Page 81 of The Midnight Princess

“The new ones. You have to learn how to move in them, in public.”

“Oh. An assignment.” He shoves a hand into his pocket. “Sure.”

23

Good Nunneries

JACOB

“Vest or no vest?” I call through the connecting door.

“I told you,” she replies, “use your best judgment. Dressing for the party is tricky. It’s a private event, but it will also be full of royals. I want to see what you think is appropriate.”

“Are you laughing at me?” I respond, scratching my neck at the closet full of clothes—the old Jacob pushed to the side.

In other circumstances, they would be enough to last me through the end of my natural life, but Karl tells me I’ll be spending my whole stipend each quarter because it wouldn’t do to have the country see me in the same leather belt too many times.

“Jacob?” she prods.

My hand hovers over the ties. No tie, I decide. The party is not formal. “I’m ready.”

Her muted voice is doubtful. “Let me see.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

I hear a low laugh as I swing the door open. I take a drag of air, and even without a tie, my throat is suddenly tight. Alma is wearing a black dress, not too short, not too long, and her hair is pulled to the side, exposing the line of her neck. I want to nuzzle into it and find out what she smells like up close.

I want to tell her that it’s insane to throw herself away on Pietor, a man who wouldn’t cut down a forest of briars or fight off a dragon to be next to her. My eyes flick to her hand. No ring.

She takes in my appearance, and her eyes dance. “I want you to explain the reasoning behind this look.” I’ve gotten it wrong somehow, but I don’t care because she’s gorgeous when she laughs.

I pick up one of my feet. “I’m wearing boots because it’s snowing.”

She brushes past me, the air stirring with the scent of flowers. “Are you going on a hike? No. Also, this is a Pavian party, which always means there’s always a risk of dancing. Boots off.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and tug the laces, dropping the black boots with a thump.

“Socks, too,” she says, rummaging in the closet and glancing over her shoulder. “Those are too thick to wear with dress shoes. Tell me about the shirt.”

“A white shirt goes everywhere?” I say, wandering to her side.

She leans away for a critical look, tugging the seams at my waist. “Technically, yes, but it’s sending it into formal territory. Remember, Oskar’s relations will be there too, and we want to blend.”

“I don’t blend,” I say, undoing the buttons on my shirt. The only place I look remotely at home is in the shop or back in Blackberry.

I tug the hem out of my waistband and peel the shirt off my shoulders with a grin. “Why is it that everytime you see my virile, hairy chest, you’re struck dumb?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” The words are cool but her cheeks are flushed. She hands me a striped Oxford, her face averted, and I shrug it on, doing it up one button at a time.

“Pants?” I ask.

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.

I pull on dark dress socks, slipping into leather shoes the color of cherry wood, double-knotting them for security. She hands me the waistcoat that goes along with the suit pants, and after I do up the buttons, she brushes my hands away. I stand stock still, as she slips a button from the hole. The pink on her cheeks has traveled as far as the tips of her ears. “Leave the bottom button undone.” Her chin lifts but her eyes don’t. “Always.”

Taking a breath, she crosses the room, returning to hold rolled ties near my chin. “This one with a Windsor knot,” she says, handing me one of her choices.

“I only know half-Windsor.” Every boy who ever sat in a church pew withOmaGardner was expected to know a half-Windsor. “Anyway, won’t it be too formal?”