by Melinda Minx
I can see the anger swimming just below the surface. I worry that if I tell him the truth, he might actually have another stroke.
I squeeze his shoulder and say, “We’re not sure yet, Papa, but we’re doing our damndest to find the bastards and bring them in.”
He lets out a long sigh, and the doctor says, “We need to run tests now. Would you mind stepping aside for a few minutes?”
“Yes, fine,” he says. “If it gets me out of this bed sooner, do what you must.”
I take Jane’s hand and escort her from the room into the hallway. I can still taste her on my lips, and even though my father just woke up and seems like he’ll be fine―and even though there was just an attempted coup by my cousin, a family member that I thought I could trust―the most astonishing thing that happened to me this morning is Jane agreeing to marry me.
“Did you mean what you said?” I ask. “Or were you just lifting the king’s spirits?”
“What girl doesn’t want to become a princess?” she says.
“You don’t just get to ‘become a princess,’” I say. “You have to marry me.”
She laughs. “Are you saying that’s a bad thing?”
“You might have to marry me sooner rather than later. We need a show of strength after the coup.”
“So, you’re just using me as a political tool?”
“Being a princess can be considered a political tool,” I say. “That’s part of the deal. I have to go public, as well, so it’s not all roses for me either.”
She meets my eyes.
“But, if it means waking up and looking into those eyes every morning, then it’s worth everything.”
She giggles. “Did you rehearse that one, Dick?”
I grin. “It just came to me.”
“If I get to live in the palace,” she says, “then―”
I draw her to me and kiss her again. She can joke about the palace all she wants, but she better be marrying me for me, and for no other reason.
We finally pull away from one another. My heart is racing and my cock is hard again. “If you marry me,” I say, “it needs to be because you want to be with me. Do you understand?”
“Are you accusing me of being a gold digger―or a crown hunter, or whatever it’s called when you marry a prince?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not. But I’m putting very unreasonable time pressure on you to do this, and on the surface it may seem like an easy way to have a good life―an escape from the everyday routine―but realize you’re marrying into a coup and separatist conflict. You’re marrying into this kingdom, and inheriting all of its problems. If we’re to have any chance of surviving all that, we need to do it together, as a couple – partners – and you have to really want to be with me.”
She looks at me seriously for a long moment before smiling and nodding. “I do, Rikard. I want to be with you.”
“Good,” I say. “I needed to know you were serious.”
“So where’s the ring?” she asks, bouncing on her toes.
I scowl at her, and she laughs then. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
“There will be a formal proposal,” I say. “When the immediate crisis is over.”
“Rikard,” she says. “I really was just joking about the ring.”
“I know,” I say. “But I can’t just propose to you like some guy off the street, you realize. There are protocols to follow, and certain people must be present...my father, mother, and sister, for instance.”
She smiles. “That sounds nice, and I’m looking forward to it. Where is your mother, by the way?”
“With parliament,” I say. “Though she’ll be down any minute now that father is awake.”
16
Jane
We were given the “all clear” to leave the fallout shelter after just a few days, and Rikard formally proposed to me in the throne room.
His sister, mother, and father were there, of course. And it goes without saying that his father and mother are king and queen, but every time I see them I have to think about how absolutely crazy that is. Fireworks shot out from the hill—from the castle itself—and they lit up the Nordian winter sky as Rikard got down on one knee.
I admit I cried right away, just like a faucet left open. It was not very “royal” of me, but then I noticed Jannika was crying too—maybe even the queen, though she hid it well if she was.
Then there were all these officials there as well, including a guy with a big old-timey scroll complete with quill and ink.
After Rikard took my hand, I knew I had to say yes. I wasn’t just giving into some little girl fantasy; I was facing the man I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, and he was asking me to do just that with him.
So I let him put the ring on my finger, and we kissed in front of his family. It was somewhat odd having so many people watching, and I noticed that the moment I put the ring on, the guy with the quill and ink looked at a hand-held clock, then scrawled something into the scroll.
Rikard and I went outside onto the terrace overlooking the hill, and we spent a lot of time alone, just talking and holding each other. As the smoke from the fireworks faded, the northern lights lit up the sky. It was as if the earth itself were trying to upstage the fireworks, and also blessing our marriage.
With the ring on my finger, I had to convince my family to travel to the place that had been highlighted on the news nonstop lately because of terrorist attacks and separatist coups to attend the wedding. Still, my mom and brother agreed to come. My dad, who up until then had never been a very big part of my life, also agreed to come.
Even one of my uncles and two of my aunts decided to come.
My best friend Dina, however, couldn’t come. I promised her that I’d fly her here to visit as soon as she was able to, and hopefully it would be after all the scary stuff had been cleared up.
Rikard agreed to put them up in super fancy hotel rooms―though none of them were as fancy as the room Rikard has me had arranged for me. We still haven’t gone any farther than kissing. We decided that since we’re getting married just a week after meeting each other, we might as well wait until our wedding night.
“You’re sure Magnus is straight?” Jake, my brother, asks me.
