by Lexi Whitlow
“I’ll deal with it,” I say. “I have some cash put away. I’ll be fine. I’m not going to take money from you right now, Dad. I’m just not.”
When the call concludes, I sit down at my kitchen table, regarding the small, untidy apartment that I was about to be kicked out of anyway.
I’m not a complete idiot. Unlike my father, I didn’t put all my eggs in one basket: I have almost six thousand euros in cash here, along with another bank account at home with forty thousand dollars in deposits. My parents thought I spent my summer job and internship money on clubs and clothes. I banked it. And since their allowance was always more than enough for my needs, I banked some of that, too.
My only problem is, I can’t get to that account from here. The other problem is that I no longer have a functioning credit card, and it’s impossible to make travel reservations without one. It’s impossible to do almost anything without one. And I can’t get a new one because I don’t have a permanent address in Paris. I’m a tourist, and Paris banks don’t extend credit to tourists.
“You need to come home,” Eric states. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’ll book you a seat on my flight.”
I shake my head. “No, I still have things I want to do, things I need to see. I have some money—I just need to get at it. And I need a credit card.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” he says. “Your parents are in a crisis. They need you back home.”
My parents are fine. My grandfather was careful. She has assets separate from my father’s investments. Papa never did quite trust his son-in-law to take care of his only daughter in the style in which she was reared, so her trust fund is safe, well-managed, and accessible only by her. My father can’t touch it, though Lord knows he’s tried (and failed) before.
I would have talked to Mama when I called, but she was at the club. I’ll catch up with her soon enough. I know she wouldn’t have me freaking out or changing my plans just because Barney Mackoff turned out to be a conman.
“I can get you a credit card issued from my firm,” Eric says. “But it’ll have a low limit, and I’ll need your account details at the credit union in Charleston where you have your savings account.”
I could kiss him. But maybe not. “You can do that?” I ask.
He nods. “If I co-sign on the account,” he says, then leans in. “The thing is, if I do this, when you get home I’m going to need you to thank me appropriately.”
What does that mean?
“Norah, I’d do anything in the world for you. All I want is to make you happy. You can make me happy, too. Go ahead: sow your wild oats. But when you’re tired of sowing, come home. We’ll have beautiful children, a nice home. We’ll make our parents proud.”
My parents are already proud of me.
“How does the co-signing thing work?” I ask him, skirting his plans for my entire life.
“Don’t worry about it.” He waves a hand. “You’ll have the card in two days.”
Outstanding.
Anglesey is the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. I realize this within six minutes of landing on her shores. I flew into London a month ago, then worked my way west, dropping in at every tourist destination along the way. I’ve visited grand old houses, sumptuous estates, cathedrals, and tiny, antique villages. At Liverpool I boarded a boat—a steam-powered ferry that looked and felt like a vessel from another era—to cross the Angle Sea to Cymrea, the capital city of Anglesey. I disembarked on a magnificent stone dock built in the 12th century by a king whose name has so many vowels I can’t possibly pronounce it. A half-mile from this broad dock sits the Castle of Beaumaris, a 13th-century fortress with ten-foot-thick walls enclosing the principle palace of the Anglesey monarchy.
I have precisely one friend in Anglesey: Sinead. We were in school together at the London College of Art & Fashion. After college, I went on to Paris to work with fashion photographer Stephan Aubauchan prior to his retirement, culminating in the show last month. Sinead married an earl who’s heir to an estate in the west country of Anglesey. He has connections to the nobility and a civil service job in Cymrea that’s not too many stations removed from the highest echelons of power.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Sinead cries, wrapping me in her arms. “Oh, I’ve missed you, and school, and all the times we had in London. I’m so glad you’re here!”
Three hours later, just as I’m settling into my spacious bedroom (which is three times larger than my Paris apartment) in the west wing of this sprawling old manor house, I am notified by the housekeeper that dinner is to be served at eight o’clock sharp.
The table is laden with all the good things this rather exceptional country can conjure. Steamed crabs, shellfish, and roasted salmon fill serving dishes and our plates. Potatoes, leeks, and carrots make delicious sides. A sputtering, steaming serving of bread reminds me very much of my grandmother’s corn-pone. At least now I know where cornbread comes from; it’s basic food, no matter where in the world your people call home.
“Prince Owen is hosting a large party at Saxony this weekend,” Sinead’s husband observes between formal courses. “There’s a rumor about that he’s on the hunt for a wife.” The Earl smiles mischievously as he butters his cornbread. “There’s another rumor about that he may very well be the next king, as the Prince of Merioneth has gone off his rocker and is as likely to abdicate as he is to be deposed.”
“Innuendo!” Sinead exclaims, thumping her knife gleefully on the tabletop. “Treasonous language!”
Her husband grins. “I only repeat in private what I hear in private. Time will tell. Anyway, we’re off to Saxony for the weekend. It should be a splendid party, rumors notwithstanding.”
It is a splendid party. Saxony is a picturesque port town on the far west coast of Anglesey, a small city that appears frozen in time. Its row houses are all Tudor design, with crossbeams and mud-fill walls, peaked roofs shingled in heavy slate, and cantilevered upper floors hanging precariously over narrow, cobbled streets.
