34
Epilogue
ALMA
Jacob and I shamelessly exploit a loophole in Mama’s North Sea Confederation that permits open travel between Sondmark and Vorburg. He has never been stopped by border guards on the way to Max’s cottage.
I pull up to the small house and hit the brakes in a wash of gravel, leaping from the car. Mist touches my face as I stow my keys, and before I can knock on the door, I’m yanked under the low-hanging eaves around the corner. I emit a little squeak. The purse drops to the ground, and I have just enough time to throw my arms around his neck before Jacob’s mouth settles on mine.
His kisses are starving. “A whole week,” he grumps, tipping my chin up, punctuating each thought with a deeper kiss. “Just texting. Video chats. Voice messages. Phone calls. I’m not kissing you anywhere near enough.”
My fingernails scrape the back of his head, and a shiver works across his shoulders. We are blind to the fact that anyone couldwalk by. I work myself more firmly into his arms with a sigh. If we have to spend the whole evening in the company of others, I’m not going to hurry this. I forget everything until the honk of a car horn makes me jump. I peer around Jacob’s shoulder, absentmindedly brushing sawdust from his sleeve.
“Who invited Freja and Oskar?” I mutter. Jacob kisses my temple, and a laugh rumbles through his chest.
“I did,” Clara says, tipping her head around the door. She looks at the complex tangle of hands and bodies I comprise half of, and clears her throat. “Could you guys keep things tame for company?”
“Genuinely unsure,” I answer.
“Come see my progress,” Jacob says, dragging me into the cottage. He’s been constructing a built-in bookshelf and window seat for Max, and though he’s tidied his work away, the smell of fresh-sawn lumber tickles my nose.
“You couldn’t get Ella to come?” Freja asks, absently kissing my cheek and handing a bottle of wine off to Max.
Oskar peels her out of her coat and hangs it in a closet. Jacob is hard on his heels with mine, and he exchanges a few words of Sondish with Oskar, proud to show off his unbroken DosParlance streak.
“She’s been busy, and said she wasn’t ready to face so many couples. Give her time,” I tell Freja, wandering into the kitchen.
The food is excellent. Clara tried homemade pasta, and Oskar murmurs an offer to teach her how to do hand-rolledpanze, a traditional Pavian dish.
Jacob eats with his left hand, anchoring an arm around my waist, and brushing the cleft with the edge of his thumb. I thought we’d managed to be discreet, but at the end of the meal—after talk of naval deployments, museum funding, and Jacob’s upcoming investiture—Clara stands. “If you two are going to benauseating at the dinner table, you’re going to do the dishes,” she laughs.
“Fine by me,” Jacob says, snapping on a pair of sunshine yellow gloves and leaning over to kiss my neck.
We’ve finished every knife and serving spoon when Clara steps in, her face unreadable. “Alma, you need to check your phone.”
I wipe my hands and unsilence the notifications.Ping. Ping, ping ping.This is never good news. Did someone catch a video of Jacob crossing the border? Did a forensic photographer identify Jacob on the landing?
Jacob slips an arm around my waist, his hand resting on my hip, and I lean into him. Whatever it is, it’s not going to change what I feel. I’m good. This is good.
No, not good. The best.
It scares me how near I was to accepting Pietor’s opal ring and his organic baker. These days, my prayers include profound gratitude for Italian Bikini Model Philanthropists.
“There’s a link on PAPZ,” Clara says, directing me to the notorious gossip site as the others crowd into the room.
My fingers fumble with the search bar, but finally the page pops up. How bad can it be? Another replay of Jacob’s daring rescue? A sour drop hits my stomach when I see my name in the headline. The press has had a lot of material from the House of Wolffe, and I’m no longer immune to negative stories and hand-wringing polls.
“Grand Duke’s Sexy Beach Clean-up: Cheater in Paradise.” The pictures attached to the article are the same ones that fractured my engagement to Pietor.
I murmur aloud, “New photos shared by ReadHe user @trashpandaprincess showing Pietor, Grand Duke of Himmelstein romping with internationally famous philanthropist-model Gabriella Campana, shed new light on the break-up of Princess Alma’s royal engagement…”
My mouth drops open. News coverage in the last few weeks has been savage, and I never expected to get my reputation back.
I lift my head. “Mama wouldn’t have leaked this, no matter how bad things got.”
My sisters nod. Mama’s best tactic is frozen silence and this—the pictures, the ReadHe caption that went with them (“It was over in December.”)—is steaming hot tea.
Jacob reads aloud over my shoulder. “Citizens of both Vorburg and Sondmark, rooting for a romantic development between Vorburg’s Crown Prince Jacob and Sondmark’s Princess Alma, have new reason for hope.” He gives a low chuckle and pulls me against his chest, arms crossing over my waist.
“Who is @trashpandaprincess?” I ask. “How does she know any of this? And what is a trash panda?”
“It’s a social media thing,” Freja answers. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that she cares about social media. “They’re describing a raccoon.”
“Racoon? Who—” I begin.
Jacob beats us to it, his laugh filling the cottage. “You seriously don’t know?” He bumps his chin. “That’s Ella.”
