I’ve never met a woman as difficult as Justine. And I’ve never felt the need to impress anyone as much as I do her. It’s not just because she’s my wife—though I’m sure that’s part of it. Something about her—her stubbornness, maybe, or her determination to keep walls up around her—seems to inspire something in me. The more she tries to hide, the more I want to tear those walls right down. It’s an infuriating and intoxicating spell.

She’s a mystery to solve, a tangle of spirited emotion I want to unravel. She might be angry and distrustful toward me, but her love for her people has made it clear that there’s a deep, compassionate heart beneath her prickly exterior. And I find myself desperately wanting to know how I would have that compassionate heart turned on me.

Justine doesn’t try to pull away from me as I lead her out of the room. Maybe she’s tired of arguing, or maybe I’m finally getting through to her. I still don’t entirely believe that she doesn’t have lingering feelings for that James Camden bastard, but I’m not going down without a fight.

No matter how much we argue, there is still one way I know how to reach her. And tonight has offered me the perfect opportunity.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks as I lead her through the palace.

“It’s a surprise,” I tell her.

I take her outside and down the front steps. A couple of the guards eye us as we leave, but none of them will try and stop me, not if Princess Justine is with me.

The night air is cold—I wouldn’t be surprised if we see our first snowfall of the year soon. The wind whips around us, plastering our clothes to our bodies and sweeping Justine’s long hair across her face. She pushes it out of her eyes and tucks it—only somewhat successfully—behind an ear. She looks so lovely I stop breathing for a moment.

I spent most of the day helping with the last bit of work on the bridge. The damage was bad, but the repair progress has been swift—because of the people, if not the royal family. Justine, like I, has worked herself to the bone doing what she can to help, but I’ve been shocked by how little King Maximilian and the other members of the royal family have done. As far as I can tell, far more money and care is being put into repairing superficial damages to the palace rather than the crucial infrastructure repairs in the city itself. And Maximilian straight up left Rosvalia last week, as if he couldn’t be bothered with his own country right now.

Anger burns inside me just thinking about it. My father is a stern man, like Maximilian, but he’s never given anyone reason to doubt his dedication to our country and its people. He would do anything for Montovia, as would my brother Andrew, the heir to the throne. The only one here who seems to care that much is Justine, and she’s already told me that she has no actual desire to be queen.

Even though she’s exactly the sort of queen her people need, I think, looking over at her. The one they deserve. She has the compassion, the intelligence, and the fire to protect these people.

And her people love her for it, too. In fact, when I heard a man grumbling about the fact that the royal family still presumed to hold their international arts summit, another quickly shut him down, defending Justine and explaining that their princess knew that the event would bring much-needed money and economic support to Rosvalia. The people of this country put a great amount of faith in her.

Tonight, though, isn’t about money or need or faith. It’s about taking a breath, a moment, in the middle of all of this worry and work.

I can already hear the music from here, and with it, the sounds of voices and laughter.

Justine looks up at me, surprise crossing her features.

“I’d almost forgotten,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. “I’ve been so busy with the conference…”

I grin, quickening my step. She doesn’t resist, hurrying along beside me toward the main square of the city.

Rosvalia doesn’t seem to have many of the great, days-long festivals like we do in Montovia, but that doesn’t mean the people don’t like to celebrate. Today is the feast day of the city’s founding saint, and over time it also became the day the citizens of this country celebrate the end of harvest and the unofficial beginning of winter. Several of the men I was working with invited me to attend, but I politely declined, thinking I’d be too exhausted and distracted to enjoy myself. But now that Justine is with me…

We turn the final corner. The music is coming from a large building on the far side of the square, though plenty of people have poured out into the streets, laughing and drinking and dancing. One of the men I met this week told me the building—called the ‘Hall’ by most—was originally built in the twelve hundreds, though obviously it’s been restored and renovated many times over the years. Many people believe it to be the oldest building in the city, perhaps in all of Rosvalia. It’s often used as the hub for major events in the city.

Through the clouded glass, I can see musicians playing and people dancing. And judging by the smells, there are vendors selling food inside, too. The people streaming in and out of the Hall don’t look like people who’ve spent the last few days struggling to rebuild huge parts of their city—for tonight, at least, they are taking the time to celebrate what they do have, to rejoice in the fact that they’re alive. And that’s exactly what I want us to do, too.

“What do you say, Princess?” I ask her. “Do you care to dance?”

She’s paused at the edge of the square, and she suddenly looks uncertain. “The royal family doesn’t usually attend these sorts of events,” she says. “They’re for the people.”

“I’ll have you know I was personally invited,” I say, grinning. “By seven or eight separate people. They’ll be happy to see you here, Princess. They appreciate the work you’ve done these past few weeks, especially when the rest of your family has hidden themselves away.”

She still looks unsure. But before I can try and convince her further, a young man—who’s had a few drinks, by the look of him—notices us.

