33. Secret Passageways
33
Secret Passageways
ALMA
“Your posture,” I hear, the voice low and amused, as familiar as my own.
Jacob is leaning up against the wall, still in his tuxedo, the tie loosened, crumpled against his white shirtfront, and I’m hit with a wave of longing. He’s waiting for me, just like always.
He clicks his tongue several times against his teeth. “What kind of impression do you hope to make if you can’t put your shoulders back?”
I recognize the words as some of my own. Blood races through my veins, too fast for sense, and I push through the door of our suite. He rolls behind me, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a touch. Jacob is back.
“How did you get here?” I ask, continuing to my room, knowing he won’t ask permission to follow. Counting on it. Every nerve in my body is sparkling like a firework. “The footmen wouldn’t have let a son of Vorburg up the staircase in the Great Hall on a night like this.”
I perch on a chair, and he steps behind me. “Does your tiara hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not much.”
He puts his hands to my hair, drawing pins from the complicated knot one by one.
“Caroline was in charge of assigning rooms,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the sensitive skin around my ears. “She gave me the Tower Suite and made sure I knew where the amenities were. She even offered up a history lesson about the wars of succession while she was at it.”
“Why are we talking about the wars of succession?” I ask, a furrow in my brow. We could be talking about us.
His gray eyes dance, and he gives me his infuriating American grin. I lose my train of thought for a moment but, when it returns, I bolt upright and turn in my chair, mouth agape. “Did she actually show you where the secret passageway was?” The location of every hidden passage in the Summer Palace is almost a state secret. I’m surprised Caroline didn’t take the information to her grave.
Hands on my shoulders, warming my skin, he turns me around to face the mirror. “She didn’t have to, once I knew it was there. I’m familiar with traditional construction techniques and was”—he gives me another grin—“pretty motivated to work it out.”
He removes the last hairpins and lifts the tiara from my head. With careful hands—hands I could trust with my life—he places it into the box along with the earrings. A knock sounds on the outer door. “You’d better do it,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss into the crook of my neck. A blush blooms from the spot and blood rushes through my veins. “The Cyclops wouldn’t suit you at all.”
When I return, Jacob is waiting for me in the sitting room. Late as it is, he’s touched a match to the fire, and light spills across the patterned carpet.
He sets the fireguard, and we look at each other for a long while. I wonder how far we’ve traveled from those first tentative steps on my sister’s landing. He wanted a promise I couldn’t give. Every minute, I’ve wished to go back and give it.
It can’t be too late. It can’t. I close the distance between us, touching the close-cropped hair above his ear. “They cut your hair.”
He catches my hand and shakes his head, nuzzling into my palm. “ I cut my hair.”
My chin trembles. “You swore you wouldn’t, no matter how much I tried to get you to.” Jacob’s hair was as much a part of him as Blackberry and concert tees. “I never should have—”
He bites the smile on his lip. “Are you about to admit you were wrong about something?”
“I have a whole presentation,” I say.
He kisses my palm, and I catch my breath. Even without the long hair, my heart turns over when he touches me. “You know how I love your monologuing. What’s it about?”
“My great aunt wore fashion turbans for thirty years—at least a decade past her prime. Powder blue turbans with brooches jabbed into the center. Queen Magda had tattoos up and down her arms—”
He chuckles, his low laughter warm in the shadows. “Magda the Great? That Magda?”
“King Frederick VI used to braid his beard and tie the ends with red bows. He tried to turn leather shorts into formal court dress, and no one ever accused him of not taking the affairs of state seriously.”
Jacob’s grin is lopsided. “He was the one with the high body count, so they wouldn’t.”
I flick his stomach.
“Oof,” he says, rubbing the spot, inching closer.
“You could have kept your hair long and still become a great king.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” he promises. “I’ll hold you to it for the rest of your life.” His look is like the touch of a match to dry tinder.
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “I loved your hair.”
“Now she tells me,” he murmurs, close enough to breathe in. “I saw that picture you sent. We didn’t need the press to start connecting the dots at a time like this.”
I nod. “Vorburg doesn’t need that kind of publicity.”
He tips his chin. “Agree.”
He’s so close, I can’t even think. “You’re admitting I’m right about something?”
A smile tucks his cheek. “Sometimes Vorburg will need me to get out of its way,” he shakes his head, “but that’s not why I did it. You were being chewed up by the press, and I couldn’t leave you on your own.” He touches a lock of hair, rolling it through his fingers. “Maybe there was a better solution, but I couldn’t ask you what to do. Karl took my phone and still hasn’t given it back.”
At his words, some painful tourniquet unwinds, and blood returns to starved organs, relief coming almost immediately.
“Oh…” Jacob digs into his pocket and places something into my hand. “While I was away, I had time for this.”
I hold the object up between us in the low light, picking out the chipped paint and playful curves of a tiny rocking horse, repaired and fitted with a smooth, newly carved forelimb. No one would mistake it for brand new, and the end result isn’t perfect. But it isn’t broken. I run a finger along the ridge of its back and see a flash of its future. Queen Ageltheld was reputed to be a white witch. Maybe this is her gift—to see curly-haired boys riding on their father’s back around the castle nursery, laughing as he growls like Ulek. One of them clutches the horse under his chin when his mama tucks him into bed.
