“You did not manage to ditch me!”
“Semantics.” Fran grabbed Em’s hand. “C’mon. We need to get you cleaned up.”
Three hours later, Em found herself at the public entryway to the Visitors’ Palace, both she and Frannie clutching their tickets like kids at Disney World. They wouldn’t be able to get all the way to the heart of the palace designated for the royal family and their most favored guests, but she’d see the rooms where the first family of Garronia entertained foreign dignitaries and hosted royal balls. She’d bought a guidebook specifically focused on the palace that detailed each of the rooms and the celebrations held there for the past half century. More fodder for her developing story. Both the real one and the one she’d embellish for her mother’s enjoyment.
As Lauren had predicted, she already had enough to make that tale far exceed her wildest imagination. Even now she was making up twists and turns, trying on different options for size. The prince could…see her across the courtyard before she reached the Visitors’ Palace, then stride toward her to sweep her up into his arms. He could…see her from some perch inside and send her a small box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a silver ribbon, a keepsake of Garronia that she could cherish forever. Or maybe even…she’d see him first, only he’d be followed by men in masks, and she could alert him to the danger…
Em suddenly felt lighter than she had in months, the effects of this impossible European vacation finally taking hold. She smoothed her hand down her simple, cream-colored shift, then shook her wrist a bit as the heavy gold cuff caught the light. Frannie had insisted on taking her shopping—with Lauren’s money, Em had a feeling—and having her hair and makeup styled at one of the city’s walk-in beauty parlors. Though she could never match the exotic beauty of the Mediterranean women of this town, she did feel prettier and more confident. Her shoulder-length hair, so often skimmed back into a tight, serviceable ponytail, now hung in loose curls, and she was actually wearing makeup for the first time in forever.
“You’re beautiful, Em. You remember that. There’s a reason why Prince Kristos couldn’t keep his hands off you.”
“You didn’t even see him!” Em protested. “His hands were nowhere near me. You’re going off what Lauren told you, and she lies.”
“She wasn’t lying this time, though, was she?” Fran shook her head at Em’s reaction. “God, I wish all my counseling clients were as easy to read as you.”
“Oh, great. Just what every girl wants, to be completely and utterly obvious.”
“It works on you, though. Still, try to throw me a royal cousin or something, after you’re done wowing the first family in here, okay?”
“They may not be out—oh.” Em looked up as they rounded the corner and got the entire view of the plaza. “Oh, wow.”
“This is so much better than zip-lining,” Fran breathed.
Beyond a busy clutch of bistros and open-air cafés, the dazzling splendor of the Visitors’ Palace rose above the plaza in three domes of glass. It was a triple solarium, the center dome soaring highest until it seemed to become part of the sky. In front of the building was the famed palace garden, something else Em had read about in her book, but even that was about a million times more impressive in person than on the page.
Laid out nominally like the gardens of European mansions in tailored, lush squares, the similarities to traditional formal landscaping stopped there. Each plot was luxuriously overgrown, with pathways and bridges crisscrossing the space, bordered all around by broad walkways. The guidebook had detailed how the garden was first installed in the Victorian age to lure the monarch to visit Garronia during one of her trips to Greece. They were unsuccessful in getting Queen Victoria to venture along the Aegean Sea, but the gardens were such a hit with the residents of the country that they were allowed to flourish and expand until they practically overran the place.
Even now, Em could see children of multiple nationalities darting in and out of the trees and along the cobblestoned walkways, nannies or parents hurrying after them. The entire courtyard had more of the air of a festival than a royal residence, and she and Fran stared around like wide-eyed tourists, gaping at the colors, the energy—and the noise.
“You can’t tell me that people actually live here,” Fran murmured, surveying the crush of people. “I’d go insane inside a week.”
“They don’t, not anymore. Not ever, I don’t think,” Em said, holding up her book to explain the source of her new knowledge. “They use it exclusively for meetings, dances, and receptions.” She looked back up and sighed, taking it all in. “But it sure is pretty.”
“That’s the first authentic smile I’ve seen on your face this week,” Frannie announced. “You need to relax like this more often.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Well, it’s true. The world doesn’t need you to keep spinning it, Em. You can take some time to simply be.” Her gaze shifted to the small line of people queuing up in front of the marble steps leading to the Visitors’ Palace. “I think that’s where we go.”
They moved to the line of gawking tourists, arriving as the tour set off. Their guide, a smartly dressed young woman, trotted up the steps, even as another couple bumped into Em from behind.
“Oh! Sorry, scusi,” a feminine voice said hurriedly. When Em turned to smile at her, she noted the woman’s sharp eyes—and the enormous camera held on her companion’s shoulder. Wasn’t there some sort of rule about camera sizes inside the Visitors’ Palace? That thing looked like it could see to outer space. “You’re enjoying your visit to Garronia, yes?”
“Oh yes, it’s lovely here,” Em said, not caring that she was practically gushing as the woman’s gaze sparked with interest. “It’s a fairy tale come true.”
“Okay, girlfriend, look sharp.” Em felt her elbow tugged as Frannie urged her along, and together they hastened up the steps to keep up with the crowd.
