by Alyssa Cole
He took her hand and started walking, slowly, in the opposite direction of where Lukas had gone.
“We have some very lovely terms of endearment,” he said after letting the cold breeze whipping up the cliff whisk away his anger.
“Like what? And I hope they are better than Sugar Bubble.”
Johan paused, trying not to be hurt. He knew what it was like being called a name you hated. “You don’t like Sugar Bubble? I can stop, if it bothers you.”
“No! I was just trying to be cool,” she said awkwardly. “I like it when you call me that.”
“Well, I like it when you call me Phoko,” he said, feeling warmth at his cheeks. “Here are some other nonweapon-related names you can choose from: schneckelein, mausezähnchen, zuckermaus, hasenfürzchen.”
“And, what are those?”
“Little snail, little mouse tooth, sugar mouse, sweet little rabbit fart.”
She burst out laughing and leaned into him. “I think I will stick with Sugar Bubble.”
“Okay. Sugar Bubble-Fürzchen, it is.”
She swatted at him with her free hand, but her other hand held his tightly.
“Hey. With your brother. You helped raise him after your mother died, yes?”
“Ouay,” Johan replied morosely.
“I think you should talk to him again,” she said. “Talk with him.”
“He’s been going to the best therapists in Europe since he was a child,” Johan said.
“You think he needs a therapist more than he needs a brother?” she asked.
“I’m saying . . .” Johan huffed out a cloud of condensation. “I’m saying that I’m worried that he doesn’t need me. That if I try to talk to him, it will only get worse. He’s been distant since before I left for Thesolo, but I hoped it would just . . . go away?”
“He wants to talk to you,” Nya said confidently.
“How do you know?”
“No one tries this hard to get a reaction out of someone they don’t want to talk to.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Hrim!” she grunted, then looked up at him. “What does that mean, by the way? The word you said earlier? I like the feel of this word. Hrim!”
Johan was still worried about his brother, but he couldn’t resist the laughter that bubbled up in him, obstructing his stress.
“It means this,” he said, and then he leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers. “Hrimmm,” he groaned into her mouth as she gasped, their lips catching softly once, twice, three times.
Her cold fingertips came up to his face and stroked his cheek before she pulled away.
“Oh.” She looked a bit dazed, and though the kiss had been brief, it left bright stars circling around Johan’s head. No, not stars. Camera flashes.
Johan had allowed himself to forget that this was his life. Parading around for paparazzi. He was used to it, but this felt wrong. This thing with Nya wasn’t real, but it wasn’t staged like him happening to wander out of the palace without a shirt. The photographers hadn’t been invited here.
“That’s enough,” Johan said as the three men advanced with their cameras. Phillipe, Hans, and Krebs, the local photographers who made their living from photos of Johan, not the foreigners who showed up when their papers needed some Jo-Jo jus. Being a tabloid prince was like running a mamm-and-papp business in a way; people depended on him to make a living at this point. He didn’t want to put anyone out of work, but he wouldn’t expose Nya to an ambush. “You got your photos, so you can leave now.”
“Aw, come on, Jo-Jo. Why did you call us here if not to take photos?”
“I didn’t call you,” Johan gritted out.
“Well, there’re already photogs from London and Paris here trying to break the story, especially with the news out of Thesolo. Wouldn’t you prefer it to be someone you trust?”
Nya stiffened in his arms. “What news?”
Her voice shook, and her body shook, and not from the cold.
“Oh.” Phillipe looked at Hans.
Hans looked at Phillipe. “She doesn’t know?”
“Your father is on a hunger strike,” Krebs supplied helpfully. “He says he has no reason to live if his daughter won’t speak to him.”
“What?”
Hans and Phillipe rushed over, glaring at Krebs before turning gentler expressions on Nya.
“It’s not so bad. They’re giving him fluids,” Hans said.
“Humans can last for weeks without food,” Phillippe added.
That was when the tears slipped down her cheeks. Krebs started to raise his camera, but Hans blocked it with his forearm.
There was a series of flashes from further down the esplanade, though, and then a figure in the distance turned and ran off.
Johan took a step toward the figure, but instead wrapped a protective arm around Nya.
“I bet it was that putaine from the Looking Glass,” Phillipe said with a grimace of distaste as he looked after the figure. “He used to be a sprinter on the British Olympic team and he puts the skill to use.”
“We’re going to go back to the castle,” Johan said, unease settling in his stomach. His life had only looked completely spontaneous before—even his most impulsive behaviors had some reason behind them, and some level of calculated control. Something was off and he didn’t like how the reins were being slowly tugged from his grip.
“Are you all right?” he asked Nya as they walked quickly back to the palace’s back entry.
“I suppose,” she said. “I have to be all right. My alternative is to run back to Thesolo and admit defeat.”
“Is this a battle?” Johan asked, and her head snapped up, gaze hard as it locked on his.
“Of course, it is,” she said. That anger that he had first heard on the plane was in her voice again. “Why else would I be here?”
Johan drew himself up. She wouldn’t realize that her words had been as brutal as a blow from the woodsman’s ax. They shouldn’t have been. They were simply the truth. He was the one who had offered her this escape—why should he be hurt by the reminder of it?
