Chapter 2 #3
A cup appeared at Harald's elbow, steam rising in the already humid air. He took it automatically, then nearly dropped it when his fingers brushed Jakob's.
"Careful, Your Highness." Jakob's voice was low, meant only for him. "Wouldn't want to add tea stains to those dress code violations."
He should have been offended. Should have remembered his rank, remembered Christian waiting upstairs. Instead, he found himself fighting a smile.
"You seem very familiar with the regulations," he said, watching Jakob return to the pressing machine.
"Someone has to be." Jakob fed an officer's uniform through the press with practiced ease. "Especially since some senior cadets can't even keep their own collars pressed correctly."
Sarah made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Yasha."
"Just making conversation, Mama." But there was something hard under Jakob's casual tone, something that suggested he'd noticed exactly how Christian wielded his authority.
Harald sipped his tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. The laundry was nothing like the rigid world above—the steam softened everything, made the military precision seem far away.
Even the sounds were different: the hiss of the pressing machines, the quiet murmur of workers sorting linens, the occasional phrase of soft Russian between mother and son.
"There." Sarah held up the jacket, examining her work. "First one's done. Though..." She paused, head tilted. "Your Highness, if you're planning to survive until evening formation, you might want to adjust your collar stays. The left one's crooked."
Harald reached up automatically, but his fingers fumbled with the stiff fabric.
"Here." Jakob was suddenly in front of him, hands steady and sure. "Like this." His fingers brushed Harald's neck as he adjusted the collar, and Harald forgot how to breathe. "Can't have you getting cited for violations on your first day."
Their eyes met, and for a moment the rest of the laundry seemed to fade away. Then Sarah cleared her throat.
"Second jacket, and I've tacked down your rank patch as well." she announced, as if she hadn't noticed anything. "Though I don't know why they can't just use stronger thread in the first place. These patches, they're always coming loose..."
Harald watched Jakob work the pressing machine, the sure movements of his hands, the way he seemed to know exactly how much pressure to apply. "Do you... work here often?"
"Not usually." Jakob didn't look up from his task. "But it's a busy day, and I already have my uniform and time table. Mama needed the help, and since the only reason I can attend the academy is because of her, I figure I owe it to her to pitch in."
"What do you mean—"
"My Yasha is a student here," Sarah said proudly, starting on the third jacket.
"First child of a staff member who has been allowed to study at the academy, as long as he helps occasionally.
Though if more of these fine young gentlemen knew how to properly care for their clothing, perhaps I wouldn't need quite so much help. "
"Mama." But Jakob was smiling slightly. "I'm sure His Highness doesn't need to hear about Colonel Alberg's attempts at ironing."
"That boy." Sarah shook her head. "Three ruined jackets before he admitted defeat. And now look at him—a whole colonel, and he still sends his uniforms back when he visits. Says no one else gets the creases quite right."
There was pride in her voice, and something else—a quiet dignity that had nothing to do with rank or station. Harald found himself wondering what it would be like, to be so certain of your place in the world.
"Fourth jacket," Sarah announced. "Though we're running low on thread. Yasha—"
"Top shelf, behind the extra buttons." Jakob was already moving. "I restocked it this morning."
Harald watched as he got up and fetched the thread for his mother, and as she wound it carefully through the arcane-looking bits of her sewing machine. His tea was finished. Harald checked his watch, trying to be subtle about it. Jakob noticed anyway.
"Don't worry, Your Highness. We'll have you properly attired well before Christian can write you up." His tone was light, but there was an edge to it.
"Fifth jacket," Sarah announced, and Harald looked back, startled. Jakob's hand dropped away from where it had been edging close to his own, but that almost-smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Yasha." Sarah's tone held warning. "The linens for the faculty dining room?"
"Already sorted, Mama." Jakob moved away from the pressing machine, taking his warmth with him. "And the formal tablecloths are ready for tonight's dinner."
"Good boy." She tied off her thread, examining the fifth patch with critical eyes. "Though I don't know why they insist on such heavy starch. Makes the napkins like cardboard."
"Tradition," Jakob said, with just enough irony to make Hal bite back a smile. "Everything here is about tradition."
"Tradition is no excuse for poor laundering." Sarah started on the final jacket. "Your Highness, come here a moment. You should know how to check if these are secured properly."
Harald approached her workstation, grateful for the distraction. She showed him the neat stitches, the way the thread caught just so, explaining each step with the same quiet authority she used with everything else.
"There." She held up the last jacket. "All done, and with time to spare." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Though you might want to hurry. That cousin of yours seems the type to start formation early, just to catch people out."
"He is," Harald said before he could stop himself. Then, realizing: "I mean—"
"We all know what you mean, Your Highness." She began gathering his jackets. "Yasha, help His Highness carry these up. And mind you don't wrinkle them."
"Yes, Mama." Jakob collected the jackets with careful hands. "This way, Your Highness. Unless you'd like a lesson in proper pressing technique?"
Heat crawled up Harald's neck. "I... thank you, Mrs. Eliasberg. For everything."
"Any time, Your Highness." She was already turning back to her work. "Though next time, perhaps we'll teach you about collar stays. Seems you could use the help."
Harald followed Jakob toward the stairs, arms full of clean and pressed uniforms, wondering how it was possible to feel both seen and protected at the same time.