Page 28 of The Midnight Princess

I lean back in the dining chair. “I don’t understand the fuss. Food is for eating.”

A crease tucks her cheek. “One of your kings was poisoned over dinner.”

“A rival to the throne?”

“It was his wife’s lover.”

I catch a brief smile and match it. “No one will care if I make mistakes. They’ll accept that I’m not perfect.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Your public face has to be flawless. If it is, you can protect your most precious commodity.”

“What’s that?”

“The life you have when no one is looking. Whenever you’re walking a rope line or in a friendly interview, you can be tempted to disclose personal details,” she goes on. “But once a piece of information is given away, there’s no getting it back. It’ll show up in tabloid articles written after you die. It’ll shape thenarrative about your character and reign. A good rule to live by is that you are a fortress, and you don’t drop the drawbridge for just anybody.”

I grin. “Should I keep a cauldron of pitch boiling over the fire?”

She glows with an approving aura. “Ideally.”

“How long before you dropped the drawbridge with your fiancé?” I regret the question as soon as it leaves my mouth.

Her eyes flicker. “Every relationship you form will be different.”

I prop my elbow on the table. “You just did it,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“You dodged that question. I was too direct, again?”

I swear she’s relieved. “It’s good that you recognize it.”

“Who do you let in?” Boiling pitch wobbles on its stand. “I mean, who should I let in?” Alma likes it when I give her a chance to tell me how to behave.

“Whom. Your oldest school friends and your family are the safest.”

“No can do, boss. I don’t have siblings, I’ve never known my father, and I can’t think of a topic my oldest friends would rather talk about less than the unbearable burdens of wealth and privilege.”

She bites her lip even though she wants to laugh. “You’ll find your people.”

“I have.”

The clock chimes, and Alma begins gathering her things. “Hmm?”

I made it through another day, torn between wanting to slam myself behind a door and pour cold water over my head, and wanting to stay as close to her as I am now. “You can be my people.”

She stands abruptly. “I’m neither an old friend nor family.”

“True.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “But you’re not going to run off to the tabloids if you find out I sleep in one-piece winter flannels,” I say, following her to the door.

Her eyes dance in a way that makes me want to go through each map and atlas in the palace, defacing every sign of Himmelstein.

“Stop,” she says. Then, as though her better judgment has succumbed to a beating, she asks, “Doyou sleep in one-piece flannel underwear?”

I click my tongue. “Wouldn’t you like to know. That question was far too direct, Your Royal Highness.”

Her lips twitch until, finally, she laughs. In the space of a single heartbeat, we shift from unwilling tutor and difficult student to something that might be strong enough to bear the weight of trust.

“Stop avoiding your sitting room.” I exhale, leaning back against the doorway. “I feel like I chased you out.”