Because she said she liked you.
“Right,” he said. “And I was just the weapon closest to hand.”
“What?” she sniffled.
They turned into the mews, and he realized he was being selfish. She’d just received a shock and didn’t need him adding to her problems by expecting her to take care of his hurt feelings, too.
“Nothing,” he said, then looked above the entrance. “But that’s not nothing.”
Above the secret door to the castle, spray painted in bright yellow, were the words Democracy Now, Monarchy Never! with a matching X sprayed over the door. Nothing remotely secret about it now.
“Well. This has been eventful walk,” he said. And he had a feeling things would get even more interesting in the days to come. Underestimating the importance of the referendum had been an error on his part, but hopefully it wouldn’t bite him on the ass too hard.
Chapter 15
INTERNATIONAL FRIEND EMPORIUM CHAT
Portia: Tav just gave me the paper. What did Johan do to make you cry?
Nya: Oh god, it’s in the Looking Glass? There’s a nice photo of us in the newspaper here. I used your tips for the perfect photo and pretended I was saying strudel.
Portia: The article says that skeletons from his past have come back to ruin your relationship. “A source” says that a love child has emerged. There’s another tabloid saying you were crying because the king was mean to you.
Nya: No, the king is my buddy. And there is no love child—to my knowledge. One of the photographers told me about my father’s hunger strike. I had to learn about it from a stranger.
Ledi: Dammit. Okay, that was wrong. But you seemed so . . . free. I didn’t want you to come back because of your father’s manipulative tactics.
Nya: I wouldn’t have come back.
Ledi: I didn’t know that. But it was wrong of me to assume. I keep doin
g that.
Nya: R
Ledi: I saw the smiling photos of you two online, saying that Johan was easing the pain of your father’s behavior.
Nya: Well, that’s somewhat close to the truth.
Ledi: And that *you* were carrying the love child.
Nya: No, we haven’t even
Nya:
Portia:
Ledi: That’s fine. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. If you do decide to do anything, you have your fanny pack.
There was a chiming sound, a doorbell, Nya realized. She ended the conversation and hurried over to the front door of her room, then steeled herself.
What if it’s Johan? What if he wants to finish what we started in the parlor yesterday?
Her cheeks burned, as they had last night when she’d slipped into bed and stared at the door separating their rooms, wondering what would happen if she was brave enough to walk over and knock. She had wanted to, so badly, but hadn’t.
When she pulled the front door open there was a short, stout woman with silver hair and round rosy cheeks.
“Mrs. Potts?” Nya asked before she could stop herself.
“Non. I am Madame Flemard, the modiste?” The woman’s arms were wrapped around several items of clothing and her eyes scanned Nya’s body. “Yes, yes, yes. Perfection!”
“Pardon me?” Nya stepped back into the room as Madame Flemard stalked toward her, eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t I supposed to come to you?”
“I was here at the castle and brought a couple of things I wanted you to try.” She was already laying a few pieces on the couch in the room. “I have just the thing. I still follow the trends, you know, and I was given this beautiful print last time the delegation from Thesolo was here. I made this outfit, but there is no one here to wear it! It’s not like it can fit—” Madame Flemard pressed her lips together and looked around. “Ahem. Yes. Would you like to try on a dress? I will not be offended if you don’t like it, and I have other dresses. We can have pants tailored, anything you wish.”
“I do love trying on dresses, and I have nothing to wear to the opera,” Nya said. “I need to look . . . I need to feel very sure of myself. Like, you know, in the films when the heroine gets a makeover? And the hero falls deeply in love with her?”
“Jah?” Madame Flemard nodded.
“I want to look like that, except I want to be my own hero. I want to look in the mirror and think, Damn girl! and then show up under my own window sticking out of the sunroof of a limousine.”
Madame Flemard laughed with delight.
“I like this spirit. I like it, jah. You are a modiste’s delight.”
“Merci,” Nya said, feeling a bit braver.
The woman began rifling through the assorted items and gently pulled out two things: a cropped top with teal and purple flowers and a long matching skirt. Something in Nya’s heart jumped at the sight of them.
“How about this?” Madame Flemard asked, as she walked over and held the fabric against Nya’s arm. “So lovely.”
Nya took the skirt and top, the stiff wax print fabric a reminder of home. A reminder of the simple black and brown items that had made up most of her wardrobe, despite such a rich variety of patterns in their traditional clothing, patterns she hadn’t been allowed to wear so that she didn’t call attention to herself. She’d had the money to buy her own clothes, but acquiescing to her father had been second nature to her. Her unhappiness had been shrouded in brown and black and gray, and this outfit was like a bright pop of color, demanding all eyes turn to her.
“I think this is perfect,” she said.
Madame Flemard helped her try it on, telling Nya she would take the top to let it out a bit at the chest.
Nya shifted her leg so that it was exposed by the surprising slit that went to her thigh, then fluffed the ruffles around the off-the-shoulder top, and placed a hand over her bare stomach. She liked the soft curve of it now, so different from her years of gauntness.
“Do you have anything I can wear today? We have some kind of winter market to go to. If I’m going to be followed by photographers, I want to make a statement.”
