32. Queen’s Peace
32
Queen’s Peace
ALMA
When the delegation from Vorburg departs for their quarters, I watch Jacob’s retreating form. He is exactly what I asked for. Reasonable hair, correct manners, and the ability to answer the demands of public conduct. There he is, the man of my dreams.
I don’t want it.
The reception room doors boom shut, and my sisters rush to my side, talking over each other and hugging me close. Farther down the room, Mama is in a rage, issuing orders to Caroline to dig up Pietor’s financials “yesterday” while Noah is on his phone, his tone blistering. “Destroyed. Do you hear me? We’re going to own Himmelstein by Christmas.”
It’s not a hug, but I’m comforted by their fury.
Père wades through a sea of princesses and cups my face, resting his forehead on mine. For several beats, we breathe the same air and my heart matches his easy rhythm. Gripping his wrists, I let the tears slip down my cheeks.
“Do you feel up to this?” he asks when Caroline reminds us of the schedule. I nod and move to follow my sisters, returning to their suites to prepare.
Mama looks up from her twelve-point plan to annihilate Pietor.
“Follow me to my office for a moment,” she calls.
When I stand before her desk, I’m conscious of the scraped knee and scuffed heels.
She’s barely spoken to me since I released a statement without running it through official channels, focusing her efforts on Sondmark, trying to stay in the national conversation when the prime minister keeps trying to sideline her. She feels more isolated than ever, and I don’t blame her, but the biggest headline in northern Europe was primed to be, “Neanderthal Mouth-Breathing Prince Falls on Face, Future of Vorburg in Doubt” and, in a few short, explosive sentences, I shifted the story. “Princess Alma: Cheater.” I don’t regret it.
Mama halts in front of me, her mouth set. We have not become accustomed to our new roles. I am not her faithful right hand or the keeper of the queen’s peace. I am trouble.
She takes a breath. “The crown prince”—she avoids his name—“saved your life. Though the gun had blanks, he had no way of knowing that. This is his first time in such a situation, and the fear would be incredible. I was watching it live.” Her mouth tightens, but her eyes are fixed on me. “What I saw was a man turn from the safety of an armored vehicle to run across open ground under a hail of what he supposed was gunfire to rescue my child.”
My child.
The words aren’t a commendation or a badge of honor. They’re not a title conferred because of my worthiness or merit. I didn’t earn them. I am her child, and hearing her say the simple words is as soothing as oil applied to a stubborn hinge, restoring it to proper working order.
“Are you going to offer him the Order of the Dragonslayer?” I ask, clearing the tightness in my throat.
The tips of her fingers press together, a light tapping that betrays her discomfort. “I wondered if he might prefer my eldest daughter.”
I stand up very straight, shock rippling through my body.
“Surprised?” she asks. Her gaze swings to the window and the ocean beyond. “You think I don’t know you? You think that being the firstborn princess under a monarch with high expectations is such a mystery to me?” Her smile is strained, and she releases a short breath. “Kissing on landings. Trashing your reputation in the press. You would never do such things for a man if it wasn’t serious.”
“Jacob,” I say, carrying his name as carefully as a crown jewel on coronation day.
She nods, a nod that says, Queen Magda never had to do this . “Jacob. If you’re determined to have him, I will approach his father to arrange a match.”
My lungs stop functioning. This offer is a stunning admission from a proud queen. King Otto would jump at the chance to borrow legitimacy from Sondmark. It’s the perfect solution. A contract marriage. Negotiated intimacy.
“No,” I murmur. “No, thank you.”
A line forms between Mama’s brow. “Alma, I’m giving you my approval to go forward with this relationship.”
I recognize the sacrifice Mama is making, and I attempt to be as diplomatic as possible. “This matter is not your concern.” Her brows gather and I explain. “I have no wish to time a wedding announcement so that we’re not interrupting commodities trading. If there is even one committee meeting about it, I would be tempted to follow Freja’s footsteps.”
My hand shakes with the effort to be as clear as crystal, and the spinning world slows to a crawl. “I mean this with the greatest respect in the world, Mama,” I say, drawing a sharp breath. “I love him, I hope he still loves me, and we will decide the course of our relationship on our own.”