I touch what is left of Jacob’s unruly hair, running my fingers through the length. He sacrificed his most precious thing—not the hair but the stubborn insistence that he wouldn’t fall in line with everything royal—because it would save me some agony in the press. I take a deep breath and feel every fiber and filament crowded with love.
My dreams used to be modest—to help Mama, to serve well, to behave always—but when I’m with Jacob, he makes every room feel too small and every horizon feel impossibly big.
“You cut it, just like that?” I laugh. I can feel how my eyes shine.
“Just like that.” He lifts a brow. “You don’t hate it, do you?”
“Don’t be silly.” I swallow. “I love you no matter what you look like.” His smile disappears. I’ve never told him so, and it deserves more than to be tucked into another conversation like a loose receipt, marking our spot. But we’ll come back. I’ll say it again and again for as long as I live.
I brush his hair off his forehead. “You’re going to grow it again.”
“Alma,” he says, his voice gruff as he pulls me into his arms. I slip the rocking horse onto the mantel and fit myself against him, reaching up on my tiptoes to kiss his mouth—a warm, clear declaration that I am his. It’s not enough. He lifts me until my feet leave the ground, and I hear a roll of laughter before his lips settle on mine, dark-tinged and sweet, leading me off carefully marked paths and into the forest.
Together, we lose our way and forget ourselves, lingering in the magical woods.
“Tell me why you released a statement,” he asks when he lifts his head, breath shaking from his lungs.
“You can’t turn the people you love into pawns,” I say, repeating the words of my aunt. “Not if it’s really love.” I try to pull away slightly, needing him to understand, but he gathers me into his arms again. “I’m sorry that I treated you like a secondary concern. I’m sorry that I wanted you only at the right time and under the right circumstances. I’m sorry for being so worried about inconveniencing my country or looking bad in the press. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to make any sacrifices.” I tug at my lip.
He pushes a gentle thumb across my mouth, releasing it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell everyone that I wanted to date you—” I whisper.
“Date,” he grunts, dipping his head, pressing a fierce kiss on my lips. “We’re not going to date.”
I breathe a laugh. The ancient Vors had a tradition called handfasting. It tied a couple together with promises before a priest cinched them up at an altar—not yet married, but almost as good as. I lace our fingers together until my soft palm is kissing his calloused one. I imagine a cord twining around our wrists, weaving an unbreakable knot to bind us together.
“I don’t need you to tell the press about us,” he answers. “Not yet. It’s enough that you don’t have a public fiancé. I don’t mind keeping it quiet.”
“I’m not keeping you a secret,” I counter, ready to dictate a press release.
He smiles. “Then keep us private. There’s a difference.”
My breath catches. I didn’t understand Freja until this moment, how she could know Oskar was for her—enough to stake her life on it. I didn’t understand how she could get carried away and forget herself.
I understand now.
Jacob traces rough fingertips along my neck and follows them with kisses. “I don’t want to go back to Vorburg.”
I know what the rest of the state visit looks like—events planned for every minute of the stay, no chance to run away, no accidental brush of hands that won’t be caught by a photographer. Vorburg is going to demand his time and energy, and I see the difficulties ahead as clearly as ever. We belong to hostile countries, our reputations have taken a hit in the press, and I don’t know how anyone will accept us. But I remember something I told him when he grumped about losing his right to vote in American elections. Loyalties can’t be divided.
Mine aren’t.
I rub the short bristles at the back of his neck and guide his lips where I can reach them, loving the way his powerful body surrenders at my lightest touch. “I don’t want to stay in Sondmark,” I say. I might die if I can’t kiss him again.
He pulls me to him, solid muscle banding my waist. “So we’re doing this. I’m going to need an itinerary and a timetable of how often we see each other, boss. Locations and logistics.”
“I’ll have it to Karl by noon,” I promise.
I cut off his laugh with a kiss, breathing him in, and with each touch, he tells me that his heart is in my keeping. I finally understand what I have, I think, cupping his face with my unsteady hand. It’s far too precious to place in a box and surrender it to the care of anyone else.
Silently, I make a vow. No matter what pressures are brought to bear upon us, I will fight every dragon of Sondmark to safeguard the heart of my prince.
I lead him to the sofa, and we weave more knots between us. The coming days will be difficult. We need to store up reserves against the frustration of being in different countries and the rational arguments to choose anything but this.
His thumb traces along my bare ring finger, up and back, imprinting his touch.
The mantel clock chimes twice.
“It’s late,” he says, lifting his head. “I should let you sleep.”
I groan in protest, slipping into his arms again when he pulls me to my feet. “You don’t have to sound like you’re doing me a favor.”
The fire has turned into glowing coals, and blue moonlight touches the planes of his face. I trace a finger along his lips and he kisses it. “I know I’m not what you planned for,” he says, eyes searching my face. “Are you happy?”
I pull his head down for one more kiss, unable to resist smiling against his mouth.
I’m happy.