28. Little Ceremony
28
Little Ceremony
ALMA
No amount of shouting will get Jacob to understand what he owes to his position, to his people, and to the responsibilities he has to take on. So I use the oldest war tactic in the book. I freeze him out.
It’s an imperfect strategy. Unlike Napoleon’s troops marching into Russia, he seems prepared for winter, digging in across the drawing room from me, his warm gaze thawing me faster than I can summon the cold. The barrier between us is translucent, brittle. It would take nothing to break through it.
On the night before he leaves, I lie in bed and watch the clock, eyes fastened on the second hand racing around its tiny axis. Four minutes until midnight. Three. Two.
The second hand is without mercy, and I want to throw the thing out the window, watching the priceless clockworks shatter against the stones. The minute hand turns over with a tiny click. Today is the day he leaves. I turn off the lamp and screw my eyes closed.
My commitment to Sondmark and my queen provide precious little comfort when I’m standing in the palace forecourt the next day. Though the sun is shining, a chilly wind blows up from the harbor, and I shiver. Karl, shoving a disreputable duffel bag into the boot of the car, holds a conversation with Caroline. I open my mouth to tell him to take care of the ‘Johnny Flamen Marr’ shirts, but Ella emerges from the doors, holding Jacob’s arm as she navigates the steps.
They look comfortable together, and I can’t stop the bitter thought that he should have fallen in love with her. If he had asked her to throw over every consideration of royal life and damn the consequences, she would have done it. She would have hacked into the security feed, climbed over the palace walls, and phoned for a getaway car.
I look away, into the wind.
“Cold, ma’am?” Caroline asks.
I turn with a set expression—neither pleased nor displeased, neither hopeful nor despairing. Neither happy to speed the parting guest nor wishing he would stuff me into the car and kidnap me to his foreign kingdom to love me forever. I blink rapidly.
Caroline bobs a curtsey. “I hope your stay was pleasant, sir.”
Stultes es . That was my line. Jacob turns to me, performing the ceremony as though he was born to this. “Your Royal Highness,” he murmurs.
My smile is weak. “We look forward to your return.” We. I .
In the thin air of early spring, it’s a wonder no one can hear the sound of heartbreak. When he comes back, I’ll never have him to myself. He’ll be the crown prince, and he won’t be sleeping in the room next door. I want to scream and throw my shoes, demanding he see reason. None of this shows on my face, which is good. I haven’t lost my touch.
But my lip shakes, and I catch it between my teeth. Holding my hand, Jacob leans forward, lips at my ear. “Don’t look like that.”
My hand tightens on his. Don’t go. Don’t go. But though the words rattle in my chest, the tether doesn’t snap.
“Sir,” Karl prompts. “We must respect the schedule.”
Jacob steps back, taking half of me with him. Brisk spring wind sweeps across the lawn, ruffling the grass as he speeds away.
I sway on my feet. He’s gone. He’s really gone, but I can’t take it in. It’s as though I’ve dropped a penny into a bottomless well, and keep listening for the plink.
“Your mother wishes for a few minutes of your time,” Caroline says.
At my mother’s door, I brush my cheeks and check my expression. My face is pale and my eyes are hollow, but Mama doesn’t see it. She glances from the papers in her dispatch box with a smile. “Has the barbarian finally departed?”
“Yes.” But the penny is still dropping.
She hands off the final preparations for the state banquet. “Can you put a few hours into this? I’ve missed your support.”
I nod and go to my formal office, a little-used room that has the benefit of not reminding me of Jacob at all.
For the remainder of the day, I work with half an eye to the queen’s interests. The other half watches out for Jacob, making certain that things don’t go wrong for his inaugural event.
By late afternoon, Mama summons me to her office again, and I’m brought up short by the sight of my former fiancé.
I’ve seen his picture in the press. After Jacob threw him out of the palace, he took a skiing holiday at a carbon-neutral resort in Switzerland, tanned skin visible in a band under his helmet, eyes squinting against the sun on snow. A balaclava hid his swollen nose and fat lip.
It’s almost back to normal, I note, performing a curtsey to the queen. I can’t bring myself to give Pietor the smallest sign of respect.
Hypocrite.
I’ve been furious at Jacob, raging that he must swallow his pride. Do the correct thing. Bow. Bend. Beg.
I can’t.
Mama’s brow lifts, but she escorts us to an arrangement of chairs overlooking the lawn and the ocean beyond. Dark clouds gather in the west, but Jacob should be over the mountains by now.
“Pietor,” Mama prods, “may I ask—”
Pietor tosses a manilla envelope between us, and the rudeness of it shocks me. “My press secretary received this from The Daily Missive . They purchased it from a citizen photographer and want a comment before they run it.” The look he gives me is scathing. “One of their journalists made contact several days ago. I denied everything, but they have evidence.”
Mama removes a photograph, shaking it out and holding it up. I know how bad it must be when she goes completely still.
Obviously, Pietor and his philanthropic bikini model were caught. Stupid mistake. Stupid man. You never have ready access to a guillotine when you need one.
“What have you done?” I ask. “You know how careful we’ve had to be this month.”
“I’ve done?” He snatches the photo from Mama and thrusts it into my hands. It takes a second to make sense of the blurry, truncated image, the play of shadows turning two figures into one.
Then I discern the outlines of vintage Sergei San Martin and gasp. No need for a guillotine. The image is of me and Jacob, moments after a kiss. His arm is around my waist and my soft eyes are lit by a streetlamp. Dominanstid . Is this how I look at Jacob when I think no one is watching?
