by Lexi Whitlow
While I would generally revolt against anyone regimenting any of my choices, it’s hard to complain when the regimen is so delicious.
Owen pops an olive in his mouth, chews the succulent, salty fruit, then spits the seed into a bowl by his plate. “I’m going to bring the cook home with us,” he says. “I think Med cuisine is the answer to your nutritional deficits, and I love it. The royal menu could do with a makeover. If we’re changing things up, let’s start with the basics. We should put avocado trees in the royal greenhouses.”
“That’s revolutionary talk,” I tease. “You’ll have the peasants rising up with pitchforks.”
Owen grins at me.
A second later my phone, sitting on the table beside us, vibrates. I’ve been sending family and friends photos from our holiday. I posted an entire album of pics from the olive grove excursion, including the Greek ruins. Chantal in Paris has been conversing back and forth with me all day. My mother has hearted everything I’ve posted. My father likes them, too.
I lift the phone to have a look. The message isn’t from Chantal, or Sinead, or even my mother. It’s from Eric.
Happy holiday. And fuck you, cunt. Pretty pictures. Pretty vapid. Your pretty prince’s henchmen are pretty clueless. I’m back in Anglesey after only 72 hours away. Border security here is worse than west Texas. Amazing how easy it is to smuggle contraband in. Sleep tight, Duchess. See you soon.
I shiver in my seat. This isn’t the Eric I knew. This is some twisted, disturbed version of my childhood friend.
“What is it?” Owen asks.
I lay the phone down on the table, pushing it across toward him.
Owen lifts the phone, reading the message. His face draws tight, angry. A moment later he summons Duncan, showing him the text. “Get the SS on this. I want him found and arrested.”
When Duncan is gone, Owen returns to me. “He can’t get at you,” he says. “I promise you. You’re safe.”
I hope he’s right. If Eric was able to get back in so quickly, with so little effort, I wonder. And I wonder how, after Owen blocked him from my phone, he was able to get through again.
“He got a new phone,” Owen says. “New phone, new profile. He can get new devices and create new profiles, starting over fresh as many times as he pleases.” Owen sighs with resignation. “I hoped he’d give up and go away. That was wishful thinking.”
The next morning, the messages keep coming without abatement. Eric teases—threateningly—with photographs taken just outside the palace gates, showing him engaged in easy, lighthearted conversation with palace guards.
Another series of texts come through in the late afternoon, featuring a video of Eric on tour with a group, being shown around the interior of the palace. At one point in the video, Owen’s mother, Her Royal Highness Princess Dalia, makes a brief appearance to welcome the crowd of tourists.
Eric shakes her hand, bowing, then turns to his camera, grinning coldly. “See how close I can get? I could have slit her throat or blown her brains out.” He winks at the camera. “Saving my energy for the ones I love most.”
Owen is livid—rightfully so. He and Duncan get on the line with the palace’s head of security, along with the chief of the SS, the chief of police for Cymrea, and the chief of border security. They all point the finger at one another, no one taking responsibility—save Duncan, who admits he should have circulated a photo of Eric to every agency in the country.
“I need each of you to work cooperatively,” Owen states calmly. “Share information. I don’t care what agency picks him up. Every agency will get credit. Get him. I want him off the streets. Am I understood?”
A half-dozen “yes, sirs” rattle over the long-distance line.
Owen has also seen to increased security at the palace and a cessation of public tours until this issue is resolved.
“We need to go home,” Owen says to me, putting his phone down. “There’s so much going on that needs my attention.”
I need his attention, too. I need the quiet of our rooftop sunsets, and the lack of court protocol hanging like a sword over my head. When we go back it’s going to be nothing but outraged courtiers and spin doctors. I’m going to be thrown into the fire. I just want a few more days of fantastic escapism offered by these islands and their exquisite seaside views.
“I’ve got a country to run,” Owen says, pleading. “Right now, that country has been invaded by a man who wants to hurt my wife and unborn children. I need to do something about that. I’ve also got meetings piling up, a trade deal to negotiate with the Brits, and I really want to sit down with my mother and figure out what our first steps are with moving the wedding up and announcing the pregnancy.”
“Just a few more days,” I beg. “Just a few more days of just us without the world crowding in.”
Owen heaves a frustrated sigh. “Duchess, we have to go home. This issue with Wembley is serious. All these issues are serious. I’m king. It’s my duty to deal with it all.”
I could pout. I want to. I could fume, and that might be fun. But at the end of the day I know Owen is right: we can’t hide ourselves away on a tiny island in the Aegean, ignoring the world or the messes swirling around us like hungry sharks.
I’m dreading what Owen’s mother will say. She’s held this monarchy together through infidelity, untimely deaths, insanity, and a deposed king. She’s done it on the sheer force of her will and her incandescently bright personality alone. One more self-inflicted crisis may be enough to cause her to throw up her hands and run screaming. She has the right to do that now that she’s resigned as co-regent and Owen is acting king, and I won’t blame her a bit if that’s exactly what she does.
