by Iris Morland
“What a lovely sentiment.”
She patted my thigh. “You’re welcome.”
Although I’d spoken with my parents and had confirmed with them both about my true parentage, I’d avoided speaking with them further about the subject. To me, there was no reason to discuss it. I knew the truth. What more was there to say?
Niamh had left to go inside, leaving me alone in the Sun Garden. The sun was setting when I heard a rustle. Expecting Laurent, I was surprised to see my father enter.
I struggled to think of him as my father. He’d been the man I’d called father my entire life, but I couldn’t honestly say he’d raised me. He’d raised me in the distanced way royalty preferred to raise their progeny, with occasional visits with nannies and tutors until I’d been old enough to hold a somewhat coherent conversation.
Strangely, I’d never wondered why I didn’t look like Prince Étienne, because I looked so much like my mother. I’d always assumed I’d gotten more of her genes than his. I’d never expected to discover I hadn’t inherited any of them.
“I spoke with your fiancée just now,” said my father. He gestured at the spot where Niamh had just been sitting. “May I?”
I was tempted to say no. But I just shrugged and said, “Yes.”
My father stretched out his legs. Silver threaded through his brown hair, and he’d begun wearing a beard within the last few years. I’d surpassed him in height by the age of fifteen. He was neither handsome nor ugly, his bearing always regal. If he weren’t royalty, he would’ve seemed almost generic in appearance.
“Mademoiselle Gallagher must be exhausted,” said my father.
I was too well-bred to grunt an answer. “As are we all.”
My father gazed at me, his eyes searching my expression. “Are you happy, son? I feel as though you don’t seem excited with your upcoming nuptials.”
I hadn’t told my parents that our engagement was real in name only, that we weren’t in love, and that, in fact, Niamh hated everything about me.
“Are you asking me if I want this marriage?” I countered.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“I want to marry Niamh. I wouldn’t have asked her otherwise.”
My father’s forehead crinkled. “You make it sound like it’s more of a duty than something your heart desires.”
I wanted to toss myself into the nearest fountain. “Duty is all we have in this life.”
“It’s not all. Yes, I realize that our choices are limited. It comes with the privilege of our roles. That doesn’t mean, however, that you need to make yourself miserable for duty. You can create a happy medium of duty and desire.”
“Is that what happened with you? Your own desire overruled your duty?” I said the words scathingly before my mind could stop me.
My father’s expression shuttered. Before I could apologize, he said, “There are things you don’t understand.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Perhaps another time.”
“At least, before you go, tell me this: did you know about her pregnancy before you married?”
The words fell heavily between us, like a shroud.
“Did your mother betray me? No, she did not.”
“Yet she still loved another man while accepting your ring on her finger.”
He didn’t deny it. My father rose then, standing and gazing at the sky for a long moment. “I love your mother, no matter her faults. She was always open about her situation soon after we met. And she loves me as well, in her own way. I hope your marriage is a similar union.”
He walked away. I stayed where I was until the moon rose high in the sky.
I didn’t understand why my father would’ve wanted to marry a woman who was not only pregnant with another man’s child, but who was clearly in love with him, too. It made no sense. Had he no pride? It would’ve been one thing if she hadn’t loved my biological father, but if she were still in love with him, why marry my father? Why hadn’t my biological father been suitable?
Perhaps my biological father hadn’t wanted to marry my mother. Or perhaps he’d never known of my existence.
A memory came to mind: my seventh birthday. I’d received a new mare to ride, one that was such a light gray that she looked nearly white under the shining sun. I’d wanted to ride something less childish than a pony for ages, but my mother had been hesitant. Somehow, my father had convinced her otherwise.
I mounted the mare, now named Celeste, and was riding her around the paddock with glee. Laurent, ever my faithful servant, stood nearby and watched, giving encouragement when I came around the bend.
When I wanted to ride beyond the bounds of the paddock, Laurent informed me that I’d need my parents’ permission.
“Then go get them,” I said in my most commanding, yet childish, tone. “I’m too big to keep riding around here.”
Laurent did as he was told, but when he returned, his expression was glum. “Your Highness, I’m afraid their majesties are otherwise engaged at the moment.”
I pulled on Celeste’s reins, stopping her canter. “What are they doing?”
“They didn’t say.”
I kept riding around the paddock, asking Laurent to continue calling the main house for one of my parents. When another hour, then a second, passed without any response, I was so angry that I unlocked the gate to the paddock.
“Your Highness, it isn’t safe—”
I used the fence to mount Celeste, not quite tall enough to get into the saddle yet on my own. I simply kicked Celeste forward and ignored Laurent’s cries and the horse trainer’s commands for me to stop. They couldn’t tell a prince of Salasia what to do. They knew that, and I knew it, so I rode off into the countryside by myself.
Our countryside estate was remote, and I found myself lost quickly. There were few cars that drove these twisty, mountainous roads, many of which weren’t paved. The sun had begun to set when I’d started to cry.
Celeste, well-trained horse that she was, snuffled at me when I began to cry. I patted her neck. I told myself that I was too big to cry and how embarrassing it would be if someone found the prince crying like a little baby just because he was lost.
