by Alyssa Cole
Nya giggled and bowed her head, which was a normal reaction to the weird cool dad compliment. Johan’s reaction wasn’t normal at all.
He reached out and took Nya’s hand in his. “She’s mine.”
Linus’s eyes went wide, his chuckle fading away to discomfort.
Johan let out a laugh that was a bit too loud and loosened his grip on her hand—though he didn’t let it go. “Ha-ha. Yes. That’s what a possessive weirdo would say, non? I’m joking. I’m glad you think Nya is as wonderful as I do.”
He glanced at her, grinned, hoped she was believing this terrible lie. He was so hung up on her that he couldn’t even prevaricate correctly anymore.
Scheisse de merde.
She winked at him, more of a clumsy blink really, and he called back her ideas for how he could pretend to show affection. She thought that he was faking this reaction, even after she’d brought his defenses down like a house of straw. Johan sighed with relief, then dragged his thumb slowly over the back of her hand because if she gave him a centimeter he’d take two kilometers.
He turned back to Linus, who looked pleased as punch, likely thinking about how this would help the referendum. “Where is Lukas, Forshett?” he asked. His brother usually came running to meet him when he returned home, but was mysteriously absent.
“Ach, who knows? I thought your brother was a good boy, but it seems he’s hit his rebellious streak. Fighting, missing appointments, talking back to his tutors. He slammed a door in my face!” Linus shook his head. “Laetitia would know what to do about this. She would have known what to do with you, too.”
Johan hated when Linus spoke of his mother like this, as if her death had been an unavoidable accident like a trip down a flight of stairs. The doctors had told her to slow down until they figured out what was causing her fainting spells. Johan had begged her. Linus had let her do as she wished, working herself to her limits for strangers, and here they all were now—except for her, and her heart condition that had been discovered too late.
“Well, she’s dead.” Johan didn’t realize how hard his tone was until Nya’s hand went stiff in his. He waited for her to pull her hand away, but slowly, one finger at a time, her grip tightened around his. Not to stay him—to give to him. Strength. Support. He took a deep breath. “So that means he needs us, his father and his brother, to make sure he’s okay. Has he been going to the therapist?”
“Ouay,” Linus said, without animation. He was hurt by Johan’s words. Because Johan had let his emotions rise to the surface.
A surge of guilt made Johan’s tie feel too tight. He tugged at the knot. He knew the king hadn’t really caused his mother’s death. He knew Linus still grieved, too. He should apologize.
He didn’t.
“Teenage boys are often a handful,” Nya said, breaking their awful silence. “At the orphanage, where I taught, they could sometimes seem to change overnight, even older boys who had always behaved. We called it ‘pants short, head strong syndrome.’”
Linus managed a smile. “Is there a cure for this?”
“Time and patience.” As she talked, she flipped her hand that was in Johan’s, so that his was on the bottom, and rubbed his knuckles with her thumb. She didn’t look at him—he wasn’t even sure if she knew she was doing it, which hit him that much harder. What they’d done in their bed in Njaza was one thing, but this kind of absentminded comfort was a different intimacy than he was used to.
“It will help if you stop treating him like a child,” Nya said. “Or rather, treating him in what he feels is a controlling way. Right now he’s searching for his place in the world, and the reminder of his mother’s passing has surely brought some unresolved issues to the surface.”
Hearing Nya speak calmly and professionally in an effort to help his brother was too much. He couldn’t look at her without risking saying or doing something he would regret. She was kind and competent, and he was utterly done for.
Nya continued. “You don’t have to let him run wild, but give him gentle reminders that his behavior is something only he can control. Let him know that if he needs to talk, you’ll be there.”
“Well, you see who he has as a role model,” Linus said jovially, gesturing toward Johan with his teacup. “It’s a wonder this behavior didn’t start earlier.”
