by K. S. Thomas
“I get the picture.” She waves her hand for him to move on, then apparently gets hung up on another thought, “Also, there are ghosts in the castle?”
He ignores her and carries on as if she never posed another question. “At the start of her shift, Petra gets a digital copy of your day sent to her directly from Katia. And then, because she’s cool, she forwarded said digital copy to me.” He grins. “Apparently, she heard from Frederick in the kitchen that you were kind, but naïve. And definitely needed looking after. So, when she saw what the queen of gruesome had in store for you, she acted.”
“Good lord, what did she have in store for me beyond that hideous dress?”
Neither Soren nor I get to answer her yet. The doors slide open yet again. It’s our turn to exit.
“Are we in an underground parking garage?” Greer hisses as we step out of the elevator.
“It’s the royal garage. And it is underground.” I shrug. “So, sort of.”
“It’s creepy,” she whispers, folding in closer at my side. “One family shouldn’t have this many cars.”
“This is where the staff parks,” Soren explains. “The royal cars are parked along the back wall. But only the most frequently used ones that the drivers need access to. There’s a second floor, down below, where the rest are stored.”
“Whose car is that?” she asks, pointing at the small, green Citroën Ente we’re approaching.
“That’s mine.” Soren dangles his keys for show.
“But of course, it is.” She grins.
“That better be the extent of your commentary or I’m not planning future rescue missions on your behalf. And trust me, you’re going to need them if the days to come are anything like this one.”
Greer zips it for the time being. She doesn’t even make a peep when it falls to her to cram into the backseat, given her shorter legs and petite frame.
Only when we’re all inside, engine humming in a high pitch that ought to worry us but doesn’t faze Soren, as we zoom through the security gates toward daylight and public roads, does she resume the pursuit of her curiosities.
“Seriously, though,” she says, one hand on the back of each of our seats. “What was on that schedule?”
“Well, let’s see,” Soren starts, as if he’s trying to recall the most heinous parts first. “There was a food tasting scheduled in place of lunch where you were meant to try all of Linden’s most traditional meals, none of which have been served in about a hundred years, at least not with the intent of consumption, because they’re disgusting.”
I can see her scowl in the rearview mirror.
“You had etiquette lessons lined up before that,” I inform her.
“Rude!” she gasps. “I’m perfectly skilled in etiquette.”
“You released a rat into the castle,” Soren points out dryly.
“Not the whole castle,” she argues. “Only in my suite. It’s not like he’s going to leave. Trust me. He’s not the active sort of rat. A steady stream of oatmeal and he’s not going to go any farther than his next best napping spot.”
“I’m just saying, by the royal wench’s standards, bringing a rat doesn’t invoke a sense of confidence where your levels of etiquette are concerned.” Soren laughs to himself. The fact Greer brought Cheese has been amusing him non-stop since he found out. He just keeps muttering the word ‘genius’ under his breath over and over, whenever he has a second to dwell on it.
“Fine, the rat thing could confuse someone who isn’t familiar with Cheese and his habits,” Greer concedes. “What else? Or was that it?”
“It was not,” I tell her. “You also had appointments to take a guided tour of dead men portraits or as it is more officially known, The Kings of Past Gallery, which you were going to be quizzed on after.”
Soren nods. “I saw the test. There was a note to make you repeat it until you could remember all the kings’ names and the years in which they reigned over Linden.”
She snorts. “That couldn’t have been too hard. Aren’t like half of them named Apsel?”
I laugh. “I guess you would have had that going for you.”
“Make jokes now, but you’re probably not getting out of that test in the long run,” Soren tells her. “I have a feeling the queen of eternal torment has plans to make you fluent in all of Linden’s history. It would be just the sort of torture she could inflict on you under the guise of showing support for the future queen.”
“If that’s all she’s got, I’m not worried.” She even relaxes enough to slip back into the seat and drop her hands into her lap. “I happen to like history and reading and learning, and as far as my memory’s concerned, it’s pretty strong given I’m in the habit of learning new lines on a regular basis.”
“Lines?” Soren asks.
“Cut the crap, Lachlan told me he told you.”
He glares at me. “Do you tell her everything?”
“She’s the one I had a secret with that I told you about. Why are you mad?”
She pops back up to stick her head between us, this time leaning in closer to Soren. “Eh-ve-ry-thing,” she whispers dramatically in his ear.
He tries to brush her off, but she’s too fast and already flopping back into the backseat, laughing to herself.
“Do you remember where you’re going?” I cut in before he can come up with a retort for Greer. I have a feeling this back and forth will be a constant with them. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I like how easily she’s fitting into my world. On the other, it’s bugging me how naturally she’s getting on with Soren. And I know the reason it’s bugging me is an altogether bad reason. Because I’m jealous. And that is obviously not an appropriate reaction to have when faced with my fake fiancée making friends with my oldest friend in Linden.
“Of course, I remember where I’m going,” Soren scoffs.
“Then why didn’t you turn left at the last intersection?”
He makes a face. “Because I forgot where I was going,” he grumbles, flipping on his signal to turn around. “It’s all her fault. She’s distracting me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, sounding not remotely sorry, “I didn’t realize you didn’t have the brain capacity to drive and talk at the same time. I’ll bring a book next time I know I’m getting in the car with you.”
