26. Diligent Student
26
Diligent Student
ALMA
The following week, I gather with Jacob’s team in the drawing room for a short stretch of instruction before I have to run off to a family meeting. Seated at the table, I catch my reflection in one of the palace mirrors. Despite a carefully managed diet, regular exercise, and challenging work, my resolve to uncomplainingly carry the burdens of royal life has worn thin. Keeping myself from Jacob is arduous.
I thought I was happy before. I had my father, brother, and sisters. My mother trusted me to support her at every turn. Pietor’s infidelity was an obstacle to be surmounted, not stumbled over. Then Jacob happened.
Karl drills the crown prince, going over key dates in the Soviet invasion and eventual fall of Vorburg, and my mind wanders. I’ve spent all these weeks trying to make Jacob more like me—someone content to sit primly with her hands folded in her lap while the thing she wants most in the world lies within her reach. In some ways I’ve succeeded. His appearance has sharpened. His grasp on protocol is growing comfortable.
In all other ways, it’s been a disaster. I’ve changed far more than he has.
Karl asks a follow-up question about the rise of the dissident movement, and Jacob’s hand brushes mine under the table. I close my eyes. This isn’t an accident. We’ve traded these covert gestures all week, becoming more reckless.
Karl crosses the room to consult a research library for the answer, and Jacob leans over. “Announce the broken engagement,” he whispers.
I want to pull a fire alarm and alert everyone to the fact that I haven’t been engaged for weeks, but I grip the edges of the table, drawing my hand away. “Have sense.”
I’m not that reckless. Not yet. Though I want to find out what these feelings between us will become, I can’t publicly cut Pietor loose until after the trade negotiations. Keeping us a secret is a mutually beneficial solution to an attraction that could easily get out of hand, damaging the long-term success of his country and mine.
Karl places materials in front of Jacob. “Memorize the main points, if you will, sir. I’ll fetch a book with more details from my room.” He excuses himself, leaving Jacob and me alone.
Jacob plucks up a page, and I lean over his shoulder, my hair brushing the side of his neck. He freezes, like one of the carriage horses before a parade.
“Alma.” His head tips back and his jaw sets, I see the effort he puts into holding himself back.
I touch his upturned face as we watch each other. “You’re not the only one trying to change someone’s mind.”
An alarm beeps on my phone, and I straighten. “I have to go,” I say, reaching for my portfolio, my color high.
Are we just trying to persuade each other when we touch? Maybe it’s simply that we can’t help it.
I mull over these questions at the family meeting, even as the wheels of Mama’s constitutional monarchy grind around me. No one asks about Pavieau and the strange softening Mama exhibited when she sent Freja to meet our family. We know how to be patient while Mama decides what to tell us. At the conclusion of the meeting, she holds me back. “How is His Royal Highness doing?”
I guard the truth that I’ve never withstood a temptation like the Crown Prince of Vorburg, that we are in a standoff about whether we’re going to start kissing at regular intervals, and that I would give anything this minute to forget I’m a princess of Sondmark.
“Have you managed to sew a satin bonnet from the bundle of rags?” she smiles, amused at the folk saying.
I swallow. “He’s a diligent student. King Otto will have no cause for complaint.”
“That’s the most important thing,” she says, “to clear us of this debt. We can’t be rid of him fast enough.” Her chin tips away, and she asks, “When does he return to Vorburg?”
“A fortnight,” Caroline supplies. “We just received the itinerary from Djolny.”
I knew it was coming, but to have it spelled out so clearly is like a hand on my throat.
“It can’t come too soon.” Mama touches my cheek and shakes her head. “While your sisters are exploring the novelty of pursuing their own self-interest, I miss having my steady right hand.”
Caroline taps a few strokes on her tablet. “His Royal Highness will be receiving little more than a week of Vorburgian court training in conjunction with briefings on their end of the state visit. They don’t have much time.”
“They should take him now and do a proper job of it,” Mama declares. “Perhaps I should mention it to the embassy.”
“No,” I say. My eyes shift away. “I have more to teach him.”
Mama nods and turns to go.
Caroline shoots me the briefest glance. Heaven knows what she sees. “He’ll be back before long,” she murmurs.
He won’t be back in the same way. When King Otto’s royal motorcade pulls up to the front entrance of the Summer Palace, a tiny flag affixed to the roof of the car, he won’t be arriving with Jacob. He’ll be accompanied by His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Jacob of Vorburg. Our roles will be clear, defined, and constricting.
Whether he wants them to or not, his priorities will shift. His allegiance will be to a hostile throne, and these feelings between us might evaporate into nothing. No matter what promises he wants to make, he’s a future monarch who may never have any use for a Sondish princess. In the face of so many risks, it’s wise to choose discretion.
When I return to my suite, I find him kneeling in front of my dollhouse, a tiny paintbrush in his hand, daubing glue along a loose chair railing. In the weeks since he took up the project, several rooms have returned to their former glory, the staircase in the Great Hall as sturdy and elegant as the real thing.