Owen is unsuccessful in convincing the villa’s cook to abandon her family and move to Cymrea to work at the palace. She sends us on our way with bags of avocados and almonds, cases of jarred olives, gallons of olive oil, and an address for a Mediterranean food importer in London who can work with the palace chef to keep Owen happily supplied with all the tabbouleh and hummus his heart desires.
The return trip to Anglesey is mercifully brief, as I sleep through most of the flight. As we circle Cymrea on our landing approach, I peer out the window, looking down on the fairytale landscape of my adopted home. Gray slate rooftops shine in the sun. The spires of countless churches and the cathedral reach into the sky with grandeur. The narrow, cobbled lanes meandering through the oldest part of the city harken back to a much simpler era, when people walked everywhere and when they all knew their neighbors. It’s still like that in much of Anglesey. Cymrea is a safe city, peopled by generally contented residents who value their traditions.
I wonder what in the world they’re going to make of me and the scandal I’m about to dump on the head of their much-loved, new king-to-be?
I hope they don’t hang me in effigy in Cathedral Square.
When the plane lands, we’re met on the tarmac by a fleet of royal limos bearing heavy security. An imposing man in a crisp, three-piece suit steps forward in front of the rest of the royal guard. Owen greets him with a brief handshake, then demands “an update.”
The man is never introduced to me, but he rides with us to the palace in our limo, giving Owen a full report on everything that has not been accomplished in the days since Eric slipped back into Anglesey and began thumbing his nose at every attempt to find and detain him.
The man reveals that so far, they have no idea where he is. Geo-tracking is of no use because he’s using disposable phones he purchased abroad (they’re illegal in Anglesey). As soon as he drops a text or video, he also drops the phone in the trash.
“He’s obviously using false identification and cash,” the man says. “This makes him nearly impossible to find.”
“We’ve got his image,” Owen says. “We know what he looks like. Have we broadcast an alert on television and on the Anglesey emergency network?”
The man blinks, swallowing hard. “No, sir,” he replies. “That felt… excessive.”
Owen’s jaw flexes tight. “Excessive?” he asks, repeating the word through clenched teeth. “This man has issued death threats against my fiancée. He discussed slashing my mother’s throat and putting a bullet in her head. He’s guilty of high crimes against the Crown. Do whatever it takes to find him.”
The man clears his throat nervously. “Sir, perhaps its best to proceed cautiously. While the man may be guilty of high crimes, he has not been found guilty. Further, he’s a U.S citizen, and as such he poses an awkward diplomatic problem. The embassy is…”
“I said find him!” Owen snaps. “I don’t give a shit about courts or lawyers, and I don’t give a shit about the Americans. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness. Perfectly.”
I’ve never seen Owen angry before. It’s frightening. Based on the shocked expression stretching the face of the man sitting across from us, he’s never seen Owen angry, either. He looks like he just got punched in the gut.
After a few moments of awkward, very tense silence, Owen turns to me. “Until this is sorted out, I want you to stay in the royal residence. No exploring other parts of the palace or taking walks in the gardens. Stay inside and keep security near you always.”
“But I have to…”
“You have to do this,” Owen interrupts. “We don’t even know that he hasn’t hidden himself somewhere on the grounds or even inside the palace itself. He could be anywhere. It’s not safe.”
He returns his address to the man facing him. “Call in however many men you need from the Army. No one sleeps until every single room, corridor, cabinet, and sock drawer in the palace has been searched and secured. Then move to the outbuildings and the grounds. I want this organized immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
18
Owen
Mother stands at the front steps alongside Townsend, my valet, and half a dozen other staff ready to welcome us home. She’s wearing a grave expression as well as her favorite power suit. She calls that look (a feminized version of a man’s double-breasted business suit), her “roll with the big boys’ body armor.” It’s appropriate. I know she’s up to speed on the situation with Wembley, as she gets the same security updates and briefings I receive.
“What a clusterfuck,” she says, hugging me as soon as I step out of the car. “I’m glad you’re home, as Neville there doesn’t take instructions from me anymore.”
She glares past me at Neville Chambers, the head of secret service.
“He updated me in the car,” I say. “What did you ask him to do?”
“I told him to put that deplorable creature’s face on a wanted poster and broadcast it from here to the North Sea. He said he couldn’t do it.”
I huff in frustration. “Well, he’s doing it now,” I say. “I just chewed his ear off for not doing it sooner.”
Mother smiles. “Well done.”
“Hold onto that happy thought,” I say. “As soon as Norah and I get settled in, we all need to talk. We have another situation brewing.”
Mother’s smile instantly vanishes. Her shoulders slump. “Oh good Lord. What now?”
“Upstairs,” I say. “In the residence. Behind closed doors.”
Norah slips up beside me, shrinking under my arm as if she wants to disappear.
“Darling, you look pale,” Mother observes, then her face freezes. She blinks. She looks at me, then back to Norah, then back to me. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaims. “Could this week get any worse?”
“Be careful what you ask for,” I warn her. “There’s more to tell.”