Magda the Great would have called this treason and started a war. My mother closes her eyes and takes a breath, but the war is within, raging across her face. She wants to maneuver, make commands, and see that her will is done. She wants to find the next move in a larger game, working for the good of Sondmark. But I’ve given her no room to negotiate.
When she swallows, I know I’ve won. “A little discretion will go a long way to smoothing his path as a future monarch and making you, as a couple, more acceptable to both countries. Try to convince him to slow down,” she suggests.
I breathe a laugh. If he wants me, it won’t be possible.
If . The word is like a hairpin, digging into my scalp.
Mama dismisses me. I return to my suite to surrender myself to the hairdresser, spending a good long time with my make-up and a magnifying mirror to erase the effects of a near-assassination and standing toe-to-toe with the most powerful queen in Europe.
I have chosen the dress I wore on New Year’s Eve—cut low and glittering. The fashion press will call wearing one dress for two occasions a sustainable choice. I might get lucky and they’ll say I’m a good example. I chose it simply because I hope Jacob will remember kissing me.
Ella puts her head around my door, not bothering to knock. “Have you seen social media?” she asks.
I step away from the mirror and examine the placement of the sash pinned to my bodice. “Not when I can help it.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a new GIF.” My heart sinks. Not another one. “It’s spawned hashtags such as #pietorwhatpietor, #herfaceisathreeactplay, and #onemoreprincess. It’s you on the tarmac today, and if you ask me, it’s a little soon for the internet to be doing its thing. Do you feel up for a look?”
Jacob is safe, and Pietor has people queuing up to make him rue this day. I can take anything. She holds up the phone.
The scrambling security guards and lumbering brass band have been cropped out. The camera lens is trained tightly on my face in the seconds before and after Jacob reaches me. I vaguely remember screaming at him to get safe and the GIF plays the tail end of that fury and terror. Then he has me in his arms and the panic drops away, melting into surprise. I’m not looking anywhere else but at him and then our eyes lock. I’m calm. Safe. My face…my cheeks burn. My face is a three-act play.
“It’s not that bad,” Ella says. “Everyone knows cameras lie.”
“It’s not lying.”
I smooth my skirt and drag her off to the reception room, where Mama inspects us, her exacting gaze sliding over our jewels and our gowns, the sashes and orders secured at our shoulders. Ella fidgets, her glittering tiara a little lost in her bright curly hair.
“We don’t jiggle in Sondmark,” Mama observes. Ella ceases tapping her feet and lifts her chin.
Mama nods at Freja, offering no criticism. It would sound silly if she did. As long as my sister might be forced out of the line of succession, fussing about her dress is like applying touch-up paint to the wreckage of the Hindenburg.
Mama’s gaze slides to me. I wonder if she recognizes her perfect princess anymore. This Alma hates pickled herring. She knits poorly. She dislikes the Lowenwald tiara (which she is wearing right now). She loves a Vorburgian bear who doesn’t know how to tie his shoes.
Mama looks like she’s searching for something nice to say when Père walks to her side.
“Helena,” he says, lifting his arm. Mama stares at it, the Zouvier diamonds swinging from her neck. Then she brings her fingertips to rest lightly on his sleeve. It feels as though nature and heaven and the entire country holds its breath.
He escorts her to her spot and Clara mouths from the end of the line, “What is happening?”
I lift my shoulder as guests begin to file into the room, finding their dinner partners. Caroline escorts Jacob to my side, and my heart lodges in my throat. He didn’t say one thing about missing me when we raced through Handsel in the back of the car, and I’m trying to wring every bit of comfort I can from his impeccable manners and first-class hug. It isn’t quite enough to quiet my nerves.
“Good evening,” I murmur. My eyes lift to his jawline and no higher. This affords me a stunning view of the way his tuxedo skims his broad shoulders, and I offer up a silent message of gratitude to Mr. Tumwater, his fairy godfather of precision tailoring.
The room is a crush of people bristling with orders and merits. Clara scoots past me to reach the Minister of the Exchequer, jostling me lightly, and I overbalance into Jacob, gripping his muscled arm though the material of his jacket.