“Finished?” he asks, intent on his task. “How did it go?”
I dump my portfolio in a chair. “Noah is getting grouchy in his old age. He hates Karl for reasons I can’t understand.”
Jacob grunts a laugh. “Is your mother going to let Ella come to the state dinner in a trouser suit?”
I kick my shoes off and kneel over the back of the sofa, watching him. Each move he makes is controlled and certain.
“They got into it for twenty minutes. Honestly, Ella would kill in a pair of narrow black pants but it’s nearly impossible to pair that kind of thing with a sash, orders, and a tiara.”
I don’t stop to weigh my words or wonder how he’ll use them. What’s happened to me?
“I heard Max was coming to a family dinner.” He wipes a bead of glue and moves to the next section of paneling. “True?”
“Who are you gossiping with?”
He smiles over his shoulder. This isn’t part of persuading each other, but I’m tempted nevertheless. “I built Nils a new filing system for the guard house.”
I touch his cheek with the back of my hand. He doesn’t pull away but leans into it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. I need this. He needs this. “It’s true. Mama extended an invitation after Freja’s housewarming. It looks like Max the Naval Hottie has conquered the Summer Palace.”
“Who are you calling a hottie?” His brow lifts.
My hand falls away and I smile. “Clara will be pleased.” My little sister is over the moon, but I release a small sigh. Jacob gets to his feet, attuned to my shift in mood.
“I’m not giving in,” he says before he settles in the corner of the sofa and gathers me into his arms, wrapping me in an embrace that keeps me from getting fuzzy around the edges.
Clara is a fighter. Freja never consulted anyone before acting to secure her own happiness. These facts trouble the House of Wolffe, but Mama’s forbearance of my two siblings doesn’t herald a newfound liberality toward the rest of us. She called me her steady right hand. My role is helping her to keep the ship of state on an even keel.
The broken engagement is trouble enough, but I’m sure she has Caroline running up a new list. Perhaps she’s already engineering an event to perform a quick, economical series of introductions. Maybe she’s planning, this time next year, to begin a series of discreet appearances, rolling him—this invisible suitor’s face has no form or substance—out slowly. I will be her great hope.
What would she say if I demanded that a certain Vorburgian prince be placed on the spreadsheet?
I push out all thoughts of Mama and burrow more deeply into Jacob’s arms. “I’m not giving in,” I echo.
We stay like that for more than an hour. A setting sun reflects off a mirror and travels across my closed eyelid, turning the world to amber.
Jacob’s phone pings a notification and I read the text. See? Nothing to worry about. Test results are on the patient portal if you want to be nosy. When are you coming home?
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s my mom. She battled cancer when I was a kid.” I nod. I know that part of the story. “She still needs regular check-ups, but I prefer to go to appointments with her, if I can.”
I lace my fingers through his.
“You agreed to be the crown prince because of her,” I say. I wondered for so long, but now I know without asking. It wasn’t that she pushed him into it. It wasn’t because he wanted it. It wasn’t the title or the castle. For all our differences, Jacob is as loyal to his family as I am to mine.
“I was an inconvenient kid. I came along at the wrong time. I was the reason she went back to Blackberry, and I ate like a horse.” He pulls me in more tightly.
“None of that was your fault.”
“I know.” He brushes a thumb along my index finger. “I know. She could have gotten rid of me or dumped me on my grandparents but she—”
“Willingly took up the duties laid at her feet,” I finish. “She became a new creature to meet the challenging road before her?” I understand now. He was formed by a woman who knew how to make a sacrifice. I wonder if King Otto knows how lucky he is that Tiffani Fawn Gardner is the mother of his heir.
“Stop trying to draw parallels, Alma,” he says. “The cancer scared her, and she wanted me to know my father.”
“And when the judgment came down?”
“We were all surprised. She didn’t ask me to do it.”
“But she wanted you to.”
He breathes deeply. “You were going to tell me why I don’t want to be a man of the people,” he reminds me, bringing our hands up to kiss. We’re acting as though we have settled things between us—as though wanting an agreement is the same as having it.
I lay my head against his heart, feel the steady beat, and answer the old question. “The money and luxuries of royal life aren’t what set you apart from your subjects. In a sense, those things are just bribes to make it worth turning your life over to the country and becoming a national symbol. Though there’s always bound to be low-level grousing about the cost of running a monarchy, no one really expects a symbol to take the trash out and bring the wash in. To fight traffic or the national healthcare system.”
“Being a symbol doesn’t seem much fun.”
“It isn’t.”
I hear the smile in his voice. “My father had fun.”
I lift my head. “You will not have fun like that.”
He grins and presses my head against his heart again. I go on, more reasonably. “It was a different time. No social media. No phones in every pocket. He could get away with behavior you’ll never be allowed. Also, he was their king when it mattered most.”
Jacob grunts. “You’d think he was the one who defeated Communism.”
