Fit for a Queen

by Nicole Burnham

  Daniela reached the exterior door of the palace, tapped the keypad to release the lock, then used her hip to push inside the cool building.

  Now that she’d finished with the mundane part of her task, she could finally move to the meat of the project: sorting the outfits the queen had worn to public events. This would be the fun part. She’d inspect each piece, arrange for any needed cleaning and repairs, photograph it, and gather information on when the queen had worn it. Finally, she’d write a description and history for the item. When she finished, her summaries would be compiled into a coffee table book commissioned by the king especially for the event, and would be included in the price of the auction ticket for those who attended. Additional copies would be sold at bookstores and gift shops throughout the country as collector’s items.

  Excitement thrummed through her at the prospect of the book. If done well, it could raise as much money as the auction itself.

  Daniela turned down one narrow hall then another before reaching the staircase that led to the king’s private residence. She switched the bag from Parioli into her left hand, keyed in her code, then let herself through the door once the lock released.

  Motion sensors tripped the stairwell lights as she climbed. Alone in the confined space, Daniela caught a whiff of fresh rye bread emanating from the bag and her stomach gurgled in response. Much as she wanted to dive in to work, lunch demanded her attention first. She imagined Roy was hungry by now, too.

  He seemed to have made as much progress as she had. Despite facing sheet after sheet of dark wallpaper that Daniela suspected predated the use of modern adhesives, Roy had managed to clear the two longest walls and had started the third. The wall across from the queen’s rooms had required multiple passes when it was discovered that another, much older layer of wallpaper remained beneath the current one. The palace historian hadn’t been quiet when she’d come to photograph the once-hidden wall coverings, oohing and aahing over the design, which she believed had been hand painted in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. Daniela had been typing at the queen’s desk as the historian, a woman who introduced herself as Annabella Pennati, waxed poetic about the paper itself, describing how wallpaper was used in various settings such as dining rooms and family spaces during that era, and she’d stated that it was wonderful to have such a specimen, even if it was too damaged to be restored. Daniela had overheard Roy tell Annabella he wasn’t sure it was possible to remove what remained in large sections due to its age and composition, but that if he could save pieces of any size, he’d send them to her office.

  Daniela suspected Roy wasn’t as enamored of the paper as the historian, but she appreciated that the contractor had listened attentively and had given Annabella as much time as she wished to photograph the discovery.

  Daniela had thought it unusual when she’d learned that the task of refurbishing the great room was given to an individual instead of a team, let alone to an individual from outside the palace. As with Sarcaccia’s royal palace, La Rocca had its own maintenance staff to handle everything from plumbing mishaps to blown fuses to floorboard replacement. However, given the fact Roy was working in the king’s private rooms, just as she was, she supposed it made sense to limit access. But when Roy offered the samples to the historian without being asked—an offer which meant extra work, given the care with which he’d need to remove the antique paper—Daniela realized why the king had singled out Roy for the prestigious job. Few contractors would be so conscientious.

  She continued to think about the painter as she ascended the stairs. He seemed close to her age, maybe a few years older. He kept to himself and worked without music, even over headphones. Whenever she arrived in the morning or left in the evening, he exchanged niceties, but kept his painter’s cap low, which made it hard to meet his eyes and make any sort of connection. Other than when he greeted Miroslav each day when the guard made his rounds, the only glimpse she’d had into Roy’s personality was when she’d overheard his conversation with the historian.

  A strange feeling crept over her, sending a tingle along the nape of her neck as she climbed. There was a moment during that discussion where she had a flash of recognition, as if she’d heard a snippet of the same conversation with the same man, discussing history. Or architecture. Daniela had moved from the queen’s desk to the sofa, where she’d left her notepad. She was in the midst of scribbling a reminder to pick up tweezers so she could untangle a few of the necklaces from the drawer when Roy had laughed, drawing her attention. She’d stopped writing, startled by the sound.

  Then he’d spoken, and a feeling of familiarity washed over her. What was it he’d said?

  Daniela grimaced as she reached the landing at the top of the stairwell, frustrated that she couldn’t remember. It was something about the design in the wallpaper, which was a painting of a mountain scene. No, not a mountain. A jungle. Jungle birds. That was it. Annabella Pennati had explained that jungle birds were a popular motif during that period, and Roy had responded that it made sense, given that Europeans were exploring Central and South America in greater numbers at that time, then returning home with sketches of what they’d seen. A few birds had even been captured and brought back for study.

  Daniela had been all over Europe and to parts of North Africa, and had seen a good chunk of the midwestern United States when she’d done a semester abroad in Michigan, but she’d never spent time in a jungle. Why she’d find jungle birds familiar, she had no clue. But there had been a quality to Roy’s speech that gave her the distinct impression she’d heard that voice discussing jungle birds before.

  It made no sense. She’d dismissed it in the moment, but it niggled at her now.