The prince’s party is held on the grounds of Brynterion Castle, a palatial country estate built in stages between the 13th century and the early 20th. It’s the official residence of Prince Owen, Duke of Brynterion, the younger brother of Crown Prince Lloyd.
The castle is astonishing to look at, even from a distance. It’s a massive pile of white stone sprawling over acres, with more columns and windows than a reasonable person could count in one sitting. Luckily, I don’t have to count them. Sinead, the Earl, and I are situated in a VIP tent on the castle grounds, alongside a few hundred other lower nobility who’ve been invited to this fête, but not granted access to the main house.
We’re comfortable under a sprawling tent with plenty of food and drink, a band playing, and games provided for our amusement.
As the evening wears on, after I’ve met a thousand earls, dukes, marques, duchesses, and ladies—enough to fill a Grimm Brothers’ fairytale—all I want to do is find a comfortable bed to lay my head on and go to sleep. I’m just about to excuse myself to the modest quarters of our weekend guest house when a young man wearing a very fine suit and a microphone wired into his ear walks up to me directly. He looks just like a secret service agent, or maybe James Bond.
“Miss Ballantyne,” he says, bowing discreetly, “His Royal Highness Prince Owen requests your presence tomorrow at five o’clock on board the royal yacht. You may bring one guest. Dress is casual.”
He places a card in my hand; it’s stamped with the royal seal. What the fuck?
“Oh my Lord!” Sinead exclaims, her eyes wide with disbelief.
The young man draws back, bows again, then turns and walks off toward the palace.
The Earl steps up, peering over my shoulder at the card. It’s a simple card, made of expensive linen paper, with nothing except the imprinted royal seal and the time, “5:00 p.m.,” written in blue ink in an elegant hand.
“That is quite a compliment paid to you, Norah,” The Earl says, watching
the suited young man disappear into the darkness of the grounds between our tent and the palace.
“It certainly is,” Sinead concurs. “Good Lord, what does one wear to a command appearance aboard the royal yacht?”
I look at Sinead as if she’s joking. “You don’t think I’m going to this, do you?”
The expression both she and the Earl return is one of horrified disbelief. “Norah, you must attend,” the Earl informs me, his tone firm. “You can’t say no to a member of the royal family.”
“I’m not his subject,” I protest.
The Earl smiles coolly. “You are a guest in his country, and as such, you act at his pleasure. When the prince requests you come to his party, you damn well come to his party. And you like it.”
“But…”
Sinead is much happier about this odd turn of events than I am. In truth, I’m sorely pissed on two accounts. First, I don’t relish the idea of spending an undetermined quantity of my precious time with a gaggle of posh, self-important peers, who—no doubt—will be looking down their pointy noses at me, wondering who let the rabble in the back door.
The second reason is far more practical: I despise spending my hard-earned, painfully limited resources purchasing clothing I’d never buy for myself in a million years, and will never in my life wear again. “Dress casual” apparently means something very different in Anglesey than it does in Charleston or New York.
Before Sinead is done outfitting me for this shindig, my bank account’s a thousand dollars lighter. When Eric sees my credit card statement he’s going to birth a cow. He’s already laid a few hen’s eggs over my meandering tour across England, stopping in every old bookshop I could find, paying top dollar for rare books I’m going to have to ship home on the slow boat.
“There it is,” Sinead nearly squeals as we come over a ridge, angling down toward the port. “Isn’t it splendid?”
The object of her extreme approval is less of a yacht and more of a Carnival cruise ship. It’s huge: it must have four or five decks, two giant smokestacks, satellite dishes, and all manner of weather and navigation gizmos hanging off the bridge. I expected a luxurious party boat, but this thing is the length of a football field. There’s even a helicopter pad—with an actual helicopter parked on it.
“Impressive,” I mutter.
The Earl glances at me in his rearview mirror, clearly amused. He’s almost as excited as Sinead; I think he’s pleased that his wife may get an opportunity to meet the prince, although he cautioned both of us to manage our expectations.
“His Royal Highness will most likely remain on the uppermost decks for the entire cruise. It would be unusual for him to put himself forward to linger among the bulk of the guests.”
This morning, after our shopping adventure had concluded, Sinead and the Earl put me through my paces, giving me a crash course on how to behave if I find myself confronted with royalty. I now know how to curtsy properly, and to whom. I know to keep my hands to myself, my eyes down, and to speak only when spoken to. If I’m asked a question, I must always begin or end my response with “ma’am” or “sir,” even if the royal in question is a toddler asking to “go potty.”
It’s all very pretentious and confusing. I’m counting on the idea that I won’t need to deploy any of these new skills, and maybe I’ll be able to return most of the clothes I purchased for the outing.
Just as we’re about to head up the gangway to board the ship, the Earl seizes Sinead’s hand, pulling her back for a big, warm hug. “Have a wonderful time, my darling. And please don’t do anything to get your photo in the papers.”
They have a good laugh as they part. He calls out to me, already far ahead, “You either, Norah. Behave yourself!”
I don’t think the Earl has much to worry about: I’m the least likely of all the people who’ve been invited to this party to put myself forward. I’ve brought a book with me, and I intend to get some reading done.
