ROYAL HOLIDAY
MCKENNA JAMES
COPYRIGHT© 2019 Royal Holiday by Mckenna James
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
COPYRIGHT© 2019 Royal Holiday by Mckenna James
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY MCKENNA JAMES
CHAPTER ONE
Rodrigo
There’s no place like home.
It had been years since I’d returned to Brooklandia, but it was nice to see that very little had changed in my time away. The downtown street market was as lively and vibrant as I remembered it. Even in the early morning chill, people bustled this way and that, eager to get on with the day’s business. A thin layer of frost still covered the red brick beneath the market’s feet, and my breath came out in the form of a silver cloud.
There was an excited buzz in the air, no doubt to the holidays fast approaching, accompanied with the sounds of jingling bells, wishes of good cheer, and the caroling of a small volunteer group that had set up for their Christmas performance at the marketplace’s center fountain. It hadn’t snowed yet, but the weather forecast was predicting a wonderfully white Christmas. That being said, my fellow countrymen knew that the holidays really didn’t begin until the Crown’s annual Midnight Magic Ball, which was always hosted two weeks prior to Christmas Eve. Only then did the countdown truly begin.
“Fresh eggs!” shouted a poultry farmer from next to her booth. She was bundled up in a puffy red winter coat, a checkered black and brown wool scarf wrapped around her neck and a bit of her face. “Collected this morning! Buy two cartons, get one free!”
I strolled past a couple of the vendors, admiring the brilliantly colored winter fruits and glazed pastries that they had for sale. The whole market smelled like gingerbread, peppermint, and fresh pine. I was glad to see that the old toymaker still had his little booth at the corner end of the market. When we were still children, Marina and I would make sure to pay him a visit every year. He’d always have something special waiting for us. When I was five, he gifted me a hand-carved toy soldier, while Marina was gifted a magnificent music box with a dancing ballerina figure on top. When I was six, I received a stunning remote control model ship, while Marina was given an incredibly beautiful paint set with her own miniature easel.
The old toymaker glanced up from the small wood carving he was working on—a little bear with an unbelievable amount of detail—and smiled at me.
“Young Master Sabatino?” He chuckled lowly. Years of smoking had made his voice rough like sandpaper. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“I’m surprised you remember me,” I said, smiling politely.
“My, not so young anymore, eh? How long has it been since you visited last?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe ten years?”
“Where’d you disappear to, dear boy? The princess always looked so lonely coming to the market by herself.”
My heart beat twice in the space of one at the mention of Marina. We were close once, but that had been a decade ago. I was sure she’d forgotten all about me by now, even if I hadn’t forgotten her. It was difficult to forget someone like Marina. She was lighthearted, always laughing. I remembered how the sound of her sweet giggles seemed to brighten up every room of the palace. We were as thick as thieves, two peas in a pod. Her royal title and the fact that she was heir to the throne didn’t matter to me. Marina was my best friend, and she was a lot of fun to be around. That was all that mattered to me.
Life was simpler back then.
“My father sent me to study abroad,” I explained after a moment. “I just finished a degree in political science.”
The toymaker stroked his wiry grey and white beard. It formed a bit of a triangular point hanging off his dimpled chin. “Ah, following in Senator Sabatino’s footsteps, are you? Good for you.”
“I haven’t really decided yet, actually.”
“You’re still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to figure it out.” He turned on his stool, bending over slightly to pick something up from beside his foot. He held out a hand-painted figurine of a little knight in shimmering silver armor. I took it in the palm of my hand and grinned at the tiny trinket. “I may as well give you that,” the toymaker said. “It’s only fair.”
“Fair?”
“I can’t give her a gift and leave you out, now can I?”
I blinked, heart once again palpitating against my ribcage. “She… She was here?”
He nodded. “Yes, about half an hour ago. Princess Marina still visits every year, that sweet girl. Though, I must admit that it’s getting harder and harder to come up with gifts for her. I don’t suppose young women like to play with dolls as much. I think she said she wanted to listen to the carolers before going home.”
My breath caught in my throat. Could it be that she was still here? Maybe if I was fast enough, I’d be able to see her. It would be nice to catch up after all this time. I quickly reached into my pocket to pull out my wallet, but the toymaker raised his hand and shook his head. “None of that, now. Consider it free, for old time’s sake.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope to see you again next year, Master Sabatino.”
“And I, you. Have a Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas!”