I turn back, frowning at her. “I’m still here. You can talk to me.” Yeah. Definitely jealous. And apparently, not doing anything to rein it in either.
“You haven’t really done much talking. I wasn’t really sure what the extent of Soren’s personal assistant duties entailed. Kind of seemed like conversing on your behalf was part of it given how things have been going since he joined us.” She shrugs, smirking.
“He doesn’t talk for me. He just talks a lot,” I point out the obvious. “So, it makes it seem like he’s talking for me.”
“I don’t have to talk at all!” he slams the palm of his hand against his wheel in a tantrum fit for a three-year-old.
“Might be best, since it’s interfering with your driving,” Greer deadpans. “Also,” she says, tapping me on the shoulder as if to make sure I’m the one who answers her next question, though I think that’s a given. Soren doesn’t look like he’s talking again to either of us anytime soon. Actually, his face is turning so red, I’m wondering if he’s putting off breathing as well. “Where exactly are we going to check out this wedding venue? And why are we going in Soren’s car? I thought we had to leave the castle with security and drivers and such.”
“The place we’re going is a private residence, so no security required. And Soren’s driving may leave much to be desired for, but the inconspicuousness his car provides does not.”
“Ahhh.” She nods. “Whose private residence?”
“Gerard’s.” Then I wait.
“Why are you being mean to me? You know that one-word answers do nothing for me.”
I bite back the smile fighting to conquer my entire face. “Gerard is the castle
’s head gardener. He’s been in charge of every blade of grass and every flower petal on the property since before I was born. And he just so happens to have the most magical property in all of Linden.”
I can see her face relax into a satisfied smirk in the mirror. “See? That was much better.”
I sigh. Everything really is much better. Now that she’s here.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GREER
“There you are! I was starting to worry you’d hit a snag in your great escape,” Lachlan’s dad greets us as we get out of the car. He’s not alone. Walking right beside him is an older gentleman with white curly hair that encircles his head like a wreath and a bushy beard doing much of the same to his mouth. His dark, sun-loved skin glows with the warmth of his smile and spirit, and his eyes have a kindness in them that makes me miss my father instantly.
“Your dad was in on this?” I hiss to Lachlan before we reach them.
“It was kind of his idea,” Lachlan whispers back. “Well, coming here to hide out was. Plus, he pointed out it would give us all a chance to move forward with wedding plans without Myrna’s input.”
“Wow.” I’m almost starting to feel bad for her.
“No snag, Dad. Just Soren’s driving,” Lachlan teases as he reaches his father and gives him a hug.
“Your majesty, I assure you, my driving was perfectly safe,” Soren jumps in to defend himself.
“Just your sense of direction then that was causing us problems,” I add, stepping toward the king to greet him with a curtsy. “Your majesty, such a charming surprise.”
“Greer, I must insist you call me Apsel and that you stop all formal gestures at once.” Then he looks around almost nervously before amending his statement. “Well, maybe best to stick to formal procedure when the queen is present. But when in private -”
“Apsel it is.” I smile.
“And this, my dear, is Gerard. My oldest and wisest friend. And, as it happens, the most talented man I know.” Apsel puts a hand on Gerard’s shoulder, giving it a friendly shake and smiling broadly. “Gerard, meet the beautiful woman who’s claimed my son’s heart, Greer.”
“It’s an absolute pleasure,” Gerard says, taking my hand and bringing it to his mouth, briefly brushing his lips over my skin in a kiss. “I’m so honored to have you here and welcome you to my home. It would be the greatest delight of my life if you chose to exchange your vows here.”
“The pleasure is mutual,” I tell him, returning his sweet gesture with a soft squeeze against his palm before releasing his hand. “And the honor is ours. I hear your home is absolutely magical.”
“Well.” He bows his head in a humble fashion. “It’s home to me. But I’ll let you decide how magical it is when you see for yourself.” Then, he offers me his arm which I happily take, before he starts to turn, gesturing for the other men to follow.
At first glance, the house appears simple and small. Only once inside, taking in every detail, do I start to understand its magnificence. It’s been built around the trees that stood here long before the house. Three large oaks in total, all tall and strong and ancient, bringing life to his home in a way I’ve never experienced. It’s like the trees are whispering to us. The leaves rustle as we walk past, and I swear I can feel the bark move as if eyes are following our every step, keeping watch in a loving, protective way.
All through the house’s structure, vines can be found trailing the walls and framing the windows. But the real magic is found when we step through the back door and into his garden. If it can be called that. It reminds more of a park. A botanical masterpiece spanning acres beyond the small house.
I make it three steps into the lush, green grass before I release Gerard to pause in place. I hear the tinkling sound of a small waterfall, see the colorful bursts of flowers in bloom and am welcomed by a flutter of butterflies flying overhead, and loudly declare, “Yes!”
Lachlan chuckles. “Yes?”
“Yes, I want to get married here.”
“You haven’t even seen the place,” he says, his voice hinting of a tease.
