Page 57 of The Midnight Princess

“No bother,” I answer, reaching for the clasp of my necklace, fumbling for the catch.

“Nice party?”

I feel like a bubble of glass emerging from a hot furnace—malleable around him in a way a princess should never be. I can’t tell him the truth, so I coat something bland in frosting and hope he doesn’t know the difference.

“It’s an ordinary birthday party. Paper buntings and a cake.”

For such a big man, his smiles are soft. “Candles and ice cream, too?” he asks, standing behind me. He pushes my hands aside and finds the clasp of the necklace, fingers brushing sensitive skin. When it’s undone, he lets go, and it slides into my palm.

“It’s January.”

He shakes his head. “There’s never a wrong time for ice cream,” he says, settling onto the bench at the end of my bed.

I should shoo him out of here on the principle that Vorburg should not have such easy access to Sondmark, but part of me wants to crawl onto my bed, bare feet tucked up under my skirts, and talk about my day with someone who actually wants to know about it.

A memory surfaces from last spring. I had pulled up to a crosswalk while a primary school was having an animal parade, and I watched five-year-olds march past with homemade masks and tails tucked into the back waistbands of their trousers, singing a song about piglets as their teachers herded them out of traffic. I laughed the whole day, but when Pietor had asked mewhat I’d done, I dropped a few names of government ministers I’d met with. Even then I was editing myself for him, holding back the best part.

I don’t have to protect anything from Jacob. I swallow thickly and stare at my reflection, wondering where this certainty came from.

He knocks my knee with the back of his hand. “What else? Was your fiancé there?”

I want to tell him about Clara’s hard, determined expression and the way Caroline, failing to read the room, chose too many photos of Mama and Père looking at one another like people who had produced five children, open to the imminent possibility of producing a sixth.

“I’m getting ready for bed,” I say.

He lifts his hand.Be my guest.

“Okay,” I surrender. “Let me change first.”

I sweep off to my changing room, immediately filled with regret for not asking him to get my zipper started. But that would have been foolish in the same way that walking a tightrope over a venomous snake pit is foolish, I think, wrestling it open.

When I return, I’m wearing one of my full-length satin nightgowns, the blue robe billowing behind me as I walk.

His lounging posture jerks to attention. “What’s this?”

“This is what I sleep in.” I lift a challenging brow. “This is my room. If you’re not leaving, I’m not digging up some sweats just to make you feel comfortable.”

“I’m not mad.” He raises his palms but looks away. “Tell me about the party.”

I reach for the make-up remover. “We toasted the queen with champagne.”

“Drinking again?” he tuts.

I fire a cotton swab at his head, and he bats it away with a grin.

“You were talking to your mother, weren’t you?” I go on offense.

“She couldn’t sleep,” he says, satisfying the spirit of interest haunting the room.

I appear to be engrossed by the process of removing my eyeliner. He picks up a pile of knitting, puts his hand into a hat, and turns it this way and that, seeing the flaws.

“She lives in Vorburg—a small flat off Liberation Square.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is nice. It’s just large enough to host her book club.” His smile shifts.

“An English book club?”