Jacob’s silhouette makes a bold stamp on a thin, white valance, but his identity is not immediately obvious. Nothing else matters.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Pietor asks. His voice is petulant and furious. I would have spent my lifetime with him, running around, putting out fires, managing his emotions. “What am I supposed to tell my financiers?”
My lips feel cold. “When do they plan to run the picture?”
Already I’ve shifted into crisis management mode, but underneath it all I feel panic. I think Jacob—of all our long afternoons of northern European history, our bowing and walking, the security protocols, and the Pankedruss he tried to like. We have to make it count.
“Sunday. My fiancée will parade across the pages of The Daily Missive with another man.” His eyes narrow and he adds with withering contempt, “I didn’t think you’d need reminders about propriety, Alma.”
“How dare you?” I accuse, my voice low and menacing. “How dare you? The picture shows nothing.”
“Nothing?” Pietor counters, snatching the photo and slamming it down on the coffee table. “How much more did the photographer miss? Was the crown prince trying to get an heir? You’ve been throwing yourself at that consolation prize for months.”
“Consolation prize?” I grit out, the words containing a deadly warning.
He ignores it. “Couldn’t you have found anyone better?”
My hand snakes out and I slap him across the mouth, the crack loud and satisfying. “That’s rich coming from a man whose family tree resembles a stick.”
Pietor’s skin is red and throbbing, and I ball my hand, but Mama grips my fist. “Enough,” she commands, her tone furious. “That will do. The palace has no comment.”
“And when they run the photo anyway?” Pietor spits, holding his face.
Mama’s terrifying gaze swings between us. “All of us have things we need to protect, and we have a couple of days to work on the optics. Alma, are you willing to take part?”
When have I ever failed to support the monarchy? I loathe Pietor, but I know my duty. “I am.”
Mama nods. “Your engagement must appear solid for the sake of Sondmark’s trade deals and Himmelstein’s investments.”
“And Jacob’s future,” I add.
“And the health of Vorburg’s monarchy,” she allows, voice trembling with power. She pins Pietor and me with a look. “The two of you have a few days to play the devoted pair. Be as convincing as you can.”
She holds my wrist, not my hand. Curbing, not consoling. My throat crowds with thick emotion. She’s suggested a good, time-proven strategy. We need to get out in front of the news. Make the whole idea of a polished, firmly engaged princess running around with a rough-hewn giant ridiculous. The lie turns my stomach.
Mama gives Pietor a wintery smile. “ Vrouw Tiele will send you an itinerary. Now, get out of my palace and never come back.”
Pietor stalks from the room, his shoulders rigid, and Mama flings my hand away. Her voice is deadly. “When were you going to tell me about the liaison?”
Liaison . Jacob would laugh at the word. It’s too French. Too insubstantial. Too fleeting. But this is how my mother sees it. Jacob, with his Americanness, blue-collar profession, and vintage concert tees, wasn’t ever going to be an option for Queen Helena.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.
She releases a shallow breath and taps the photograph. My mother wasn’t born yesterday. “Minimize the damage.”
“Of course.” I snap a picture of the picture before I go. I’ll have to know exactly what lies I’m supposed to be telling.
As soon as I’m in the hall, I text Jacob.
A photograph is about to be run in the papers. Us, in the landing at Freja’s party.
There are no emojis, no unnecessary caps, and no overabundance of exclamation points. Still, my hands are shaking. Dots bounce on the bottom of the screen, and I let out a breath. Good. He made it safe to Djolny. I don’t have to worry about him stuck in the mountains anymore.
Kissing???
Almost. They can’t identify you, yet. The curtain hid your face. Strong silhouette only.
I clip the photograph and send it. His response is immediate.
Northern Europe will put two and two together when we’re walking down the grand staircase. I’m ready to go public about us now.
My nose stings with unshed tears. Even after all these days of silence and formality, he hasn’t given up. I slip into a supply closet and perch on several boxes of printer paper, tapping my phone against my head before typing a response.
The picture proves nothing. I could be getting an eyelash off your face.
Woman.
I hear his voice when he sends that single word. Woman. Exasperation and frustration in every syllable. Something else, too.
In spite of myself, a smile brushes my mouth as I type. Don’t be dramatic. You look like a cousin, maybe. For legal reasons, the article will likely speculate that you could be.
And then systematically eliminate all possibilities with a graph. In color. They know.
They think they know. Don’t worry. You’re safe.
The bouncing dots appear and disappear.
I don’t care what they say about me. Alma—we have a chance to set the record straight. Tell them about Pietor. Us. The whole story. Ring up Neer Hjefdal, and you could have this on the news tonight.
I choke out a painful laugh. The press is not our friend. It never is. Talking to them will only make things worse. They don’t know who you are. You don’t have to involve yourself.
The silence between us stretches. I hear the coming and going of palace office workers beyond the door. Finally, he sends a screenshot of the photo, covered in scribbles.
“Me,” it reads, pointing at the darkened silhouette of his head. Another arrow points to me. “The girl I’m in love with.” Heat pours through my veins, but his caption is brief. “I’m involved.”
I want what he’s offering so much, but being connected with me, right now, would be a disaster for him. It’s too soon.
I tap out a message. The danger of Pietor. The grand duchy of Himmelstein. The Sondish economy. The Vorburgian economy. A historic trade deal. My mother. This isn’t as simple as you and me.
His answer slices through my excuses. Will it ever be?