“Pay attention, Kristos. These are serious matters.”
“Then turn off the damned monitors. I don’t know how you can focus on anything with those all cued to different channels.” Kristos scowled as he turned away from the bank of video screens that lined the conference room. They were in an interior chamber in the Visitors’ Palace, the place his father and brother had always referred to as the war room, though Garronia hadn’t officially been at war for over half a century. At the front of the room, seated around the edge of the gleaming wooden conference table, sat Cyril, two additional aides, and his cousin Stefan, the Crown’s current diplomatic envoy of choice.
But Kristos’s attention was focused only on his father. King Jasen Andris was still well in his prime, his graying hair the only indication that he wasn’t still a robust man of thirty-five. Well, perhaps not the only indication. Deep lines etched his face now, where a year ago, Kristos would have sworn his father was ageless, invincible.
Then again, a lot had happened in the past year.
Now his father studied him as he approached, but offered no comment and certainly made no move to shut down the monitors. And Kristos knew better than to ask again. His father’s mantra was Vigilance First, believing that with enough time, most catastrophic decisions could be avoided altogether.
Too bad that for Kristos, catastrophic decisions had already been made for him. Still, he approached this calamity like he had every lost cause in the field: head-on. “I’ve agreed to take up my ceremonial role, Father, but let’s get a few things clear. There’s a limit to what that role should entail in the twenty-first century.” Limits such as no forced marriages. And, ideally, fewer parades.
His father shook his head. “Not so ceremonial as that. Garronia’s success depends on maintaining a strong line.”
A small knot of worry lodged in Kristos’s gut at his father’s grim expression, but he pushed it away. “A line you are more than capable of continuing to hold.”
“Capable, yes.” His father didn’t dispute the assertion, and some of Kristos’s tension eased. Sti
ll, he looked at his father a bit more closely. Did he look more tired than he should? Paler? Granted, his parents had just returned from Paris, and that city could take the fire out of anyone. But still.
His father’s next words made him refocus. “Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean you’re also not completely capable of making those decisions by my side. The people would be glad to see a young man on the throne and to know that the line is continuing.”
“Which brings me back to my original point. The line does not need to continue in the next three days,” Kristos protested. “I haven’t even hit thirty—you didn’t have children right away, and no one seemed to care.”
“Oh, they cared. Just not enough to ever force the question.”
“Exactly.” Kristos pressed his point home. “There’s a limit to what’s reasonable these days, and I think we’ve now identified one of those lines. Being a prince of the realm is a job, and I’ll do the job to the best of my ability. But no one will expect me to pop up with an heir and a spare anytime soon. It’s not remotely necessary.”
His father’s shrewd glance swept over him. “There are other reasons for you to show interest in marriage, Kristos, beyond the traditions you seem so quick to dismiss. The death of your brother was a terrible shock to the country.”
Kristos forced his jaw and his tone to stay steady. “The country has seen worse.” He shot a glance to his cousin, but as usual, Stefan’s face was completely unreadable. Light-eyed and light-skinned in a country with its share of swarthy men, he was the consummate chameleon and probably held more secrets in his little finger than Kristos ever planned to in his entire life.
“Worse, yes,” his father continued. “But we are not striving to make ‘the best of a bad situation’ here. We are striving to present a front of inviolable strength. Both to reassure our own people and to serve as warning for any who might think we are flagging. There has been a long stretch of international turmoil at or near our shores in recent years. Surely you know that more than anyone, given the role you’ve played in maintaining our defenses. We must show strength, not weakness.”
“And we show strength with a military that doesn’t hide its true nature under a veil of handshakes and publicity shots!” Despite his sincere intentions to be levelheaded in all dealings this day, Kristos felt his hands tighten into fists. It was a long-held bone of contention with his father that Garronia’s diplomatic strategy of private preparation and public downplay had succeeded perhaps a bit too well, for a bit too long. In a world where military prowess was no longer determined by the size of your force but by the sophistication of your weaponry, Garronia’s role in international matters could quickly take on meaningful weight. If only anyone knew about them other than their closest allies.
God knew they had the money. Kristos hadn’t ignored all of Cyril’s e-mails over the past year in regards to his new role of crown prince. He was well aware that the country was flush with cash, so flush that their charitable efforts had begun spilling out of the region and onto more distant shores. But beyond humanitarian efforts, Garronia could do more. They could afford to completely overhaul their security force and make new allies—who in turn could come in handy when it came to decisions with international ramifications. It was a win-win.
As if following his line of thought, Jasen’s eyes grew harder. “If you wish to contribute to those conversations, then you must show your commitment to your role as crown prince, Kristos. It is not a role you can play at when the mood strikes you, nor one you can resist forever, no matter what you might believe. Your brother had all the same objections that you did, yet he also knew it was time for him to step into his duties as heir.”
“Yeah, that worked out really well for him.” Kristos didn’t hide the bitterness in his voice, and his father, to his credit, didn’t flinch.
“Death cannot be ruled by anyone,” he said calmly. So calmly that Kristos wanted to shake him. “Life, however, can. That’s the option you have before you, none other.”
