King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  I laugh with him. “And what’s his job now?” I ask, curiously interested.

  “He stocks the toilet paper and keeps the bowl sparkling,” Owen replies, shaking his head. “I wonder what the reaction was when the palace got indoor plumbing? The guy who had that job must have thought his life was over.”

  “That’s pretty funny,” I say. “So why is there still a ‘Gentleman of the King’s Stool?’ I would think the maids could handle restocking and scrubbing.”

  “Hereditary position,” Owen says. “His father had it before him, going back hundreds of years. We can’t get rid of most of these positions until someone dies without heirs or moves out of the country.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “That must cost a fortune!”

  He nods. “A fortune,” he repeats. “But I guess there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “You’re king,” I remind him. “You can do anything you like.”

  Owen rolls his eyes. “Oh, if that was really true. Every time I’ve broached making some small change to improve the household or the national economy, I’m met with the same answer: ‘it’s tradition.’”

  “You can make new traditions,” I say. “The monarchy and the country have to adapt. You don’t have to look far to see what happens to those who don’t adapt to changing times.”

  Owen nods, biting his lip. “You’re right,” he says. He reaches forward, squeezing my hand in his. “One thing I’d like to change right away is the tradition that says the monarch has to be engaged or married. It’s a ridiculous tradition.”

  I chuckle. “Thanks,” I respond, my tone dry with sarcasm.

  Owen shakes his head. “That’s not a comment on you, or the institution in general. It’s just that not everyone is suited to it. It’s discriminatory at its foundations. What if I was gay? Or what if we don’t have any sons? There’s never been a female hereditary monarch. Anyone of these things could create a national crisis.”

  I realize all these questions of national importance weigh on him more than he lets on. Owen wants everyone to believe he’s a carefree royal brat, but it’s not the case. He brought a stack of documents to read on our holiday. He works more than most people do. In fact, if you count as work all the times he has to dress up and make an appearance somewhere he’d really rather skip, he’s working nearly all the time.

  That’s why this small holiday was so important to him.

  “You don’t have to solve all these issues at once,” I say. “We can take them one at a time.” I smile at him. “One royal edict a month should clear your conscience before the first year of your reign has passed.”

  Owen grins sheepishly. “I think I should probably wait until the coronation before I start issuing edicts.”

  A few hours later, when Owen has briefly left me to check his email, I go in search of Duncan, and a favor. I find him hanging out with several other of the security detail in the kitchen. They’re all dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and hiking boots, sweaty and sunned, obviously having just returned from an exploration of the island.

  I get him alone in a side room, away from the cook or anyone who could overhear. “Are you going to Mykonos anytime while we’re here?”

  He nods. “A few of us are going to head over there in an hour or so to have dinner and drinks. Why?”

  “I need something, and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  “Okay,” he responds cautiously.

  “Does Mykonos have a drugstore or something like it?”

  He nods.

  “I need a pregnancy test.”

  Duncan’s eyebrows raise. His jaw drops. “Oh,” he says, suppressing an awkward smile.

  “Yeah,” I respond. “More like ‘oh shit.’”

  Duncan doesn’t return from the main island until well past midnight, but he doesn’t come back empty-handed. He sneaks the little package into my purse when Owen isn’t looking. Twenty minutes later I’m in the bathroom, staring at a little pink plus sign, wondering what in the hell Anglesey’s policy is on unexpected, early royal deliveries.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  14

  Owen

  Duncan’s report on Eric Wembley was comprehensive and disturbing. I read the whole thing with bile churning in my gut and my fists clenched. He updated it to include the secret service findings: Wembley has sent Nora six text messages and two emails since he was removed from the palace. The first one was sent within an hour of the incident. I’m certain she saw it, but she didn’t mention it to me. She hasn’t looked at her phone or opened her computer since we’ve been here, so it’s unlikely she’s seen the rest. I hope I can keep her from seeing them; they’re vile and threatening.

  Norah is napping now. We took a walk up through the olive groves this morning just as sunrise broke. It was an easy hike, and well worth it for the scenery. The groves themselves, which cover several hundred acres, are majestic and ancient, but we also paused to enjoy a smattering of Greek ruins at the top of the tallest hill. Two thousand years ago there was a temple on this island. Judging by the quality of the stone columns, flagstone floors, and still-beautiful sculptures, the temple was an important one.

  Norah was beside herself with enthusiasm, drinking up the scenery and history, taking hundreds of photos of the landscape, the ruins, and me. But as soon as the sun started to heat up in earnest, she withered completely. I had to set her down in the shade while she fought off a bout of nausea. As soon as we returned to the villa, she went to bed.

  I’m worried about her. She’s not well, and I think it might have to do with Eric Wembley and his threats. If that’s the case, I’m not sure what I can do about it except keep him away from her. The secret service is deporting him this evening. Hopefully he’ll go away and leave us alone.

  Norah opens her eyes, waking suddenly, catching me staring at her. She smiles, stretching. “I see you, Prince Peeping Tom. What are you looking at?”