“Stop thinking like an American. We don’t have the creeds you do. No, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…’ For good and bad, it’s bloodier than that. We have land. A tribe. A king.”
I roll until I can look him in the eyes, chin against his chest. “The Cold War almost stamped out your national identity. Folk dress and traditional songs were outlawed. Feast days were repurposed for revolutionary figures. It was your father who kept the light burning.”
Jacob frowns. “He kept it burning with a lot of anonymous blondes.”
I hold his face between my hands. “His life is proof that Vorburg itself survived. When he dies, you won’t come to the funeral as his son. You’ll be expected to stand in the place of your people and mourn for them —to be the public, uncomplaining, inhuman face of national grief. Strangers will cast themselves into your arms and expect you to comfort them.”
“I won’t know how to do that.”
I smooth the tightness around his mouth with a light touch. “I don’t believe that anymore.”
Each day we spend together is precious, and as they speed by, I can’t surrender myself to the simple enjoyment of being with him. There’s too much pain when I think of the future. In order to throw a cloak of protection over him when the time comes to meet the world, I redouble my efforts. I’m merciless, reviewing every scrap of information and demanding mastery.
I wake up one morning to discover there are only three days left, and when I meet him in the drawing room, I want to burst into tears. His greeting is practiced and smooth. He doesn’t need me anymore.
“You look beautiful this morning,” he whispers over my hand.
I imagine a future and close my eyes against it. “You said that yesterday.”
He picks up the agenda. “It was true yesterday,” he murmurs, wearing an expression that warms my cheeks. He lifts the page. “It just says staircase. What are we doing?”
“We have to practice our entrance for the state visit.” He follows me from the room, and from the top of the grand staircase, I explain the logistics, resting my hand lightly on his arm. The contact is at once comfortable and electric.
“The press will be limited to two journalists—one video feed, and a single photographer,” I say, pointing at a corner of the Great Hall. “There is no need to look at them until we hit our mark.” He starts off, and I tug at his sleeve. “Too fast. Remember, I’ll be in a tiara and ballgown. You will have to adjust your pace. Watch me.”
“I’m an expert at that.” He shoots me a smoldering look, too comical to hurt. It does anyway.
“Jacob,” I hiss, taking refuge in my role. “If the photographer captures that expression, we’ll be all over the papers for a month.”
His cheek tucks. “What am I supposed to look at you like?”
“Like I’m a cousin.”
He grins. “What, am I Moses? You can’t expect miracles.”
We’re halfway down the stairs when Pietor storms through the front door, his face shining and red. The doors shake on their hinges, and the tall mirrors throw dancing light onto the marble tiles.
“Alma.” He clips my name like I’m a dog being brought to heel. The muscles under my hand gather, and I grip Jacob’s arm.
“Pietor,” I clip back. “What brings you?”
“I was at the Grousehof.” A look of cold fury seeps into his watery blue eyes. “You said this”—he stabs a finger at me and then Jacob, words tumbling out of him—“was a job, but a reporter came up to me and made other insinuations. Do you know what it makes me look like to have someone as uptight as you choosing a knuckle-dragging American bastard? You vrou –”
With lightning speed, Jacob rips out of my grasp and runs down the stairs. He chokes off the obscenity with a fist around Pietor’s tie, and yanks the hereditary grand duke high onto his toes, propelling him backward, through the door and onto the front steps. Pietor makes indistinct squealing noises and claws impotently at the rough hand.
Jacob doesn’t say a word but releases Pietor with a brutal shake. If the vailys is willing to step one foot down, he won’t fall, but Pietor refuses to give an inch. His arms windmill, and he skids down three shallow steps, landing on his back in a splash of gravel.
Swiping dust from his trousers, he jerks his clothes into order and smooths his hair. “He’s a piece of garbage, Alma. He can’t protect you. His title is worthless.”
He half turns to go, then charges Jacob, catching him in the midsection, and ripping his hair loose. Jacob grabs him off, lands a punch, and blood gushes from Pietor’s nose.
“Bastard,” he spits, crimson specks dotting the steps. “Do you know who my father is? You think I can’t take you down? You’re going to be a laughingstock when I’m through.” He delivers this to Jacob, walking backward, and slams into his car.
The engine pings to life, and the threat penetrates my brain. There was malice in Pietor’s words, and he has the power to back them up. Stultes es. What have I let happen? Stupid pride. All I had to do was swallow Pietor’s insults and show him out. Now Jacob is his target.
Pietor’s electric sports car whirrs into the distance, and Jacob brushes his sleeves, raking the hair back. This is my fault. I had forgotten how high the stakes are.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs with a laugh. “I had to take out the, er, svet .”
I want to burst into tears. “You can’t do that,” I shout. “Ever. You’re not a private citizen. This has consequences.”
“Even when he called you vrou —? Well, I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but it can’t be nice.”
It isn’t. “I’ve been called worse.”
His expression darkens, eyes lit with deadly fire. “By who?”
Vede , he’s taking names. “Whom.”