“And you’re telling me that it’s somehow my royal obligation not only to give up my work in the military—which is where I belong, and you know it—but that in addition to being forced to play nice with the press, an effort I despise, I also need to find a wife in the next week in order to ensure order in the kingdom? Why? Who could possibly care?”
“Ah…gentlemen.” Stefan’s quiet words sounded from the corner of the room, but Kristos didn’t have time for the well-spoken aristocrat right now. In many ways, Stefan was more royal than he was, with a lineage that stretched deep into Garronia’s history. But while his cousin might hold the floor on matters of international intelligence, today’s issue was substantially closer to home. Kristos focused on his father, who at least had the grace to meet his gaze.
“The financial unrest among our nearest neighbors has not gone without notice of the Council, Kristos. Garronia is stable, but we are stable because we give the impression of being a country outside the realm of world politics. Our people feel differently about us because we do not endure high unemployment, and we do not send all our young soldiers to die upon battlefields we did not choose. Our financial strength is not undervalued or overvalued, or subject to the vagaries of the international market. We live in a bubble, and bubbles are fragile and require constant vigilance. The illusion of our country is one that generations of monarchs have struggled to uphold. Would you be the one to change that?”
“I still fail to see how a marriage can matter one way or another in that discussion.” Kristos’s gaze narrowed. “Our finances are strong, you said. We are not facing bankruptcy. Our military may not be adequately equipped, but the ranks are full to bursting of willing men and women, unless I have misread the reports.”
His father gave a short laugh. “No. Those are not our concerns.”
“Gentlemen.” Stefan’s voice was more insistent. Kristos continued to ignore him.
“Then what is this truly about, Father? Is there some Garronois family you owe a favor to? Someone you already have picked out for me once I agree to the wisdom of your plan?” He saw the flicker of surprise in his father’s face, and his back went rigid. “Then no. Just no, no, and no. I don’t care who she is. I don’t care what you promised. The answer is no. I am not going to be railroaded into a forced alliance with someone I don’t know, not even for the good of the country. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of in my life. And if you think—”
“Kristos!” Stefan’s voice was like a gunshot, and Kristos turned, then saw his cousin’s gaze wasn’t fixed on him at all but on the infernal bank of monitors at the back of the room. Monitors which now were all tuned to the national media service of Garronia—and an eerily familiar-looking man and woman struggling out of the water to collapse on the white sands of the country’s famed Royal Beach.
“What the hell! Turn that up!”
Kristos strode several steps toward the screens as the images zeroed in on him pulling Emmaline tenderly into his arms, rocking her on the beach as he stared down at her with abject adoration. Where had the cameraman been to get such a shot as that? Across the bottom of the screen, a caption read: “Mermaid princess for the crown prince?” and the reporter, a sharp-eyed woman he instantly disliked, spoke about the “prince’s heroic rescue of a woman who clearly holds a special place in his heart—as well as his arms. A woman we were lucky enough to speak to briefly on the steps of the Visitors’ Palace this—”
“What?” Kristos whirled, scowling at Cyril, who was already in motion, pushing his way past Stefan with a phone at his ear and signaling for the aides to follow him. “What is she talking about? Why is Emmaline at the Palace?”
His father stared at him wide-eyed, and damned if there wasn’t a smile playing around the old man’s face. “You could have told me you were dating, Kristos.”
“I’m not dating.”
Stefan snorted. “You are now. At least she’s pretty, I’ll give you that.”
Kristos turn
ed back as the newscast resumed, with the reporter approaching a woman with soft, shoulder-length brown hair. She turned, and Kristos was rooted in place as Emmaline’s lovely heart-shaped face filled the screen. He hadn’t really focused on any one element of the woman when he’d practically bowled her over in the sand, though he’d remembered her pretty face, her startled eyes. Later, when he’d held her in his arms, she’d been coughing like a drowned rat and trembling all over, but she’d still been attractive on almost a soul-deep level, someone he simply did not have the strength to resist.
But this Emmaline wore some kind of filmy white dress and enormous gold jewelry, her hair long and soft, and her eyes…
“Kristos.”
Kristos waved off whoever was speaking, focusing on the screens. He could barely make out what the female reporter was saying, but Emmaline’s expression was radiant, and her words sounded like something out of a Garronia tourist guide. “—a fairy tale come true,” she said, and her voice and eyes were so earnest, her emotion so clear, that Kristos found himself half wishing he could meet her…and he had already met her. He’d had her wrapped in his arms, in fact, or at least an earlier version of her.
Then he paid attention to the words crawling across the bottom of the screen, and his eyes sharpened. “Who’s writing these captions, and how can they make these statements? Who are these people?” He whirled on Stefan. “Make a call. Get this off the air.”
Stefan looked at him with real amusement. “You’re way beyond that. This has already been piped halfway around the world.”
Cyril stuck his head back in the room, distracting him from the wall of monitors. “We’ve located her. She’s on the official tour of the Visitors’ Palace.” He scowled at Kristos. “You want me to let her know she’s about to make international headlines as your bride-to-be?”
Courted: Gowns & Crowns, Book 1 Page 4