  She solidified her grip on the bag and bottles, then entered her code a final time at the door to King Eduardo’s residence. She passed through the entry hall into the great room. No sign of Roy. Her gaze flashed to the double doors to the queen’s suite, but they were closed, just as she’d left them. If he’d gone to his van, she should have passed him, either on the stairs or in the employee lot after entering the gate.

  “Lunch is served,” she called out.

  For several seconds, there was silence. She considered the French doors to the king’s study, then swung her attention toward the king’s bedroom just as Roy emerged with a bucket in one hand.

  He stopped short. “You’re back.”

  “I just arrived.”

  “Oh, good. I was afraid you’d been waiting.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I can’t hear much from back there. Feels wrong, using the king’s personal bathroom to empty and fill buckets, but the only other choice is to go to the far end of the hallway and be in and out the main door, using the keypad all day. Miroslav wasn’t keen on having me traipse through the hall carrying a bucket.”

  It was the longest string of words she’d heard Roy put together, even when he’d spoken with the historian. As if sensing her wonder, he lowered his chin a fraction, shielding his eyes with the brim of his cap. She had the impression they were brown, though she couldn’t swear it. They’d been deep set. Intelligent. That much she’d caught without having to consciously study him.

  Odd. He didn’t strike her as the timid sort. Then again, his job meant he worked alone for hours and days on end. She’d met people throughout her life who worked in similar conditions. Some chose the career path because they derived joy from the work product itself, which for a painter, would be the gradual transformation of a room. Others were attracted to the solitude it provided. Perhaps the latter applied and Roy wasn’t so much timid as he was the kind of person who felt most at ease in his own company.

  “I was given access to the queen’s bathroom,” she told him, hoping to smooth over the uncomfortable moment. “It’s connected to the king’s bathroom through a locked door. I enter through the queen’s closet. As you said, it’s easier than having to go all the way down the hall, but it feels like a violation. As if I’m sneaking into a room that’s off limit
s.”

  “I assumed that’s where the mystery door in the king’s bedroom went. I’ve heard, ah, water running.”

  He couldn’t hide the hitch in his voice. Now she was the uncomfortable one. Had he heard her using the restroom?

  No, she wouldn’t think about that. Instead, she turned toward the sofa, which he’d moved to the far side of the room and covered with a sheet. The coffee table was covered and pushed against it, but it wouldn’t be hard to shift and create space to sit. “Would that work for lunch?”

  “Ah, sure.”

  He sounded surprised. When she offered lunch, did he think she planned to drop off the bag beside his toolbox and then walk into the suite to eat by herself?

  On the other hand, he didn’t sound bothered by the prospect and followed close behind as she walked to the sofa. Before she could set down the bag, he said, “I’ve got this,” then bent and moved the coffee table.

  “Thank you.” Once he’d finished, she placed the bag in a clean spot, withdrew the napkins, then laid out one for each of them and piled the extras in the middle of the table. She spun the water bottles so he could see the labels. “I have plain and sparkling. Which do you prefer?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “To me, either.”

  “Plain, then.”

  She handed him the bottle, placed the sparkling water next to her napkin, then dug for the sandwiches as he walked around the coffee table and parked himself on top of the white sheet at the far end of the sofa.

  “Hope you don’t mind sitting on this,” he said. “I shook it out and did a pass with the vacuum before I left last night, so it shouldn’t be that dusty, but no guarantees.”

  “I clean up.” She set his sandwich in front of him, then swept a hand down the front of her pants. “I only wore a suit the first day because I had a meeting with King Eduardo. Can’t crawl around a closet wearing a skirt.”

  His finger slipped against the paper as he was in the midst of unwrapping his sandwich, nearly causing him to drop it. “No, I imagine not.”

  While his voice was perfectly level, his throat rippled with a hard swallow and his eyes remained locked on his sandwich. While he might enjoy working alone, he also enjoyed the company of women. She had zero doubt he’d conjured the image of her crawling in a skirt.

  Daniela locked away that bit of knowledge and said, “You were right about the rye. I smelled it the moment I walked into the place. The woman at the counter was slicing a loaf for a sample tray. Once I tried it…sold.”

  “What did you get?”

  “The Spanish ham. Not what I’d normally order, but given my taste test of the rye, I took your word that it’s delicious, too.”

  Roy folded his wrapper to use as a plate, placed his sandwich in the center, then unscrewed the cap on his water and set it aside before spreading his napkin across his knees as if he were eating in a restaurant and dressed accordingly, rather than wearing coveralls in the corner of a work zone.

  While she finished opening her wrapper and flattened it on the coffee table, he flipped the bread on top of his sandwich, checked its contents, then glanced her way, waiting for her to start eating before taking his first bite. She almost raised a brow at him, as if to ask whether he was questioning her ability to take a simple sandwich order by checking it before daring to lift it to his mouth. But then she caught the full flavor of the ham, Swiss, and freshly baked bread as it hit her tongue.

  She closed her eyes. Swallowed.

