our parents, but there hasn’t been any kind of precedent for these things,” she explains.
“No precedent for meeting the parents?” Alma sits silently at my side. I want to reach for her hand in the darkness, lacing our fingers together.
“Not one. Every royal spouse before Oskar was hand-selected by committee. There’s no guidance in The Red Book about princesses who step out of line.”
Alma clears her throat. “That’s not quite true. The section added by Frederick the III has an annotated list of good nunneries to pack them off to.”
I try to imagine the committee that would select me. Anti-monarchists bent on sabotage. “Your father was selected by committee?”
“Even him. The King’s Privy Council locked Sondmark and Pavieau in such a marriage contract that not even the rise of a military dictatorship could undo it.”
I rub my hand across my midsection. “Your mother still sacrificed herself to it?” I must sound like a peasant.
“They’re a strong partnership,” Alma answers.
Ella snorts.
When we reach Freja’s flat, I touch the knot of my tie. Alma brushes my hand away. “Trust me,” she whispers. “Ready?”
Oskar is at home in his suit in a way I’ll never be, but I remind myself that a sledgehammer isn’t a precision screwdriver. Each tool has its uses.
We get along using his broken English and the few snippets of Sondish I’ve picked up. He drapes an arm casually around Freja’s waist, and when she shifts, he catches her fingers. The papers have turned brutal in the last weeks, implying he’s as much a disaster for the royal family as an oil spill—grasping for citizenship, access, and a leg up in society. Even in such a short time, it’s obvious that Oskar’s goals are far simpler and more elemental. He can’t be without his wife.
Alma introduces me around the room as Jacob Gardner, skating over questions about my identity and translating when necessary. Eventually, she finds us a couple of chairs in a corner, and we wait for the arrival of Her Majesty.
When she comes, music and conversation grind to a halt. “To your feet,” Alma whispers, rising with everyone in the room.
The queen receives the greetings of her hosts, and Alma grips my forearm, leaning into me. Throughout the tense byplay, I don’t need her to tell me that Oskar has the protocol exactly right. The proper depth to the bow—for a monarch and for a mother-in-law. I understand the set Sondish phrases. Your Majesty. Honored. Home . It’s so different from my own awkward, infrequent interactions with the queen as I travel to and from the Chevres drawing room.
She makes a remark in Sondish, and the room erupts into laughter. Something is loosed among the guests. It’s like unclamping a delicate piece of woodwork, holding my breath that it’ll maintain its shape, and discovering that it has.
“What was that she said?” I ask, turning my head slightly, almost meeting Alma’s lips in a kiss.
She jerks slightly and finds my ear. I cover her hand as she leans into me. “She told him he carried away a treasure—like a true Sondish Viking. But look”—her grip on my arm tightens—“here comes Clara.”
The youngest princess weaves through the crowd, intent on intercepting her mother, who is being introduced to every Pavian in Handsel. The lieutenant commander follows in her wake.
“He didn’t stuff himself into a suit,” I grumble. “Why couldn’t I have worn a sweater?”
The party has grown louder, and Alma, smelling like a garden in full sun, has to practically wrap herself around me to hold a conversation. I hear her low laugh. “Because you always look like you’re about to be overcome by a frenzy of lumberjacking.”
Max Andersen looks like a man who sorts his kitchen implements by color and type. Even in his collared shirt and sweater, he looks capable of calling in an airstrike.
When Max bows, the queen nods. A few words—lost in the noise of the crowd—are exchanged. When Her Majesty moves on, Clara goes up on her tiptoes and kisses Max on the lips. The kiss lingers a little too long, and he has to pull her off him. But he looks satisfied, and they exchange a fistbump.
I fill a plate of food for Alma, content to watch the party as she explains the nuances. An hour in, the lights dim, and the Pavians cheer. Ella is perched on the sofa in her party dress, and several men pick it up and carry it to the wall as she laughs.
Freja comes to check on us. “Ella doesn’t look murderous anymore. Will you do me up?” she asks her sister, scooping her hair to the side and turning around. “This button keeps coming loose.”
“I thought this was what husbands were for.” Alma’s fingers are nimble.
Princess Freja gives an arch smile as she goes. “It’s the opposite of what they’re for.”
Oskar pulls his wife into a dance, and on the opposite side of the room, one of his uncles invites the queen to take the floor. Alma’s breath catches.
“What—” I begin, but Alma grips my forearm and claps a hand over her mouth.
Alma’s father, Prince Matteo, stands on the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, eyes pinned on his wife. He allows the couple exactly two turns before tapping the man on his shoulder and cutting in.
We watch the queen and her consort move around the floor to slow music. There isn’t a sliver of light between them and the song ends before he lets her go. Guests applaud, and Alma releases a long breath.
“You look like you could use something to drink,” I say, heading to the kitchen where I find Freja at the sink, rinsing out a cup.
“Prince Jacob—”
I shake my head. “Jacob.”
She smiles. “It was good of you to come. We haven’t seen much of the family this winter, but I want to thank you for standing by my sister at this time,” she says.
I shrug. I don’t pretend to understand the rules about elopement and the succession. “No problem. I’m sure it’s been rough.”
“More than rough.” She places the cup on a drying rack and wipes her hands. “Alma tells very few people when she’s suffering.”
“Suffering?” I repeat. Freja has lost me, but I understand this isn’t unusual with her.
“She feels pressure to do everything correctly. You’ve seen that?” Freja asks, opening the refrigerator and emerging with a platter of sliced fruit.
I’d have to be blind if I didn’t.
“She’s the oldest daughter.” Freja peels away the cover. “She took care of her little sisters and was our example for how to behave. But when she needs help, she doesn’t want to be a burden. Nonsense.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“It’s bad enough now, having to see Pietor all the time, but it’s going to get worse,” Freja says. “The press will be terrible when they find out about the broken engagement.”
“What?” My sharp question cuts through the princess’s soft monologue. Finally, something concrete.
“You know what the press is—” she continues.
“Not that.” My heart is charging in my chest and I can’t get enough air. “The engagement. It’s broken?”
Freja looks startled—like a prisoner digging her way to freedom and emerging into the warden’s walled garden. “Oh,” she says, going pale. “Oh.”
The door at my back swings on its hinge, and Freja, fretting her teeth along her lip, tilts her head around mine. “Dearest. Best. Most precious one. Is your broken engagement not common knowledge in the palace?”
Dearest. Best. Alma. “I beg your pardon,” I say. I damn near bow.
Every trace of the crown prince vanishes, and in one ferocious movement, I drag Alma from the kitchen and down the hall. We burst through the door of the flat, and I lean over the railing, looking down the three flights of stairs, and opt for the small alcove tucked between a window and the door, under a glowing green sign that reads “No exit.”
I want answers now.