When Celeste seemed too tired to continue, I took her to a nearby stream and sat down on a tree stump. The night was cool. I wondered if I was going to die that night. Would my parents be sad that they’d ignored me on my birthday if I died? It was morbid thought that gave my childish heart a bit of glee.
Help arrived soon after. A car pulled up, a flashlight beaming. Laurent was the one to spot me. “Your Highness!” He pulled me into his arms and hugged me. He’d never hugged me, and it had surprised me. I found myself hugging him back, holding back tears. “Are you all right?”
I sniffled and wiped my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Thank the good lord. We were so worried.”
Luckily for Celeste, I’d somehow managed to circle the estate without finding it, so it wasn’t another long walk for her. The horse trainer led her back in the dark as the car slowly drove down the road.
When I got inside the car, I said, “Where is Father? Mother?”
“They were so worried about you, Your Highness.” Laurent got in beside me. “They’ll be so happy to see you.”
In my young mind, I took that as a sign that they hadn’t even bothered to search for me. When I met them inside the estate, I let them hug me before I’d asked for something to eat. But before my nanny came to get me, I could see that my mother’s eyes were red and tearstained. She shot my father an angry glance and said something along the lines of, “He should never have gotten that horse.”
This led to a harsh reply from my father. “You’re his mother. What were you doing while he was out by himself?”
“It wasn’t my idea to give him a horse! You never take responsibility for anything, do you?”
My father laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “My dear, let’s not go there, shall we?”
My nanny came to ge
t me before I could see the resolution of this disagreement. I could tell by my parents’ faces that the fight would continue into the night. As I ate my dinner, my nanny fussing about me, I wondered why neither of my parents had wished me happy birthday.
I forced myself to return to the present. As an adult, that fight between my parents made more sense. How could my father say they loved each other when they’d acted like that? My father undermining my mother while they both ignored me on my own birthday?
Niamh and I might not have a real engagement, but at least we understood where we stood with each other. At least we wouldn’t be living a lie like my parents had been for the past twenty-five years.
Chapter Four
Present Day
When Laurent handed me a breakfast tray himself, I said, “What happened?”
“Why should anything be amiss? I’m simply serving Your Highness.”
I glowered. “Either tell me what’s happened or I’ll throw you in the dungeon.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for tossing me into the wine cellar.” Laurent cleared his throat then gestured at my phone. “It should be in your inbox.”
He scurried off before I could open the email. When I clicked the link, it took me to a tabloid story featuring our interview yesterday.
Miss Gallagher doesn’t seem to be enjoying royal life, does she? Apparently, there’s no reason to smile when you’re a princess married to the handsome prince! Perhaps the luxury isn’t up to her usual standards. What could be explained as pre-wedding jitters seems to have become acting rather high in the instep.
The article, if you could even call it that, continued in a similar vein. My temples started throbbing. Once again, I’d been right: Niamh’s sarcasm was not translating at all, and the public was not viewing her favorably. I returned to Laurent’s email, and I discovered that Niamh’s favorability rating was currently at an all-time low.
“You look like you just swallowed a bug,” said Niamh as she entered the breakfast room. “Or maybe a few spiders.” When she saw me looking at my phone screen, her expression instantly closed. “What is it now?”
I sighed. I hadn’t even begun to drink my coffee. I took a sip, wondering how I’d frame this without Niamh becoming defensive.
Yet as I gazed at her and saw the dark circles under eyes, I hesitated. Did I want to ruin our honeymoon just yet? The real world could wait. Our next appearance was simply to have dinner at a local restaurant, and there wouldn’t be any interview questions.
“Nothing important. I was reading a ridiculous story about…” I racked my brain. “One Direction.”
Niamh sat down next to me with a plate of pastries. She definitely had a sweet tooth, and I had to admit I found it rather charming.
“One Direction? They broke up forever ago,” she said.
“I meant Gary Styles. The one with the hair.”
She bit her lip. “You mean Harry Styles?”
Was that his name? Christ, I was bungling this badly. “Yes, of course. Harry. How could I forget?”
“I distinctly remember you not knowing anything about One Direction a few months ago.”
“I’ve evolved. I’ve listened to their music. It’s very catchy.” The listening was true; the catchiness of it was more of a lie. Their music was such sentimental trash that I’d barely gotten through two songs.
“Name another member. Just one.” Niamh put her hands on her chin. “I dare you.”
“Zayn Malik.” I crossed my fingers under the table, hoping the name was right.
Niamh looked impressed. “You couldn’t remember the name Harry, but you could remember Zayn? I’m impressed. Next you’re going to tell me you’re writing One Direction fanfiction.”
I stared at her. “How can you write fanfiction about real people?”
“Oh, you sweet summer child.” She was laughing maniacally as she began typing into her phone. “It’s the Internet. Haven’t you heard of rule thirty-four?”
I shook my head. I regretted going down this rabbit hole already.
“You can find any kind of porn on the Internet. Duh.” Niamh cackled. “There, just sent you one. This one is an angsty Harry/Zayn fic. Also has some mpreg, if that’s your cup of tea.”