“I told you I could ask―”
“No,” he hisses. “Please don’t ask.”
“Aren’t you supposed to have gaydar?” I ask, laughing.
I expect him to roll his eyes at me, but he leans in and gives me a serious look. “It doesn’t work on Europeans. My gaydar is only calibrated for Americans. Straight Europeans―especially Nordians― do things that would be considered gay as hell in America, but still be considered straight as an arrow.
“Like what?” I ask. “I’ve never seen Rikard do anything that could be considered ‘gay as hell.’”
“Like drinking tea out of those cute as hell little cups.”
“That’s tradition, though,” I say.
“I know!” he says. “But if you saw two big strong American soldiers doing that, wouldn’t you think they were gay?”
“Okay,” I agree. “I get your point.”
I decide I’m just going to ask Rikard straight up about Magnus and not tell Jake that I did. We’ve had the “Is Magnus gay?” conversation something like five times since he first laid eyes on the guy.
“Sorry,” Jake says. “I need to focus one hundred percent on your hair now.”
Jake is a stylist back home. He does hair and makeup for some really famous people. I always knew I’d get him to make me look incredible for my wedding, but I just never thought the wedding would take place in the Nordian Palace.
“I’m going to make you look like Princess Barbie when I’m done with you,” Jake says, grinning proudly.
I’m already wearing my wedding dress. It’s white as snow, and it’s so long that I’m worried I won’t even be able to walk in it. It’s made out of silk and satin, and inlaid with hundreds of real diamonds―each one is worth more
than a year’s salary as an adjunct professor.
I technically don’t own the dress―Rikard’s sister Jannika explained it to me―the dress stays in the family and is to be worn by whomever marries the man first in line for the throne. It also could be worn by the princess if she’s first in line and marries a commoner man. It’s already been worn by generations of princesses and queens, Rikard’s mother included. It feels almost wrong for me to be wearing something so valuable and with so much history behind it.
I noticed a little bit of sadness in her eyes when Jannika told me she’d dreamt of wearing it as a little girl, but she smiled with genuine enthusiasm and told me how happy she was for me and her brother.
“I still can’t believe this dress,” Jake says. “It’s going to totally ruin all of the red carpet events for me. It’s going to look like everyone is just wearing rags after seeing you in this dress.”
He’s building my hair up into one of the most intricate up-dos I’ve ever seen, and my makeup looks just perfect. It’s smoothed my otherwise blemished skin into something like fine porcelain or china, and my eyes are framed in gold and black outlines.
I’m wearing this huge Lapis Lazuli jewel around my neck―another Nordgaard family jewel―and Jake is blending eyeshadow together to try to match the color of the stone.
“Perfect,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
I close them and feel the brush pressing gently against my eyelid. When I open them, it feels like it’s all come together.
“Yes,” he says, a big smile lighting up his face. “Now you really are a princess.”
We’re being married in the Cathedral of King Eirik, which is the largest cathedral in Europe. It makes the Kölner Dom look like a toy. The ceilings are so high that it’s impossible to clearly see all the ornate paintings decorating them. Rikard told me this was done intentionally, suggesting that the paintings were for God alone, and not to be seen by mortal eyes.
The high, vaulted ceilings help the organ’s chords echo Here Comes the Bride through the chapel like it’s music drifting down from the sky.
The stained glass windows are some of the largest and most ornate in the world, and the light streaming through them is basked in brilliant purples and greens and reds. The king is sitting on a throne, which has been moved into the cathedral for the wedding. He’s just off to the side of the altar, opposite the priest.
The queen is sitting at the king’s side on a less ornate throne with a slightly smaller-built back.
Everything is perfect, and it’s all for me – for us. I walk down the aisle, and I see that there are thousands of people in attendance. I realize that I’ve suddenly become like Princess Diana―everyone wants to pretend they are me. All the photos being taken are going to be uploaded to fashion and gossip magazines. I’m going to become a household name.
I almost want to say to them in a pathetic voice, “I’m just an adjunct professor! I’m an anthropologist, and it’s not sexy or fashionable at all!”
But no. In just under an hour, that will no longer be true. I will be a princess. The wedding vows will be like a spell, but the kiss won’t turn the prince from a frog into a man. Instead, it will transform me from a lowly commoner into the princess who everyone admires.
A literal dream come true.
There are no less than eight women―second and third cousins of Rikard―holding up the train of my dress. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to walk, but it feels like I’m gliding down the aisle. At least I know my hair and makeup looks perfect, so I stand up straight and tall, and I do my best to actually look like a princess.
I smile as wide as I can as I walk forward―but not too wide that I’d risk messing up any of the makeup.
Rikard is standing at the altar, but he’s so far away I can’t even make out his face. The cathedral is that huge, and the aisle is that long.
After a few minutes of slowly walking forward up the aisle and passing row after row of guests, I can see more than just the shape of his handsome, square jaw. He’s wearing a tuxedo. It perfectly frames his tall, strongly muscled body. He’s wearing his crown, which he told me he has only done once or twice in his life, and he’s holding a sword―that’s part of the royal tradition―but his eyes are locked on me.