“Good idea,” the modiste said. “Also perhaps some waterproof makeup, in case there are more tears?”
She eyed Nya’s belly speculatively.
“There will be no more tears,” Nya said firmly, hands on her hips, and the woman nodded.
Nya tried on a couple of dresses before a bright, sunflower-yellow fabric that caught her eye.
“Oh, what’s this?”
“That’s one of Jo-Jo’s shirts that I mended for him,” Madame Flemard said. “He’d lost some buttons.”
Nya ignored the part of her brain that speculated on how those buttons had been lost and pulled the shirt on. It loosely hugged her curves, and though too long to be worn as a shirt, it was the perfect length to wear as a dress. “I have a nice brown belt that can go with this and matches my brown boots.”
Madame Flemard had tugged at her arm and carefully rolled up Nya’s sleeves, cooing the whole time. “I wouldn’t have thought of this, but yes, oui, jah.”
She shuffled through her suitcase and pulled out the dark brown belt and her nude brown stockings, blushing as she remembered Johan’s hand running up her thigh in the royal parlor. She liked wearing his shirt, and the dual sensation of being possessed and possessing.
That gave her pause—her father thinking of her as his to control was what had driven her away from Thesolo. Even now he was trying to exert that control over her, using his own possible death as a winch on the emotions that still tied her to him. But Johan had never claimed any possession over her, except for that joke with the king. She was free to leave when she wanted and, even if she didn’t want to, would have to leave soon.
Perhaps she cared too much for him. Perhaps this was a mistake. She hadn’t made many mistakes in life because she had never had the opportunity. She would do what she wanted to do, and she wouldn’t be ashamed if nothing came of it, because what was the shame in wanting? What was the shame in dreaming?
She tightened the belt and looked at the modiste.
“I’ll keep this.” She promised to visit Madame Flemard’s shop the next day to try on more things and to get her top.
As she was ushering the woman out, Lukas showed up at her door. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a matching pink tie, his blond-again hair pulled back into a queue. His nail polish had been removed, and he looked like any handsome young aristocrat, except for the frown on his face.
“Oh, hello, my liebling. You look wonderful today,” Madame Flemard said. She adjusted the dresses on her arm to smooth Lukas’s hair. “I have some things for you that I’ll leave in your room.”
“Merci, Flemie,” Lukas said, kissing the modiste on both cheeks, then looking expectantly at Nya.
“Hi,” she said. “Do you want to come in? I have to do my makeup, but I can still talk.”
Lukas stepped in awkwardly, all traces of the defiant teen who told his brother to sit and spin gone.
“Your hair is different,” she said as he stepped into the room.
“Jah. That was just a colored hair wax,” he said. “Can you imagine if it’d been permanent? Johan might have held me down and shaved my head.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“You’re right,” Lukas said. “He would have just told me what a disappointment I was and harped about my responsibility until I shaved it myself.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to see how your time here has been going. I saw some talk about Johan’s love child online and was worried.”
“Which love child? The one I’m carrying or the one that made me cry?” she asked as she sat at the dressing table mirror. She’d already moisturized in nine steps because Liechtienbourg in the winter was asking for ashiness, and now she dabbed on a bit of concealer. She’d spent enough time practicing YouTube video looks in her apartment to do her makeup quickly and efficiently. She decided to go with a simple b
ut eye-catching bronze shadow, brown winged liner, and sheer pink lip gloss.
Lukas laughed nervously. “You’re not really pregnant, are you?”
She gave him her best quelling look with the eye she wasn’t spreading eye shadow on.
“Sorry,” he said. His gaze lingered on her makeup bag.
“No. The love child story seems to have been entirely made up by journalists.”
“Oh,” he said, lips thinning. He looked a lot like his brother when he was uncomfortable.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I don’t have any children yet, but producing heirs is part of my job so I suppose I will one day,” he said with a grimace.
“I meant how are you doing with all of the attention from the referendum?” She didn’t know him and would be gone soon, but he was a kid and had obviously come to her room for something.
“Oh! I’ve been better,” he said airily. “Before I just assumed I was going to be king and that was that. Now I’ve had to think of what will happen if the people vote us out. It’s scary, but also kind of exciting.”
“I can’t quite relate,” she said. “But I’m about to go out on my first publicity event. What happens if I trip? What if my stockings get a tear? What if someone says something mean? It must be hard having this attention on you all the time.”
“Johan will help you,” Lukas said, then tried to backtrack. “He’s a spoiled jerk, but he isn’t completely awful. Besides, if you fall, just make it seem like the only thing that could have happened was you falling, and everyone will go along with that.”
“Did your brother teach you that?” she asked before smearing on some of the sparkly translucent lip gloss. Lukas was staring at her mouth covetously, but not in the way Johan did. She recognized that look. She’d been in his shoes before, watching others get glammed up while she stood in her black loose-fitting dress and makeup-free face.
This was lust, but not for her.
This moment was important. She was a stranger, though he thought she was his future sister-in-law, but her next words could still leave a lasting impact.
She held up the fancy gloss tube with the golden screw top. “Want to try it?”