“Your Highness!” he says, attempting a clumsy bow. “I mean, Your Highnesses..esses…” His tongue tangles over the word.

Other people turn toward us, and a small cheer goes up. One of the men I worked with earlier—Marcell—gives an especially joyful grunt and strides right over, pushing a full mug of beer into my hand.

“I knew you’d come,” he says, smiling through his full, curly beard. “And Princess.” He gives a quick bow. “A pleasure to see you.”

Justine’s surprise starts to fade, replaced by an uncertain smile. “The honor is mine. I’m happy to be here.”

I offer her the drink, but she gives a small shake of her head, so I take a swig instead. No reason to let good beer go to waste, and I’ve learned that Rosvalian beer is incredible—possibly better than Montovian beer, but I would never admit that out loud.

I pull Justine through the crowd, and those that notice us show nothing but pleasure at our presence. Finally, we manage to make it inside the Hall.

The building is packed. The center of the floor is full of people dancing to the music coming from the ten-person band against the far wall. The edges of the room are lined with stalls selling food or drink, and all around us people are eating, talking, and singing—not always in time with the tune. The air in here is warm, but not stuffy—in fact, it’s a pleasure after the nippy wind outside. I chug down the rest of my beer, and before I can lower it again, someone has taken the empty mug out of my hand.

“This is wonderful,” I say with a laugh, looking around. “Marcell said you Rosvalians knew how to party, but this is better than I expected.”

Justine’s cheeks are pink, but I can’t tell whether it’s from the warmth of the Hall or because of a flash of embarrassment—for once, she looks like she feels out of place. But the brightness in her eyes belies any misgivings she might be experiencing. She looks as excited by this festival as I feel.

“Care to dance?” I ask her.

“Not yet,” she says. Her eyes are roaming over the room. “First, I want some food. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“I’m not going to say no to that,” I tell her, weaving through the crowd behind her. “Where should we begin? I see some spiced buns over there.”

“I’m thinking something a little more substantial.” She grips my hand and drags me toward a stall in the corner selling smoked meats and sausages. My mouth waters just looking at them.

The vendor’s eyes widen when he recognizes us. “Your Highness! Princess! Please, please—have whatever you like.” He spreads his hands across his wares.

“We’ll take two of the spicy bratwurst,” Justine says. She looks up at me. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“No doubt I will.”

Within moments, we each have a fat, juicy sausage in our hands, and we duck into a quiet corner of the room to eat them in peace. I watch the dancers for a moment, then turn back to Justine. She must really have been hungry—half of her sausage is already gone.

After a moment, she realizes I’m watching her. Her eyes flash as she looks up at me.

“It’s rude to stare at people, you know,” she says.

“Forgive me, Princess. It’s just that sausages are so…suggestive.”

Immediately, her cheeks go bright red, and for a moment I think she’s going to slap me upside the face with the sausage still in her hand.

“Very classy, Your Highness,” she mutters. “How old are you again? Thirteen?”

“Believe me, no matter how old a man gets, he never forgets about a certain part of his anatomy.” I laugh. “Especially when he’s standing next to a woman with a mouth so—ye-owww!” I jerk away from her as her heel slams down on the top of my foot.

“Eat,” she says, but there’s humor in her eyes. “Or you’ll be the only one touching your sausage for the rest of your life.”

I feign a frown at the sausage, then make a suggestive gesture. To my delighted surprise, Justine actually laughs out loud, though she tries to stifle it when I grin at her.

“Eat,” she insist.

That’s a step in the right direction, at least, I think, still grinning as I take a bite of my sausage. Perhaps she’s not as opposed to our marriage as she was suggesting earlier.

After we’re done with our sausages, we make a circle of the room, trying anything thrust at us—buns, cakes, roasted nuts, tiny meat pies. I also manage to go through another mug of beer and two glasses of mulled wine—which seem to come out of nowhere, handed to me and then carried away as soon as they’re empty—and Justine has a glass or two of the mulled wine as well. By the time we’ve circled the room, we’re both red-cheeked and laughing, caught up in the energy of this place. My hand is twined through Justine’s, and somehow that feels natural. Wonderful.

Belly full and spirits high, I feel as hopeful as I have since arriving here in Rosvalia. This is what I hoped we might become, Justine and I. All of our disagreements and secrets seem far away, as does James Camden.

I frown. I’d managed to forget about that bastard for a little while, but just the thought of his name brings feelings of burning jealousy back. My fingers tighten involuntarily on Justine’s.

“What is it?” she asks, looking up at me.

Good God, she looks so beautiful right now. Her face is bright with color, her eyes alive and shining. Right now, at least, her worries and cares appear to be forgotten—there’s none of the usual tightness or concern in her expression. This is how it always could be between us, I tell myself. If we let it.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “Nothing at all.” I force myself to grin again. “Now, though, I think I’d like to dance. What do you say?”