I make out the whites of his eyes and the pearly brightness of his teeth, and as I move closer I can see the full details of his face. He winks at me, gripping his sword in one hand, and I smile back. My heart flutters in my chest.
The priest guides me to where I’m meant to stand, and I stop a few paces away from Rikard, facing him. We look at each other, trying our best to ignore the thousands of other people sharing this massive space with us.
I do spare a glance over at the front pew, and I see my mother crying. My father is stone-faced, but he looks at least a little proud of me. Or maybe I’m just projecting what I hope he feels.
The priest begins speaking―in Old Nordian. I’ve been told it sounds a lot like Icelandic and German had a baby, but I don’t even know what the Icelandic language sounds like. I just hear a lot of English-sounding ‘th’ sounds mixed with guttural German sounds. There’s a sing-songy tone on top of it all, which makes it sound a lot more melodic than German, but I still don’t understand a word he’s saying.
Jannika gave me a translation of what the priest would be saying before the wedding, so I read and memorized it. I know what he’s saying, but I don’t know which part he is saying, and I have no clue how far into it he is.
I can tell Rikard understands because he’s nodding at certain parts of it, and smiling at others. When it finally ends, the priest switches to English.
“We are gathered here…” he says, but I tune him out and look up at Rikard. My prince. I know I’m probably jumping into things, but I’ve honestly never felt like this about someone before. I’ve felt lust, and I’ve felt what I thought was love at first sight, but it has never felt like this. Not even close. My chest tightens whenever I see him, and my stomach feels like I’m falling off a cliff, but then when he smiles or looks at me, all of that tightness disappears, and it feels like I’m flying.
I feel that way now as I look at him standing there beside me at the altar, and none of the princess stuff or the cameras matter to me now. It’s him I want, and I’m about to get him.
We exchange our vows. Mine rolls off my tongue like a spell, and then Rikard starts reciting his.
“Jane,” he says. “Many Nordian princes before me have married a commoner because it was required by law.”
He looks out at the crowd. “But that’s not why I’m marrying you. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew I had to have you. If you were already a princess, I’d have forced my father to change the laws so that I could legally marry you…”
Laughter rings from the aisles.
“This is my first official appearance as prince,” Rikard says. “Most of you outside of my family and the palace staff are only just now getting to know me. You’ll never know me alone, though. You’ll only know Jane and me. Together. There can’t be a king without his queen, nor can there be a prince without his princess, and Jane is my princess.”
The priest looks up at the king. “Does our sovereign lord, from whom God’s hand touches us, consent to this marriage?”
“He does,” the king says, his voice booming.
“May we approach?” Rikard asks.
These words are all set in stone. They are tradition, carved thousands of years ago. It’s not as if Rikard is really asking permission; it’s just something he has to say.
“You may,” the king says.
Rikard takes the sword, spins it with a flourish, and hoists it over his shoulder. He holds out his left arm, which I am supposed to take hold of. I do, and we walk side by side toward the king’s throne.
We stop a few steps short of his ornate, golden throne, which is basked in the prismatic light streaming in from the tall, stained-glass windows.
The queen just looks down at m
e with a serene expression on her face. If everything goes well, I may be in her same position twenty-five years from now, looking down at some other commoner about to become a princess.
Rikard flips his sword around, holding the sharp end toward his heart. “If my Lord on Earth or heaven should object to this union, then I swear by God I will thrust this sword through my heart.”
This again is set by tradition, but my heart races and my eyes widen when I see Rikard holding the blade so closely to his body. He really sounds like he means it.
The king stands up from his throne. I can see visible strain in his face as he stands, but he hides any signs of fatigue in the rest of his body―meaning only the queen, Rikard, and I have seen the weakness.
He steps toward Rikard, and he grasps the hilt of the blade. “Release your sword.”
Rikard lets go of the blade, and the king takes it from him, holding it steadily by the hilt. “Bow before me, Rikard Nordgaard and Jane Caswell.”
We both bow down onto one knee, lowering our heads.
I see the light hit the blade as the king lowers it onto Rikard’s shoulder. “You are not only my son, but a son of Nordia. Do you swear to guard over your country and your people, until death releases you?”
“I swear it,” Rikard says.
The king places the blade on Rikard’s other shoulder, and he turns his head toward the crowd. “He swears it!”
Everyone responds in a low, monotone voice by repeating, “He swears it.”
Then the king’s polished boots step in front of me, and he looks down at me. I’m not supposed to look up at him, so I focus on the buckles of his boots as I feel the sword touch my shoulder.
“You bowed down to me as a common woman,” the king says. “But you will rise as my daughter, and as Princess of Nordia. Do you swear to be faithful to your new country, and to raise heirs who may one day take my place?”
“I swear it,” I say. I nearly sigh in audible relief that my voice didn’t crack or waver.
“She swears it!” he shouts.