  “Acceptable?”

  Acceptable was a gross understatement. “This is the best sandwich I’ve had in a long time.”

  “When done right, the simplest food is the best.”

  She took another bite and nodded her agreement. Queen Fabrizia worked long hours, which meant Daniela’s hours were even longer. She frequently ate at her desk. While appetizing, even the most basic sandwich from Sarcaccia’s royal kitchen was prepared with the extras guests expected when they dined at a palace. Unusual ingredients, sprigs of fresh herbs, a drizzle of sauce that likely took an hour to create. From time to time, even the queen said it was too much.

  At the other end of the spectrum, on her busiest days Daniela managed on snacks she tossed into her handbag before leaving her flat. Granola bars, apples, crackers. If she bothered to pack a sandwich, it was a basic turkey and lettuce that could survive being wedged in her bag between her wallet and sunglasses. Here in San Rimini, she’d bagged a similar lunch concocted from items purchased at the convenience store adjacent to her hotel.

  It wasn’t heaven on rye.

  “Now I’m going to want this every day,” she said in mock complaint.

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Costs more than packing a lunch. Takes more time, too. I have to run the security gauntlet and show everyone my pass.”

  “Getting delivery would save time, but not the cost.” He took a long drink from his water bottle. One side of his mouth hitched as he returned the bottle to the coffee table. “On the bright side, with weather like today’s, it probably felt good to get out and walk.”

  “It did. The sunshine went straight through to my bones. Felt fantastic.”

  He aimed a look at the windows, which didn’t offer enough light to compensate for the size of the great room or its bleak wallpaper. She hoped King Eduardo had selected a light paint color. It would make a world of difference.

  “It’s a nice route to the shop, especially when you’re between buildings and can see the bay,” Roy said as he used his thumb to wipe a spot of mustard from the side of his sandwich. “The ocean breeze comes off the water and right up the hillside. Great for clearing your mind, especially after being in here all day.”

  She picked a loose corner of bread before it could fall to the coffee table, then popped it into her mouth. As she did, something in his words sent another slice of recognition through her. The same feeling she’d had when she heard him discuss the jungle birds. As if she’d had this conversation with him before, or a similar one.

  She watched Roy discreetly as he ate. What little hair she could see beneath his painter’s cap was dark brown and shorn close, which didn’t help her place him, and she couldn’t get a good look at his eyes and forehead without her curiosity being obvious. Not that it would help. She didn’t know anyone in San Rimini aside from those she’d met since her arrival at the palace or during the Duomo’s rededication ceremony.

  She was certain she hadn’t met Roy at the Duomo. Even if he’d had some reason to be there, the sense of familiarity wasn’t the same. This was distant, like hearing from a childhood neighbor or classmate.

  Her gaze drifted from his neat blue work shirt to the straps of his gray coveralls. His security badge wasn’t pinned anywhere she could see. A last name might jog her memory, or convince her she was imagining things.

  “You’re not wearing your pass,” she said, striving to sound casual. “Miroslav will have something to say about that.”

  “He never does his patrol before two o’clock.”

  “You say ‘never’ based on less than a week’s experience. That’s bold.”

  “The pass catches on the ladder. I keep it in my pocket so I can clip it on when I leave the residence to go to my van or pick up lunch. Miroslav is loud enough when he enters that I can snap it in place before he sees it’s missing. Even if he arrives before two o’clock.”

  “Very risky, Roy.” She smiled as she said it. It came out flirtatiously, which she hadn’t intended. But what bothered her more was that, again, she was smacked with a strong feeling of déjà vu. This time, it was at her own words. Something about risks.

  “I’d rather apologize to Miroslav than tear it apart on the ladder.” He gestured toward her pass with his sandwich. “Miroslav made a point of telling me that the door codes are individualized so security knows who’s using each door and when. It’s the same for the strip inside the pass. When the guards scan it at the gate, our photo and information pops up on their scr
een. Anything that individualized is probably a pain to replace.”

  She had to concede the point. Security wasn’t so different in Sarcaccia. “In that case, I don’t blame you for keeping it in your pocket. Having to ask Miroslav for a new one would give me nightmares.”

  “You’d be fine. He likes you. Me, not so much,” Roy said as he finished the last bites of his sandwich. He ate with gusto, as if he’d skipped breakfast and the long hours of stripping wallpaper had drained his energy stores.

  “I’ve bent over backward to ensure he’s comfortable with me. I think it’s working, but I wouldn’t say he likes me. And I wouldn’t say he dislikes you. What he dislikes is disorder, even if it’s perceived disorder.” She swept a hand to encompass the room. “He’ll warm to you once this starts coming together. In the meantime, half-peeled walls and furniture out of its usual spot make him edgy.”

  Roy’s head angled and he almost—almost—raised his eyes to meet hers. Instead, he paused, then balled his sandwich wrapper and flicked it into the bag. “You know, you may be right. You’re perceptive.”