We meet in my library, as it’s swept daily for listening devices. Mother won’t sit down, so neither do I. Norah, on the other hand, is happy to sit as far away on the other side of the room as she can.
“I know how this happened,” Mother says. “What I want to know is how in the hell did this happen?”
It’s time to come clean about everything.
“We met in Paris in April,” I say. “We met. I spent the night. I left. I really didn’t expect we’d ever see one another again.”
Mother rolls her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. “One of your anonymous little excursions to the other side of the wall. Son, if I told you once, I told you a thousand times: wear a condom!”
“Yeah, thank you,” I say. “Not helpful.”
Mother turns to Norah, walking right up to her, looming over her. “So, what’s your story in all of this? How did you find out who he was? How did you track him down?”
“I didn’t track him down. He tracked me down,” Norah replies. “Persistently.”
“It’s true,” I say. “It was all just dumb luck. She was in the country staying with a friend of hers from college at about the same time you organized that ridiculous yacht party. Her friends had an invitation to the party at Brynterion that weekend. Duncan saw Norah there, recognized her from Paris, and arranged for her and her friend to come on the cruise. That’s when we reconnected.”
“That was less than a month ago,” Mother says. “You two decided to get engaged the second you reconnected?”
“Not exactly,” I say, hedging. “We came to an arrangement at first.” I look to Norah, who’s staring back at me like a deer in the headlights. “It was nothing but a business arrangement designed to last only until we got Lloyd to come to his senses.”
Mother finally sits down. She’s absolutely overwhelmed.
“Things kept spiraling with him, and at the same time, I realized I was developing genuine feelings for Norah. I told you that much.”
She nods. “Yes, I recall that,” she says. “You managed to avoid the news that she’s pregnant, however.”
“We just found out,” I say. “Just a few days ago.”
Mother turns to Norah again. “You’re at least nine weeks pregnant and you only figured it out a few days ago? How can that be?”
Norah shrugs. “I was on the pill,” she says. “Sometimes I don’t get periods. I didn’t think anything of it, especially with everything else going on.”
“Ten weeks,” I tell my mother. “The doctor said nine or ten weeks.”
“You’re going to be a plump bride,” Mother observes wryly. “I think it’s time to bring back the Empire waist.”
“And we’re having twins,” I say, finally spilling the news.
Mother turns slowly toward me, her jaw slack and her eyes wide. “Twins?” she repeats.
I nod, waiting.
Mother laughs. She laughs right out loud. She laughs, giggling, until she’s breathless, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. When she finally regains her composure, she sighs heavily, throwing up her hands. “Well,” she says, “this is going to be fun to sort out.”
The three of us sit quietly together, letting Mother process the news. In a few moments she asks, “Have you told anyone else?”
Norah and I both shake our heads, then I add, “Duncan probably knows, and the doctor who did the ultrasound knows.”
“I’m assuming you paid him handsomely for his silence on the matter?”
“He gave me his assurances,” I reply. “He didn’t charge extra for them. I trust him.”
“You’re a fool,” Mother says flippantly. “How did you find him?”
“Philip in Athens referred him.”
“So, your cousin Philip probably knows also, or at least suspects. Plus all the housekeepers and staff at the villa. Secrets get out, Son. There’s no way to keep them when we live in a goldfish bowl.”
She’s right, of course. She’s always right. “What do we do?”
Mother stands up, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. “We get you two quietly, legally married as soon as possible. We announce the fast-tracked, official wedding, which probably can’t be held in the cathedral because the archbishop won’t allow it, then we announce the babies. And then we hold the coronation as scheduled.”
“That gives us a month,” I say. “Can we do it all that fast?�
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Mother cocks her head at me, smiling dryly. “Is that a challenge?”
“Yes,” I quip. “I challenge you to handle the press and make them spin all this as good news.”
“Count on it,” Mother promises, smirking smartly. “I’m going to go make some phone calls now. You two try not to cook up any more outrages in my absence. I’ll be back with a justice of the peace before dark.”
Once Mother is gone, I go to Norah, who’s still cowering in the corner. “That went remarkably well,” I tell her, slipping my hands around hers, crouching in front of her. “Don’t you think?”
She nods anxiously. “Was she serious about the justice of the peace?”
“My mother doesn’t joke about anything,” I say. “Are you ready to get married?”
“Are you?” she asks.
“Been ready,” I say, smiling up into her big blue eyes. “Can’t wait. And then we’ll do it all over again with the guests, the dress, the cake, and the cameras. Alright?”
“I hope your mother doesn’t hate me for ruining the big church wedding she was planning.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret: my mother hates the archbishop. She abhors the idea of giving him the satisfaction of lording over another royal wedding like he lorded over hers. I think she may be happy about that detail. We’ll still do the carriage ride around town, playing to the crowds, but we can skip the bowing and scraping and sermons. That works better for me.”
“Me too,” Norah agrees, allowing herself a small smile. “I never wanted a church wedding, or a big wedding. Just something nice for family and friends.”
I laugh. “Right,” I say. “We’re still royals. It’s a long list, even pared down to a fraction.”