Johan froze again, waiting for Nya to agree with Linus, for them to both laugh knowingly. He’d played the role of clownish playboy for so long that his muscles shouldn’t have been tensed in awful anticipation—after all, that was the reaction Prince Jo-Jo was designed to elicit. A bright, ridiculous distraction.
“If he follows in Johan’s footsteps, then you have nothing to worry about. My fiancé is a nice man.” That edge had returned to her voice, her singsong accent more pronounced as she lifted her chin in challenge. Suddenly, Johan didn’t mind being called nice. Suddenly, it seemed like the highest compliment because to Nya, it was.
Linus didn’t speak for a moment, his gaze shifting back and forth between Nya and Johan. “Une fra avec des couteaux für die pieds,” he said slowly, nodding. “You chose well, Jo-Jo.”
“What does that mean?” Nya asked, face scrunched with puzzlement. Johan prepared to translate but then she continued. “A woman with knives for feet?”
“You speak Liechtienbourgish?” Johan hadn’t even thought to ask, given the country’s tiny population.
“I speak a little of several languages. Practicing gave me something to do when I was stuck at home.” She shrugged. “It’s just a mix of French and German, right?”
Johan raised a hand to his mouth in horror. “Please never say that in public, unless you want to be pelted with waffles by angry Liechtienbourgers.”
“I like waffles.” She winked.
“Not when they’re flying at you like cars on the Autobahn.”
“And if I say it in private?” she asked with a cheerful brazenness. Johan felt the blood rush to his cheeks. She’d managed to scandalize him in front of his stepfather, who hadn’t seemed to notice the innuendo in her words.
“It means a woman who will do anything for her man,” Linus interrupted helpfully, bringing the conversation back to his country’s strange colloquialisms.
“Like ‘The Little Mermaid,’” Johan added, taking a sip of cool water. “The fairy tale, not the film.”
“I see,” Nya said. “Is there a term for a man who would do anything for his partner?”
“I’d never thought of that,” Linus said. “No.”
Nya twisted her lips. “I was imagining something much cooler than regular old patriarchy. Lady Knife Feet sounds much more interesting.”
Johan laughed, unable to resist her serious contemplation of the phrase.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like this in years,” Linus said, looking just a bit awestruck.
Johan sobered and straightened in his seat, pretending not to see Nya glancing curiously at him.
“About the referendum,” Johan said, steering the topic away from himself. “Any news?”
“The opposition has ramped up their attacks, with Arshlocher saying our remembrance of your mother was an attempt at manipulation and not a painful coincidence. They’ve tried to insinuate we live off the public teat, even though that’s what they want for themselves, but our side has been doing a good job at showing the revenue from my businesses. It’s been a good way to share my elegant silverware design.”
He glanced meaningfully at the lumpy spoon Nya was stirring her tea with.
“Ohhh, I wondered where this lovely item had come from,” she said. “It’s unique and eye-catching.”
Linus nodded approvingly, and Johan wondered if perhaps Nya was better at lying than he was.
“I’ve seen the attacks about refugee resettlement programs as well, and some rumblings about my trip to Njaza,” Johan added. “I’ve been emailing with the PR company. I was thinking about a campaign featuring stories from the last Great War, reminding our citizens that many of them are desce
nded from refugees who came here from across Europe. The royal family has always protected those in need.”
“Oh, that’s good! We need to be seen out and about in the lead up to the vote, showing why we deserve to maintain our position,” Linus added.
“Why do you deserve that?” Nya asked, stirring demurely.
Linus didn’t hesitate. “Tradition. Stability. Monarchy is the only form of government this country has known.”
She placed the spoon down on the edge of her saucer, ignoring it as the misshapen thing tilted over onto the table with a clunk. “Did you know my father is in prison?”
Linus didn’t flinch, years of diplomacy keeping his expression bland and light. He nodded once. “I saw something mentioned about that, but thought it better not to bring up such unpleasantness.”