I weaved in and out through the crowd, following the sound of lovely voices singing in harmony. There was already a large group of people gathered around the center fountain, inclusive of a massive wall of incredibly stoic royal guards. They weren’t dressed in their full uniforms, but they still stuck out like a sore thumb in their pressed black suits and radio pieces wrapped around their ears. I remembered thinking that they were terrifying when I was a little boy, able to throw me a thousand yards if Marina asked them to. Now that I stood at eye level with the security team’s tallest member, the thought of approaching didn’t make me as nervous.
People were standing shoulder to shoulder, so it was next to impossible to worm my way toward the front. Past the wall of guards, I could just make out the top of a woman’s head. Her hair was a stunning blonde, resembling something close to liquid gold. Her locks were pulled up into a lovely twisted bun, pinned in place with a silver hair clip adorned with pearls and shaped to resemble a row of delicate little flowers. I could only see the back of her head, but I knew in an instant that it was her.
Princess Marina Parisier, heires
s apparent to the throne of Brooklandia.
The carolers wrapped up the last couple of verses to their arrangement of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The crowd started to applaud when out of nowhere, something whizzed right past one of the performer’s heads. It took a second for me to realize what it was. On the ground, an egg had shattered against the pavement, fragments of brown shell and goopy yolk spattering about. Another egg landed at the feet of one of the royal guards.
“Down with the Crown!” someone from the very back screamed at the top of their lungs. It was some disgruntled punk of a kid, probably no older than me. He looked a bit thin, the skin of his cheeks hanging off his bone. His throws were incredibly weak and imprecise despite the grand show he made of winding up. “Say no to conscription! Allendes is not our mission!” He threw another egg, this time hitting Marina along the edge of her shoulder.
Her guards moved at an alarming speed. Two men moved to apprehend the assailant while the rest formed a protective circle around her, ushering her quickly away. The people around us broke out into an uproar, loud shouts ringing in my ears. Some of them were baffled, appalled that someone would dare make such a public move against Marina, while others chanted enthusiastically with the man. People started to push and shove, getting in each other’s way. I was stuck between two pro-monarchists, unable to gain an inch.
“Down with the Crown! Down with the Crown!” the egg-throwing man continued to scream as he was dragged away.
From where I was, I could see Marina getting into a waiting SUV with black-tinted windows. I managed to catch a glimpse of her profile as she slipped into the back of the vehicle, stunned momentarily in awe.
I remembered thinking that Marina was pretty for the first time on her eighth birthday. She came into the room in a brand new dress her mother had purchased for her. Her golden hair was shorter back then, a bit curlier, tied to the side in a single plait. I remembered thinking she looked just like the princesses in the fairy tales her maid would read us before bedtime. Of course, eight-year-old me would never have said that aloud. I’d been a child then, still afraid that girls could give me cooties if they stood too close.
But the Marina I saw now was more than just pretty. She was gorgeous. The chubbiness of her cheeks had disappeared, replaced with high cheekbones that caught the sunlight at just the right angle to make her skin glow. She finally grew into that nose of hers, now long and sharp where it once appeared to take up the majority of space on her face. Her lips were fuller, but not as pouty as they used to be. Overall, she gave off a general air of elegance and calm, which stood in stark contrast to the hyperactive little girl I remembered her to be.
Her guards slammed the door shut, hiding her from my line of sight. Within ten seconds, her guards climbed into the vehicle—some getting into the support SUV a few feet behind—and then they were gone. Wheels screeched against the pavement as the cars ripped away from the curve, headed toward the safety of the palace.
I finally managed to wrench myself free, moving to an area of the market with fewer people. I adjusted the collar of my jacket and then ran a finger through my hair. I knew this wasn’t the last time I was going to see Marina. No matter what, I needed to see her again.
~
“I forbid you from seeing her again,” snapped my mother.
Nia Sabatino was a strict woman. Always had been. Her mouth was always pinched off, her eyebrows were stuck in a permanent frown, and her head was always tilted up slightly so that she could look down her nose at people—including me and her husband. She came from a long line of wealthy merchants, many of whom had made their mark on Brooklandian history by single-handedly funding construction projects, social welfare ventures, and even wars in the name of the Crown. I was sometimes grateful that my father sent me to Allendes to study, else I’d have to face my mother’s constant scrutiny—something I’d rather live without, thank you very much.
We were sitting in the small apartment parlor next to the red brick fireplace. Flames danced about as they devoured the thick logs and kindling, the scent of sweet wood and a bit smoke filling my nose. This apartment was significantly smaller than the one I grew up in. I supposed it made sense that my parents would want to downsize after sending me to boarding school. What use was a fifth bedroom that no one ever used?
There were only three bedrooms in this apartment: two separate ones for my parents, and one meant for guests—where I would be staying for the holiday season. I had to admit I was disappointed to discover that the maids threw out my old collection of baseball cards I’d had since I was a boy. There was effectively nothing left of my childhood here at home, save for a few family portraits from years past hanging on the walls.
