Page 3 of The Midnight Princess

“This is your first time in Sondmark.” The statement is a mess—half question, half declaration. I’m never this unfocused, but his eyes are gray.

“Yes. I’m touring the city tomorrow. What parts should I hit?”

I wander to the window, tapping against the pane. Remnants of the storm swirl around the palace grounds.

“Tourists go to the harbor. You can take selfies with the statue of Horst the Invader, and there’s a cheese market where the workers wear folk costumes. They’ll charge you double if you don’t speak Sondish.”

I’m exhausted by the effort of organizing my thoughts and reining my tongue. The air coming through the glass is cooling my skin, but I want more of it. I twist the handle and crack thelong window a couple of centimeters, holding it against the gusts of wind.

“But?” He wanders to my side.

“But what?”

“But you think I shouldn’t waste my time.”

How does he know what I think? I put a palm to my flushed cheek. “The harbor is really nice,” I insist. “Like a postcard.”

“Postcards aren’t real,” he submits, his voice a soothing touch.

It’s true. Handsel’s oldest quarters are a thin façade of a Sondmark that doesn’t exist anymore.

Cool air swirls around us. “Where else should I go?”

“Roslav Cathedral.” I tap another pane to indicate the part of the old city miraculously untouched during the occupation. “You’ll get to see the wooden throne of Harald Dragonslayer. It’s where we hold coronations.”

He turns his head. “And royal weddings?”

I clap my hand over his mouth, palm soft against his lips. “We must not speak of royal weddings.”

I still for the space of several heartbeats, hearing the roar in my ears, registering a pressure in my chest. Gradually, the sensation shifts as his eyes hold mine. Warmth licks along my forearm and I snatch my hand back before it spreads.

“It’s getting close to midnight,” he says, looking out the windows, watching the yellow light spill from the ballroom. “You’re missing the party.”

“I’m not missing anything.”

“No Sondish traditions? Am I giving you a year of bad luck by keeping you here instead of doing the chicken dance when the chimes strike twelve?”

“The Handsel Hustle,” I say with a giggle.

His lips press into a smile, and he leans against the glass with one of his big shoulders. “Whatdoyou people do?”

You people.This man is no diplomat. “We fry dough and roll it in sugar—” I halt.

“And?”

I release the window latch. “There’s a kiss to bring luck. And then we sing ‘Wish You Health, Money, and Love.’”

“A kiss for luck? You have to get back in there for that.”

Vede.Pieter again. My broken engagement again. Failing my mother again. I swallow away the tears, but the effort takes a toll. “I told you, New Year’s kisses are always disappointing. Anyway, there’s no one to kiss.” There. I said it—the truth, even if it’s to a stranger.

His gaze sharpens, and he gives me a slow smile. “No one?”

My stomach flutters, and I blink several times, wanting to parse out his meaning. I could if I were sharp, sober, and clear. But if I were those things, I’d be back in the ballroom, thirsty, humorless, and duty bound.

Beyond the glass, fireworks begin to burst over the city, anticipating the New Year by a few seconds. I emit a squeak of delight. The explosions set off more blasts until the whole valley comes alive with spiraling light, crackling booms, and screaming whistles. Farewell, demons of the old year.

“It’s the wrong time,” I remember.