“Well, that unpleasantness happened because he wanted to uphold tradition. He wanted power, to create stability, but stability as he knew it—stability that benefited him. He thought he knew best.” Nya’s voice was even, serious, with none of her usual cheer. “Have you asked yourself whether what’s best for you, the status quo, is not what’s best for your people? I have to ask because I’m part of this, too, now, and your actions reflect on me just as mine will on you.”
Johan expected Linus to get flustered, but the king drew his shoulders back—not an act of defense or offense, but a sign that he was taking Nya’s questions seriously.
“I believe with all of my heart that this is the right system for this country. I have studied countless other types of government and run through all of the possibilities, but given our size, the surrounding powers, and, yes, our traditions, I do not think a complete change is what is best. I will step down without hesitation if the people think otherwise, I want them to make their own informed decision and not be swayed by false propaganda.”
“Like a fake engagement?” Nya asked quietly.
Linus looked confused. “How fake is it if Johan likes—”
The door to the parlor opened, cutting off whatever embarrassing thing his stepfather was about to reveal. Johan turned, and what he saw so shocked him that he sprayed his mouthful of tea over his carefully pressed pants. “Lukas?”
His brother, who generally wore preppy khakis and polo shirts, had on a tight-fitting, fuchsia, long-sleeved T-shirt with a white skull on the front, white skinny jeans, and black calf-high combat boots. His thumbs poked out of holes in the sleeves of the shirt . . . and his hair!
The curly blond locks Johan had taught him to maintain had been shaved along both sides; the remainder had been died a violent shade of pink to match his shirt—and his nail polish, because the tips of his fingers now sported blunt pink nails.
The look was the norm for some teenagers, but not for his brother, who Johan constantly guided in all things, including fashion.
Anger and a desperate panic clamped around Johan. This was what bullies looked for, when seeking out their victims. This was what would make the paparazzi descend on Lukas without mercy. Johan couldn’t protect Lukas from this.
He emitted a garbled sound, that was some approximation of “What the—”
“Hi. I’m Nya.” She stood, releasing Johan’s hand. “You must be Lukas. I’m so happy to meet you.”
“Hi. Yes. It is my pleasure,” Lukas said. He walked over to Nya, took her hand, and bowed over it, the epitome of politeness, then slouched into the seat next to Linus without even looking at Johan. He tapped his index finger along the wooden armrest, as if drawing attention to the polish.
Johan had been worried over his brother’s well-being for the last few days, but now he was ready to strangle him. He’d spent years showering the boy with love and attention, hiding him from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, protecting him the pitfalls of boarding school bullies, and now he was being repaid for his troubles with this neon nightmare.
The stocky boy held up Johan’s bear which should have been safely in his backpack. “You want me to return it? Why don’t you go cry to your mamm?”
“Your hair—” Johan started, frustration choking him.
“—looks amazing!” Nya finished. “Did you dye it yourself?”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, giving Lukas all her attention.
“Jah,” Lukas said, his shoulders rising toward his ears, then dropping into a defiant slouch. “I cut it, too.”
“Good job! The style is very striking. The asymmetrical look is very popular right now.”
Johan knew he should follow Nya’s lead, and her advice not to treat Lukas like a child, but this was all too much.
“Have you gone mad?” he asked, his hand tightening over one of his knees. “Do you know what will happen when the first picture of this gets out? Do you know what people will say?”
Lukas cut him a hard look, the expression unfamiliar and terrifying. “Worried you won’t be the center of attention anymore?”
“No. I’m worried about you making a fool of yourself,” Johan replied, his voice ice-cold, a freezing barrier to counter the scalding shock of his brother’s sudden change in temperament. Lukas had always looked up to Johan, admired him—the real him—but now glared at him like he was a stranger. A stranger he didn’t like at all.
“If being myself means people think I’m a fool, then people can go fuck themselves.”
He said the last two words with such a pointed vehemence and narrowing of his eyes that there was no mistaking who they were meant for. Johan. Those words were meant for Johan. It was Johan who could go fuck himself.