I began to read this fanfiction, mostly to appease Niamh, and when I realized what, precisely, the term mpreg meant, I set my phone back down. I considered myself fortunate that I’d skipped the part where Zayn gives birth to his and Harry’s baby.
“You asshole,” I called her in French.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Ooh, I should send you the diagram of how mpreg happens. It’s a whole thing—”
“If you send me one more thing, I will poison your coffee tomorrow morning, and I’m certain Laurent would assist me in this endeavor.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. You need me too much to poison me.” She drank down the rest of her coffee and sighed loudly. “But now you know that if you get on my bad side again, I’ll just send you graphic One Direction fan art.”
My wife was ruthless. Thank God I hadn’t mentioned the tabloid story. I didn’t want to know what horrors she’d unleash upon me for that conversation.
I put off talking to my wife as the day passed. During lunch, I opened my mouth to speak, but Niamh’s brother Liam texted her right in that moment. Now thoroughly distracted, she wouldn’t hear a word I said right that moment. That was what I told myself, even though I knew it was a flimsy excuse.
I girded my loins to bring up the dreaded topic that afternoon. After I’d had a cup of tea fortified with a splash of brandy, I inquired with Niamh’s maid, Celia. Celia was a pretty thing, but she wasn’t the brightest, either. She tended to swallow her tongue any time I asked her for a simple request. I would’ve asked any other servant, but she was the only one I could find.
“Your Highness,” she squeaked, curtseying. Her hands fluttered like a neurotic butterfly.
“Do you know where my wife is?” I repeated.
Celia thought for a long moment. The question seemed genuinely to stump her. “I remember this morning that Her Highness mentioned that she would like to sit by the pool this afternoon,” she said finally, “and I made certain to apply sunscreen all over her.
“She was not very happy about that, though. She complained that it was greasy and smelled, but I reminded her that sunscreen was crucial for someone as fair as Her Highness. She would burn to a crisp in this sun!”
I rubbed my temples. “Are you saying she’s at the pool?”
“Oh, no, sir, she said after lunch that she didn’t feel like getting into her bathing suit. She’d eaten too much, you see. She felt—” Celia leaned closer to me so her voice was a whisper, “—a little bloated.” She let out a titter.
I wanted to throw myself out of the nearest window. “Is she taking a nap, then?” Perhaps if I just came up with probable places Niamh would be, Celia would finally point out which one contained her mistress.
“A nap? Madam never naps.” Celia tapped her pointy little chin. “She said she’d like to take a walk in the garden. Madam loves flowers.”
“So she’s in the garden?” Why was I even attempting to confirm this?
Celia’s eyes widened. “Of course, didn’t I say that already? Oh, what a scatterbrain I am!”
“I would never describe you as such.” My tone was dry. Celia, being Celia, simply beamed at the unintentional compliment.
I made my way to the gardens. Considerably smaller than the expansive grounds at the palace, the villa’s gardens were special for its orchid collection. My mother had begun the tradition of adding a new orchid every time the family visited in the summer. But since my parents hadn’t come here since I was fifteen, no one had brought an orchid with them in over a decade.
I hadn’t brought one along. It had completely slipped my mind. Besides, the tradition was based on celebrating being together as a family, and Niamh and I were hardly family to one another.
The sweet scent of jasmine filled the air as I rounded a corner. I found Niamh crouched on the ground next to an indeterminate species of bush. When she heard me approach, she shushed me.
“You’ll scare them away!” She didn’t even look at me as she said the words.
I crouched down next to her, peering into the shade of the bush. “Why are we whispering?”
“Look.” She pointed, and I squinted, finally seeing that there was something in the bushes. No, multiple somethings.
“Are they squirrels?” I asked.
Niamh gave me an exasperated look. “Can’t you hear them? They’re kittens.”
I’d heard faint noises that sounded like cheeping. I shrugged. “I know little about wildlife.”
“The mom must be around here somewhere. The babies are pretty fat. I got a good look at them, but they got scared and moved further into the bush.” Niamh moved a branch aside. “Look how cute they are! So tiny!” She cooed at the kittens, and one mewed back.
We continued our vigil until my knees were starting to hurt. Niamh cooed more words to the kittens, sometimes wiggling her fingers, hoping the kittens would emerge. I counted three sets of eyes total. One was completely black, and all I could make out was its blue eyes.
“Niamh, I need to speak with you about something,” I said finally.
She let the branch go, sighing. “I’m worried the mom will return and move them. Do you think there’s some kind of trap here on the estate? I don’t want them to stay outside.”
I gaped at her. “They’re cats. They live outside.” The extent of my feline encounters had been the occasional meeting with one in a barn or digging in the trash in a city. I’d wanted a dog as a boy, but my mother was terribly allergic and had nixed the idea quickly.
“But if we leave them out here, they might not make it. And if they do, they’ll keep breeding. You’ll end up with an entire colony.”
“There’s never been an entire colony of cats living here. They’ll go elsewhere.”
“Doubtful. Cats have their territories and don’t deviate from them. No, I’d like to catch them and at least get them to a rescue. Then they can be fostered and adopted out.”
