“It’s a bloody tourist destination in the United States!”
At this, a small, choking cough escapes Bittner. I quickly apologize again. If I don’t get myself under control, Hereditary Princess or no, I’ll find myself on the other side of the door in no time.
My father’s fingers form a steeple in front of his face, long fingers once elegant and now marked by time and arthritis. “I am well aware of what Hearst Castle is and where it is located, Elsa.”
Ah. Of course he is. After all, he serves upon the Monarch Council, although in a much reduced capacity nowadays, what with two heart attacks in three years. Still, I never would have thought my father this naïve about sending so many monarchs and their heirs to such a public location. “What about terrorists?”
When I was younger and lost control of my emotions, my father reminded me that such passion does no monarch any favors. The key to being an effective sovereign is to remain calm and clear-headed. Never make crucial decisions or arguments when your emotions get the better of you. Productivity and goodness cannot stem organically through heightened feelings, even if crafted under the best of intentions.
It is a lesson I fail to prove mastered, for another lift of eyebrow is meant to remind me continued outbursts will not be tolerated. “Terrorists?”
“I am concerned about safety logistics that might arise during the Summit. While most of our kingdoms and principalities are constitutional monarchies, it would still be devastating if something were to happen to any of the royals present. What if someone were to catch wind of the Summit? Target us?”
A tiny smile bends one half of his thin lips. “Someone like a terrorist?”
“I cannot possibly be the only one to believe it is a monumentally terrible idea to convene every monarch in the world, alongside their heirs, in a single location, let alone such a public one.”
“And yet, we have convened every decade for centuries without incident, Elsa. Nary a terrorist attack, let alone a single act of crime, has ever touched us during a Decennial Summit.”
He’s right. For all our romantic failings in the press, royals are exceedingly excellent at keeping their shite locked down tight. Even still, I cannot let this go. “Respectfully, my point stands in consideration of twenty-first century politics. There are many countries whose citizens wish to abolish monarchies, viewing them as archaic and unnecessary in light of democracy and socialism. The Summit is an excellent opportunity for the disgruntled to—”
“Are you sure your true concern hinges on our safety?” His tongue clicks quietly in reproach. “Or, is it more likely you are fretting over the RMM?”
Well, yes, but . . . “I am simply saying—”“Must I remind you that your mother and I were betrothed at the RMM?” It is a far cry from a selling point. My parents, brought together by politics, are no love match. Other than myself, Isabelle, and Vattenguldia, they have little to nothing in common and do not speak unless in public or necessity dictates more than a written note or a message sent via their private secretaries. As much as it disgusts me to contemplate, I am fairly confident words were not even spoken during the conception of their children. A note was most likely written and delivered: Let’s make an heir. Eight o’clock tonight, my room. Best to be drunk beforehand.
So, yes. Maybe my mother has a valid point. Perhaps I am picky, because I desire that, if and when I attach my life to another’s, it will be to someone I can at least talk to. And like as well as respect. Is it so wrong that I would not mind a storybook tale? Not the horrible bits—no poisoned apples or sleeping spells. I do not even require a prince, let alone a charming one. My life is one of service. Responsibility. Importance. When the day comes and I assume the throne, I simply wish somebody I love to be in my corner. And if I cannot find that, I would rather not marry.
I tell my father, “I am well aware of that, sir.”
He slips off his reading spectacles and sets them on the desk. “Let me assure you every precaution will be taken to secure the location. At this very moment, Hearst Castle is closed to the public for renovations and restorations, and is not scheduled to reopen to the public for another two months. While the location is news to you today, the MC has worked closely with the American government for nearly two years to ensure the Summit goes off without a hitch.”
His words, so crisp and no-nonsense, leave no door open for dissention.
“I am sure you are curious as to why Hearst Castle was chosen,” he continues. “Of that, I will indulge you. After much discussion, the MC decided it best to meet on neutral ground. The United States is a good choice. While we could have easily taken over a hotel, many feel an event such as the Decennial Summit deserves something special. Hearst Castle and its history fit the bill.”
I am beating my head against a wall. “It is no longer in use as a residence!” “Another fact I am also aware of, Elsa.”It is a soft jab; he is informing me that none of my arguments carry any weight in his mind.I want to argue: It’s a tourist trap.He would counter: I’ve already addressed that issue.I want to argue: From what I saw on the website, it is not a very big venue for such a large party.He would argue: That’s part of its allure.I want to argue: Where will everyone sleep? We have employees to think of, too. Will we all be in tents?He would argue: You worry too much. It will be taken care of.I want to argue: Please do not force me to be part of the RMM.He would argue: The House of Vasa lives and dies by tradition.But none of this is said. There is no need, not when the outcome is so easily predicted. Instead, I remain silent in my defeat as he reclaims his pen. “You’d best hurry if you are to make your appointment this afternoon. I know the children would be sorely disappointed if you missed story time.”
Translation: You are dismissed.
I am at the door when he adds, “Please let your sister know she will be expected to accompany us. There is vital business I must attend to at the Summit, and I will need my girls with me.”
At first I am stunned, but that is foolish of me. Of course Isabelle is to come. She is an attractive bargaining chip, after all.
Three days. There are three days until we journey to California. Three days until the Royal Marriage Market opens its doors after being shuttered for ten years.
Three days until life as I know it will change, whether I wish it so or not.
photo @Regina Wamba of Mae I Design and Photography
Heather Lyons is known for writing epic, heartfelt love stories often with a fantastical twist. From Young Adult to New Adult to Adult novels—one commonality in all her books is the touching, and sometimes heart-wrenching, romance. In addition to writing, she’s also been an archaeologist and a teacher. She and her husband and children live in sunny Southern California and are currently working their way through every cupcakery she can find.
Website: www.heatherlyons.net
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The Lost Codex Page 40