  I rise from my seat, then join her on the bed, stretching out, pulling her close to me. “You, Duchess,” I say. “You and your beautiful mane of wild-spun gold hair, and your long, strong legs, and your perfectly round, firm tits that make my head spin when I think about them.”

  She laughs inside my arms, leaning into me.

  “I’m glad we’ve gotten away from everything,” I say. “I’m glad I have you all to myself, without palace spies lurking, or my mother’s knowing glances, or my brother’s drama, or crazy old boyfriends stalking you.”

  Norah breathes deeply, then pulls away, sitting up. “He’s not my old boyfriend,” she says flatly, glaring down at me. “He’s just a very old friend who got his feelings hurt. He’s harmless. You need to let it go.”

  I sit up with her. “Maybe he’s not an old boyfriend,” I concede, “but he is stalking you. Before you log onto your computer or check your texts, I hope you’ll let me clear out some things he’s sent you while you’ve been napping and playing in the sunshine with me.”

  She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve had him under surveillance since he assaulted you in the garden. He’s sent you a bunch of nasty texts and emails. Threatening messages. Terrible, foul things. I’d prefer you didn’t read them.”

  Norah looks down at her hands, then back at me. Her expression masks a myriad of emotions—none of them altogether good. “You had his phone bugged?”

  “Phone and computer,” I reply. “He’s been followed and observed since he left the palace grounds. Tonight he’s being deported from Anglesey.”

  Norah takes another deep breath. “Should I assume you’re also having my phone and computer bugged?”

  “No,” I say. “Norah, I have no reason to do that. I wouldn’t. I did this because he threatened you. He physically accosted you. Putting aside the fact that you’re one step away from becoming royalty yourself, I care about you, and I’d move heaven and Earth to protect you.”

  She blinks, struggling to process this informati
on against what she thought she knew about her friend. “My computer and phone are in my bag,” she says. “Have at it. If they’re as bad as you say, I don’t want to see them.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Is it okay if I block him from your accounts, so you won’t receive anything else he tries to send?”

  She nods. “Please.”

  I go to work on her computer while she watches me, regarding me with a stoic, serious expression. It only takes a few moments. Her cell phone reveals a brand new one from Wembley, sent in the last hour. It reads:

  You’re a gold-digging whore who’s going to get what’s coming to you. A bullet in the head is too good for you. I’m going to make the pain linger like you’ve made mine linger all these years. Cunt.

  If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to see this guy shackled in a dungeon.

  When I’m done, I stand and offer Norah my hand. “Let’s go up to the roof and watch the sun set over the sea while eating grapes and drinking local Greek wine, shall we?”

  The sky overhead has darkened to royal blue, already twinkling with stars. But the western horizon writhes with intense color. A line of crimson sits atop a steel gray ocean. Above, layers of orange bleed to yellows, then fade to a thousand varieties of pink before blending into periwinkle and lavender blues. In the middle of all of it sits the sun’s disk, sinking slowly beneath the watery line at the planet’s edge.

  It’s quiet up here above everything. We have an unobstructed view in every direction, from the olive groves behind us to the island of Mykonos ahead, the town coming to life with tourists just arriving from a gigantic cruise ship that dropped anchor offshore. The wind has died down, allowing the sounds of seabirds nesting on the cliffs beneath the villa to rise up to our ears. They’re coming in to roost, calling out, squawking a last “good night” before succumbing to darkness and sleep.

  Norah and I sit together, hand in hand in silence, just taking in the beauty of this place. It occurs to me that she’s the first person who I can comfortably sit in silence with, not needing to fill the air. It also occurs to me that this is the first time since we’ve been together that we haven’t had some spectacle of drama or wrenching anxiety over our heads. For the first time in a long time, I feel like we have a smooth path ahead of us. The coronation is happening in just a few weeks. Norah and I will select a wedding date, probably for some time before Christmas. And after that, we should be able to settle into a reasonable routine.

  Once the sun finally sinks into the sea, plunging us in shadows, lit only from a million twinkling stars overhead, I share my musings with Norah.

  She listens, still holding my hand. When I’m done, she turns to me in the darkness. “I’m really glad you’ve had a few minutes of peace to enjoy, aside from all the crazy. And I’m just sorry that I have to be the one to bring it all crashing down on your pretty, princely head.”

  She’s going to say something smart, making fun of me and my meandering philosophizing.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  The words hang in the darkness a moment before they register. She must be joking. It’s dark, and I can’t see her expression clearly enough to tell if she’s joking. Hell, I can’t tell when she’s joking when I can see her clearly.

  “Did you hear me?” Norah asks. “Or have you had a stroke? You stopped breathing.”

  She’s not joking.

  “How do you know?” I ask, which seems a reasonable question.

  “I suspected, based on how odd I’m feeling. I asked Duncan to bring a pregnancy test back from his trip to Chora last night. It turned up positive.”

  Oh shit.

  It occurs to me that this is a royal mess. We just announced our engagement a few days ago. There’s a tradition—a royal protocol—that requires us to wait several months before the wedding. We can’t get married too soon after the coronation, for practicality’s sake. It takes months of planning to prepare for a royal ceremony like a wedding or coronation.