He sets me on my feet, dipping his head to look me square in the face. His eyes lift to the tiara, and when I put a hand to my hairline, our fingers brush.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, mouth tipping in a smile. His eyes drop, skimming along my shoulders and over my curves. “Nice dress. It’s my favorite.”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes me. To say I missed him would be to say that the earth is round—true but a gross understatement. I haven’t thought of anything else in weeks, and the amount of sleep I’ve lost is beginning to place a heavy burden on my retinol cream.
“Has Miss Pendragon been solving any murders while I was away?” he asks, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Not one,” I manage. The trumpets begin a fanfare, and the tall doors swing open. Caroline nods and we follow, two by two, in the wake of elegant Mama and imposing King Otto.
Jacob’s pace is perfect, his posture formal but relaxed. We’re expected to exchange a few words as we go but I can’t think of anything to say. He gives me a few smiles as we descend the staircase into the Great Hall, careful to make way for my dress. The press will approve of that.
He pauses before the official photographer, and we smile. I know as I hear the click of the shutter that nothing can be made of this. Not even the grimiest gossipmonger will be able to wring the tiniest bit of juice from two grown adults performing official duties as bloodlessly and impersonally as we are.
I remember the GIF and almost stumble. Fool . No matter how professional we look, the stories will be about how he saved a Sondish princess—carried me off like I was his stolen bride—and about how I held onto him like he was my life. Nothing will matter next to that.
When the banquet gets underway, I tell myself the worst is over, but the food tastes like sawdust, and I blindly lift my glass when the monarchs toast one another. During the fish course I raise my eyes to find Jacob’s gaze on my hands, a shadow of a smile touching his mouth.
“Is the herring going to be studied under a microscope?” he murmurs, nodding to my plate. I look down, knife and fork in hand. The slices are paper thin.
I slip one into my mouth, controlling my features with superhuman strength. “I hope you enjoy the Pankedruss custard when it comes. I added it to the menu for you.”
“Alma,” he reproves. My name on his lips is enough to give me hope through the cheese course.
Dancing follows the dinner, and I have to watch Jacob escort the daughter of a Sondish ambassador through a waltz. He moves with strong, sure steps around the floor and I turn my back on it, weaving from group to group, shaking hands and laughing about fishing rights or old wars—whatever it’s diplomatically expedient to laugh at. We’re in the same room, but protocol keeps us apart. The clock above the band is a mill stone, grinding me into chaff with each passing hour.
At the ragged end of the party, Caroline halts at my side. She’s wearing a severe black dress with a nipped in waist and carrying herself with the unmistakable air of a woman who could point any guest to a bathroom.
“Good evening, ma’am,” she says. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
I’m in love with the crown prince of a foreign country and see a bleak future bearing down like a freight train. But, other than that, I’m fine, Caroline. And you?
“You’ve done a wonderful job,” I say.
“Please don’t linger at the end of the party,” she observes. “The logistics are well in hand.”
She slips back to her duties, no doubt to organize the catering staff or manage the loading and unloading zone, her steps brisk and efficient. I imagine her donning a reflective pinny and taking up lighted batons to untangle potential parking snarls when everyone else has gone to bed. I’m thankful for it. If I can’t be a perfect right hand for my mother, Caroline will. She can always be counted on.
At a quarter to midnight, King Otto is persuaded to retire, and my mother endures his effusive farewells. Jacob follows his father’s resolute steps, and I dip a curtsey as they pass. A burden shifts onto my chest, and I almost stagger under its weight. Jacob and I won’t speak again for the duration of this visit. Not alone. I know the schedule better than anyone and can account for every minute, from the moment he wakes up tomorrow until the moment he boards that helicopter again.
Caroline has promised to manage the details of the party, and I need rest. I need to figure out how to get through to Jacob, even if he’s blocked my number.
I slip out of the ballroom and scurry up the staircase in the Great Hall, nodding to the extra security detail placed at the head of the private wings. The palace exhales with the sounds of a retreating feast, and I halt in my tracks.
I’m in a centuries-old palace. I pick up my pace, almost running down the darkened hall, eyes trained on the carpet.
We have secret passageways.