“I’ve seen enough.” Then I add, “I mean, I definitely want to see more. But I don’t need to see more to decide. This is the place. This is where we need to get married.” I sigh, taking it all in. “It’s like straight out of a fairy tale.”
“Then I suppose that makes it perfect for us,” he says, his voice dropping an octave so only I can hear it.
And it hits me. For a brief second, I nearly forgot that’s all this is. A fairy tale. A delightfully fictional story. And the happy ending of this one, won’t have me in it.
“Yes,” I agree quietly. “Just perfect.”
“Would you like me to show you the gazebo I thought you might want to use for your vows?” Gerard offers, pointing ahead.
“Oh, it would be ideal,” Apsel agrees. “How many different types of roses have you got growing on it now? Six?”
“Seven,” Gerard says. “And I have plans to introduce an eighth, though I won’t have time before the wedding.” He looks to me and Lachlan. “When did you say you were hoping to get married?”
“Two weeks from Sunday,” Lachlan answers. “We know it’s not a lot of time, but we’re eager to start our life together. And with father’s retirement around the corner, and my coronation to follow, we don’t want our wedding plans to get lost along the way.”
“Not to worry, son,” Apsel says, patting his shoulder. “We’ll have everything celebration ready in plenty of time. You two lovebirds just pick the things you want to choose for yourselves, and I’ll see to it, the rest is taken care of.”
“With the location decided on, that can’t leave much,” Soren says, tapping at his phone, taking notes, I assume.
“Well, if possible, I wouldn’t mind choosing my dress.” As soon as I say it, I hold my breath. It would be just my luck for Linden’s royals to have some sort of tradition in which the queen chooses, and after this morning, I’m certain that wouldn’t bode well for me. Not that it should matter to me one way or the other how I look at this wedding. It’s not like it’s real. I’m not an actual bride. And Lachlan is not, in fact, my groom.
But it does matter. The more I think about it, it matters to me a lot.
“Your dress!” Apsel says loudly and I’m almost certain my worst fears are about to come true. “Remind me to have a call put out to Anke.”
“Who’s Anke?” I say under my breath as we start walking again, Lachlan scooping my hand in his just as we begin to move.
“My father’s goddaughter. And also, one of Europe’s most renowned wedding dress designers,” Lachlan answers in the same tone.
“Handy.”
“It would seem so.” His mouth does the thing again it’s been doing more and more ever since we arrived. It’s like he’s not allowed to smirk or smile or grin at will here. Instead, mostly, all I catch anymore are little twitches at the corners, or what looks to be him biting the inside of his bottom lip. And I can’t help but notice how much I miss making him smirk. And smile. And grin.
“You’ll also need rings,” his father goes on in his loud baritone. “Lachlan, you and me, in the vault. Tonight, before supper. I want an official announcement complete with ring at the family dinner tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Lachlan promises. And I swear, I feel a soft pressure from his palm pressing against mine.
“What about cake?” I ask, forcing out the first words that come to mind. Anything to keep me from overanalyzing what may or may not have been intentional about the way he placed his hand against mine and whether it could mean something.
“Of course, cake would be at the top of your list,” Lachlan teases.
“You really do have an extreme interest in food.” Soren looks somewhat put off as he says it, eyes still focused on his phone. “No need to worry about cake. Celeste is already working on samples for you. Should be ready for an official tasting by Wednesday. I can sneak you down to the kitchen to discuss desig
n options tomorrow morning if you want. We can use it as another excuse to pull you out of whatever atrocious activity your schedule is lined with tomorrow.”
“Works for me.” I look to Lachlan. “Did you want in on the cake action?”
“I’m afraid I have a full schedule of my own tomorrow. But I’m more than happy to trust your judgement on all matters concerning cake.”
My steps slow momentarily. If I weren’t semi-attached to him right now, I probably would have stopped. “You’re working on a Sunday?”
“Linden is alive every day, rain or shine, Monday, Sunday or holiday,” he says, and I can tell he must have heard the words a hundred times growing up. Probably every time he thought his father ought to be free but wasn’t. Due to being king and all.
“Anything I can join you on?” I ask, curious to see more of his world now that I’m in it. “Or just watch?”
“It’ll be really boring. I have meetings most of the morning, and everyone I’m meeting with has something they’re coming to complain about,” he says. I don’t think he’s actually trying to talk me out of coming along. It sounds more like he just finds it hard to believe I’d even ask to come.
“And they all want you to fix their problems?” I ask, brushing past whether or not I’ve lost interest in tagging along. I haven’t. I plan to be at that meeting. Sitting in the back, keeping quiet as a mouse, if I must, but I want to be there. I have an inexplicable need to see him in his element.
He shakes his head. “Not exactly. I’m more of a mediator. I have to negotiate between the different parties, look for solutions neither has considered, craft compromises everyone can agree on.” He slows down. “Sometimes I don’t have to do anything. Sometimes it’s just about everyone needing to feel heard.”
“And you give them that.”
“I try to.” He turns down to meet my gaze. For a brief second, a smile starts to form on his lips before it moves into something else. Something kind, but more understated. “Look,” he says, taking the hand of mine he’s still clasping in his and lifting it to point ahead.