Page 35 of The Midnight Princess

“Jacob,” she whispers, touching my shoulder.

I lift my eyes. “How many things do they expect me to change? I’m American. I’m Vorburgian. Dual citizenship is a thing in the year of our Lord twenty—”

“It isn’t for a crowned head of state.” She runs the tip of her tongue across her lip. “My grandmother went into labor with my uncle when she was on a state visit. Very unexpected. The host government had to designate the hospital room as extraterritorial so that he wouldn’t be born a citizen. He wasn’t even the heir.”

“What calamity will befall us if I cast a vote in Oregon’s third congressional district?”

She shrugs, lips pulling in apology. “Loyalties can’t be divided. Something always wins out.”

My fist drums lightly, restrained but rhythmic. “I’m here, aren’t I? I turned over my financial records to the government and shuttered my business. Doesn’t this look like I’m making this my top priority?”

The silence stretches, and I rake my hair back under her steady, critical gaze.

Finally, she clears her throat and looks back to her notes. “Do you want a real answer?”

I nod.

“We need to consider the message you’re sending.”

Understanding Alma is complicated by her royal politeness. “You mean my clothes?”

“Among other things.”

“I’m wearing a suit.” It wrinkles when you look at it wrong. “Isn’t this what you want?”

Her mouth pulls. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s about what your position demands. Every decision you make about your appearance tells a story.”

A knock sounds at the door and, without needing to be told, I straighten and pivot away like we’re double agents, passing state secrets.

She makes them wait until she’s collected herself, sharpening the edges of her princessness again. “Enter,” she calls.

Caroline holds the door, and Karl slides a box of binders onto the table I’m slouching against. (The Basics of Posture isn’t on the syllabus until next week.) I read the spines of each as they’re unpacked. Royal Men of Vorburg, Contemporary Royal Men, Influential European Men.

Every road was always going to lead to these binders. “They couldn’t leave me alone, could they?”

Alma’s tongue clicks. “Don’t be a baby. You know and I know that this”—she points a finger up and down and up my frame—“isn’t going to cut it. It says you think this whole thing is superficial and not worth bothering about.”

“Bravo, Your Royal Highness,” Karl interjects with a slow clap.

“It’s no time to start a war,” Caroline says, dipping into a curtsey and dragging him from the room. “Do ring if you need anything more. Sir. Ma’am.”

Alma and I are left with only the company of an ornate mantel clock announcing its presence with a soft tick, tick, tick.

“I’m bothering,” I grit out.

“Don’t lie to me. You look like you’re having as much fun as someone facing a government firing squad.”

“Is this supposed to be fun?”

Alma sighs, leaning back. She’s tired and letting me see it. “Why are you here?”

I could give her the truth but the whole of it is too big to swallow in one sitting. So I give her something small and easy to digest. “Once upon a time, a mommy and daddy didn’t love each other even a little.”

“Jacob,” she scolds. But her eyes dance.

10

Mystery Surgeon