“Why not?” I demanded, utterly confused. “We were best friends. Our families were close. Shouldn’t I at least pay my respects to the King and say hello?”
“Were,” she stressed. “Past tense. Your father and the King,” she said this with so much disdain it was almost tangible, “have been at odds for years.”
“What? Since when? About what?”
“Your father wants to take this country into the future. He wants to put an end to the hostilities with Allendes; he wants to end mandatory conscription of young men and women. But that lazy old King is too grounded in his backward traditions. He’s bleeding this country and its people dry all for the sake of his pride.”
I thought better of rolling my eyes. “You can’t be serious. Disagreements happen all the time. Father’s a Senator, a representative of the people. It’s kind of impossible not to butt heads every now and then.”
Mother shook her head and clicked her tongue at me. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young and naïve.”
“I’m twenty-two,” I objected.
“Young. And. Naïve,” she insisted.
“If things are really as bad as you say they are, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“What could you have done? You hold no power here. That’s why I need you to go back to Allendes and study to become a lawyer. Right now, you’ve only got a bachelor’s degree— hardly anything, as far as I’m concerned.” My mother sighed and patted me stiffly on the shoulder, the most affection she’d ever shown me. “You wouldn’t understand. Let the adults handle things. In the meantime, you’re to stay away from the Royal Family at all costs. I doubt that bastard of a King will even allow you to get within a mile of the Princess.”
My eyes fluttered over the open envelope sitting beneath the serving tray full of pastries on the coffee table. I didn’t have to ask what it was. The cracked red wax seal of the Parisier Royal Family made it quite obvious.
“I see you were invited to the Midnight Magic Ball,” I murmured, picking up the envelope to slip the invitation out. It was a thick cream cardstock, its message written in beautiful calligraphy. There were two cards inside, one for my mother and one for my father. “Are you going to go this year?” I asked.
Mother rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Won’t that be an insult to the King?”
“The only reason that old buzzard invited us was out of a sense of obligation. All of the members of parliament are asked to go because it’s tradition, not because he actually wants us there. I should have thrown it out with the trash earlier.”
“I can toss it for you,” I offered quickly as I stood from the couch.
“Thank you. And while you’re up, tell the maids to make more chocolate-filled croissants. We’re all out, and I know your father will want some for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
I nodded, pocketing the invitations without raising Mother’s suspicions. “I’ll do that.”
“Will you be staying for dinner?”
“I’ve actually got plans to see Oliver.”
Mother sighed, failing to hide the disappointment written all over her face. “I don’t like him.”
I swallowed my frustration down. We’d been over this time and time again. “Why?” I asked
anyway because Mother was really starting to get on my nerves. First I couldn’t see Marina, and now she didn’t want me seeing my best friend from school? This was going to end up being a very lonely Christmas if Mother had her way.
“Because he’s...” She curled up her nose. “He’s just so–”
“Gay?”
“Flamboyant,” she corrected instantly, her time as a high profile senator’s wife kicking in. “I was going to say flamboyant.”
“Is there something wrong with being flamboyant?”
Mother waved her hand dismissively at me, clearly not wanting to get into an argument. God forbid she ever lost her cool. I’d never say it aloud, but I always thought she was a bit of a walking paradox. How could someone with such politically progressive views be so socially backward?
“I’ll see you later, Mother,” I said, hurrying out the door before she could say another word.
~
Oliver Smith was actually a semi-famous clothing designer with a shortlist of incredibly exclusive clients. Out of curiosity, I once asked how much he’d charge to make me a suit from scratch, and I was fairly certain my mind couldn’t even register the quote he'd given me. At first, I thought he was joking. But I’d seen his work sauntering down smaller catwalks and even the red carpet. The quality of the fabrics he used and the originality of each of his pieces definitely deserved their high price tag. Haute couture wasn’t necessarily a field that I had a particular interest in, but I could still appreciate the hard work that went into every little measurement and stitch.
He had a shop tucked away in a discreet alley. Everything was made of old brown and red bricks. Brick roads, brick walls, brick fences. There was a lovely planter hanging outside his shop window full of bright crimson poinsettias. The sign hanging on the other side of the shop’s glass door said Closed, though I could see that some of the lights were still on inside. Through the window, I was able to catch a glimpse of several plastic mannequins. They proudly displayed tailored suits and darling evening gowns full of shimmering sequins and crystals. Some of the pieces were still in design, little white chalk marks outlining what needed to be trimmed and where seams were to be applied.
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