An actual physical pain boomeranged through him at the anger in Lukas’s voice. What had happened to his sweet little boy? Yes, Lukas had mentioned maybe dyeing his hair, but Johan had thought it was simply a passing fancy and Lukas hadn’t seemed upset when Johan had vetoed the idea. He’d looked at nail polishes months back, but Johan had remembered how he was teased for painting his pinky nail a cheerful yellow once and had talked his brother out of it. Lukas talked about the usual things teenagers these days talked about, and Johan always subtly reminded him that he wasn’t just any teenager, that he always, always had to think of what people would say. Then they’d watch a film or play video games or go for a walk, and everything would be fine.
This sudden, brash upending of everything Johan thought he knew about Lukas—and had tried to protect—was like a punch to the kidney.
“You can’t be serious,” Johan said. He didn’t want it to come out sounding nasty and derisive, but this was the first time Lukas had ever hurt him, and his go-to defense was nasty derisiveness, it seemed. “The referendum is days away, people are looking for any reason to strip you of your title, and you think now is the time to make trouble?”
Lukas’s shoulders slumped and he turned his head away with a jerking motion, as if he’d been slapped.
“Eh! Excuse me?” When he looked at Nya she was leaning away from him but fixing him with an incredulous stare. “This is the brother you told me you love so much, and that’s how you talk to him?”
For the briefest instant he wanted to tell her she had no clue what she was on about, could never know because she’d never put all her energy into looking after someone and had it thrown in her face. He wouldn’t say that to her, though, no matter how angry he was. First, because from even the little bit he knew of her relationship with her father, that would have been incorrect, and second, she was trying to help—and she was right.
“I’m sorry, Lukas,” he said, struggling to sound normal even though he felt like he’d just been pushed off the esplanade surrounding the Old City. “I was just surprised. This is very unlike you.”
Lukas stood and glared at him. “Unlike me? You don’t even know me!” he shouted, then looked at Linus. “Neither of you do!”
Johan didn’t know what to say in the ringing silence that followed. It was as if he was watching a film and could only sit there as the scene played out.
He remembered helping his mother change Lukas’s diaper. He remember
ed giving him piggyback rides. He remembered teaching him to ride a bike, and showing him how to make crepes because their mother hadn’t been around to do it. He remembered sneaking into Lukas’s room in the middle of the night, on too many nights, overcome with the need to make sure the boy was still breathing. But maybe his brother was right. Maybe Johan didn’t know anything.
“I guess I don’t,” he mumbled.
Lukas marched over to Nya and bowed over her hand again, the picture of politeness. “It was a pleasure to meet you. You seem like a good person, so you should know that Johan lies all the time and doesn’t care about anything but appearances. Think about that before marrying him.”
He glared at Johan once more for good measure.
He left.
“Welcome to the family,” Linus said, raising his teacup in Nya’s direction before downing the liquid and rising to go track down his son.
Johan sat still, not wanting to look at Nya, or to see the judgment in her eyes. Not wanting her to see the pain in his. He’d become so good at hiding his emotions, burying them under shirtless selfies and snarky remarks—and, yes, lies—that until recently he’d forgotten just how deeply they could affect him. She could say he was nice all she wanted, but if she knew how weak he was, how oversensitive, she’d leave him, too.
She is going to leave. This isn’t real.
He heard her sigh beside him, and then he felt her fingers sift through his hair, her nails gently grazing his scalp.
“Phokojoe, you seem to have forgotten how to lure people to your lair,” she whispered, teasing.
“No kidding.” He inhaled, leaned his head toward her hand and accepted her comfort, though he didn’t deserve it. “I didn’t handle that well at all. I wasn’t prepared.”
“I don’t see why you had to be prepared,” she said carefully. “Your brother just showed you something about himself. I think he was probably frightened of how you would react. And you showed him he was right to be frightened.”