  The scandal around this would be huge. I can see the headlines now, with “Royally Knocked-Up” being at the top of the list of tacky puns the tabloids will trot out to make the most of our situation.

  And then there will be the more malicious types who will speculate that the kid isn’t mine.

  Oh shit.

  “Say something,” Norah says, her tone impassive.

  I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do. “Any clue how far along you are?”

  “No,” she replies. “Not long, though. Maybe a few weeks.”

  If we get married next week, we might be able to convincingly pull off the story that the baby arrived early. “Shotgun Royal Wedding!” That’s what Today’s Mail will lead with. That or, “An Unexpected Bundle has the Randy Royals Rushing Down the Aisle.”

  Oh shit. Norah said it earlier: it’s time for some new traditions. Screw protocol and practicality—we’re getting married before the coronation. “How do you feel about a royal shotgun wedding?” I ask Norah. “We’ll have to skip some of the carriage rides and beefeaters on parade, but we’ll still have a royal throw down—just a slightly smaller one than originally anticipated.”

  Norah chuckles into the cooling night air. “That’s fine with me,” she says. “A relief, actually. I was afraid I was going to have to compete with your mother for who could deliver the largest worldwide television viewing audience in history. I just don’t think a billion people care much about seeing me get married. Her wedding was the event of the decade.”

  My mother is going to go into apoplexy when she hears this news. I’m going to need to tell her as soon as possible so she can get started on the necessary plans, but not before we have all the information. “Tomorrow we’re flying to Athens to go see a doctor,” I say. “No arguments. We need to know what’s what before we tell another soul.”

  She sighs again. “I’m in perfect agreement with both those ideas.”

  15

  Norah

  My stomach queasiness is back with a vengeance, exacerbated by an early morning speedboat trip to Mykonos and a quick, up-and-down flight to Athens. The city is hot, crowded, stinking of people, food, and diesel fumes as we motor in a hired limo from the airport across town to the suburbs, headed to an OBGYN’s office selected by Owen on the recommendation of his cousin, who lives here and knows everyone.

  “His patients are aristocracy and shipping tycoons,” Owen says, trying to reassure me as Duncan navigates us into a valet parking area. “He’s supposed to be very good, and very discreet.”

  The waiting room décor has an air of exclusivity, rather than the cold, clinical feel of physicians’ offices at home in America. Lovely paintings hang on the walls, and a couple of Greek amphorae that have the appearance of authenticity rather than reproductions sit atop pedestals.

  “Symbolic,” Owen observes, passing one of those on his way to check me in.

  When he returns to my side it’s with a clipboard and pencil, to complete a short questionnaire regarding my medical history.

  Before I can complete the questionnaire, I’m called by a uniformed nurse who smiles at me. “The first thing we’ll do is get a blood sample,” the nurse says, showing me to a padded chair equipped with all the tools of the phlebotomist’s trade. She does the work herself, finding a vein effortlessly, filling two vials.

  I expect to be handed a cup to pee in before being examined by the nurse, but am astonished when the doctor himself appears straight away. He introduces himself as Dr. Octavio Papadopoulos, which has such a nice ring to it, it makes me laugh. He sits, facing me in his rolling doctor’s chair. “You came to me today to see if you’re pregnant. Yes?” he asks in a heavy Greek accent.

  He’s got a big smile, and a big personality to go along with it.

  I nod.

  He reaches forward, taking my hands in his. His hands are huge, soft, and warm. There’s something comforting in his touch. He examines my nails and the skin on the back of my hands, pressing his thumb into the pad
of my hand, then pinching the skin between my knuckles. “You’re dehydrated,” he pronounces. “You must drink three times as much water as you drink now.”

  With this pronouncement, he looks into my eyes, pulling my lower eyelid down to examine the color below. “And you’re anemic. You must eat three servings of leafy green vegetables every day. Broccoli and spinach are ideal, along with at least one serving of lean, red meat. You’re American?” he asks.

  Again, I nod.

  “You people eat like shit. Only fresh fruits and vegetables from now on. Only good-quality meats. No more McDonald’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  “I don’t eat that stuff anyway. I eat pretty well,” I say defensively.

  “Eat better,” he pronounces. He hands me a plastic cup, pointing toward a toilet across the hall. “Put the sample in the window when you’re done.”

  Once I’ve produced the sample and returned to the office, I find him setting up an ultrasound machine. “My nurse has gone to fetch your partner,” he says. “Hop up on the table and show me your belly.”

  A moment later, Owen appears in the doorway. The doctor repeats his introductions, then adds, “I know who you are. We’ll act as if you’re both strangers for the sake of professionalism.”

  Owen smiles, amused with the man, slipping his hand into mine as he moves in close beside me.

  The gel is cold on my belly, but otherwise the examination is painless. The doctor smiles, finding what he’s looking for. “Marvelous,” he says. “Yes, you’re exceedingly pregnant.”

  “How far along?” Owen asks, his eyes glued to the monitor, looking for something recognizable in the puzzle of digital fuzz.