2
Owen
My mother, “Her Royal Highness, Co-Regent to the Crown Prince, Princess Dalia, Duchess of Merioneth, Duchess of Dowlais”—and a royal pain in my ass—is nothing if not efficient. She’s determined to see me married, and she’s doing everything in her power to accomplish it in short order. There’s nothing I can do about it. For the sake of the country and the monarchy, I have to do this.
The House of Cymrea is the last absolute monarchy in the Western Hemisphere, and the only one in the world that doesn’t sustain itself through violence or intimidation. The dynasty has lasted seven hundred years, while others fell or were reduced to ceremonial status. We’ve survived by maintaining a strict family code and hiring disinterested, outside advisors as counsel. We’ve also managed to keep our heads—literally and figuratively—about us.
And my brother, the Crown Prince who will be made king within six months unless the unthinkable happens, is doing his dead-level best to break everything to pieces. He’s either lost his mind, or he’s doing a convincing job of acting like it.
Mother wants him to abdicate. If he refuses, she intends to depose him. To accomplish that, the nobles must vote in support of her decision by a two-thirds majority. Only once in seven hundred years have Anglesey’s nobles had to vote to select a new king. They didn’t back the heir apparent because he was unmarried and had no immediate prospects for an heir. Instead, they chose a nephew of the former king who was married with a son. That nephew is my 21st great-grandfather and the founder of the House of Cymrea.
My mother is determined to prevent history repeating itself. I’d also prefer not to be the jerk responsible for killing the monarchy. It’s entirely possible the nobles would just abolish us and get busy dividing the spoils among themselves. Then we’d have a civil war. And as history has shown, that’s where these things always go.
Given all that, my life could be far worse. At the moment I’m sitting in the sunshine with a drink in my hand, gazing down at a crowd of mostly beautiful women hand-selected by my mother and her staff. We’re taking an overnight cruise around the islands. It’s mid-May, which means the sun won’t set until almost midnight, and it’ll be up again by five in the morning. Judging by the looks of the enthusiastic partiers below me, it’s going to be a busy, drunken night.
At some point I may have to get off my ass and inspect some of these “likely wives,” but right now I’m lacking motivation. I promised myself I’d pick two or three to try out as potential candidates for a few weeks before making a final decision. That approach seems about right. The challenging thing will be to convince the “lucky girl” that this isn’t a fairytale, that I’m not bloody Prince Charming, and that it’s highly unlikely either of us are going to live happily ever after.
Just look at my parents as an example. My mother was the lucky girl chosen by the prince. Six months later she realized he didn’t choose her—a committee did—and he was in love with a married duchess he’d known since childhood. Princess Dalia was brought in for one specific purpose: to produce an heir. She did it through artificial insemination.
My heir could end up being conceived the same way.
While she was married, my mother was the loneliest person I’ve ever known. When my father died and their farce of a marriage ended, she came out of her shell and started living again. Just a few months later, Lloyd began behaving oddly. Mother had maybe six weeks of peace before the drama spiked up again.
Which brings us to this—me lounging on the top deck of the yacht, surrounded by security and a handful of cousins, all of us peering down at the rabble to see if anyone stands out in the crowd.
What I wish more than anything is that I was someone else entirely: ideally someone wandering through Europe, brave enough to go and find Norah, wherever she is. I’d beg her forgiveness and tell her I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that night. I’d tell her she’s extraordinary. That I know she is, even though I can’t explain how I know—I just feel it in my bones.
It might not be love, I
’d tell her, but I’d like to see where the adventure goes.
“Sir?”
I look up. Duncan’s wearing the same deadpan expression, the same gray silk suit, and the same aviator sunglasses he’s worn for the last seven years.
“What’s up, Dunc?” I ask, returning my gaze to my guests below. There must be five hundred women down there, most of them damn attractive.
“Your mother has a list of prospects she’d like you to look at. She suggests bringing them up for closer inspection.”
I level a steely glare at Duncan. “I suppose you have a list? Or files on them, or something?”
“Yes, sir.” He retrieves a small stack of files from under his jacket and hands them to me.
My mother has assembled a veritable Who’s Who of nosebleed Anglesey nobility. There’s Lady Devon Pembroke, Duchess of Swansea. She’s eighteen years old, speaks six languages, plays the piano and the cello, raises thoroughbreds, and likes taking long walks in the countryside. She’s also got a double chin and a hook nose.
The Duchess of Cardiff is lovely. She’s also functionally illiterate.
The Marchioness of Hollyhead is also quite striking, but at six-foot-four, I worry she might be tempted to lead when we dance.
I pull her folder and Lady Devon Pembroke’s from Duncan’s collection, returning the rest to him. “Not on this deck,” I instruct. “If anyone’s using deck two, clear them out and set it up down there.”
“Yes sir.” He turns to go.
“And Duncan,” I call.
He turns back to me. “Sir?”
“If you see anyone better than those down there, let me know. I’m dying here. Bring me someone with some personality? Someone interesting?”
He almost cracks a smile. He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
My cousin David approaches wielding a bottle of expensive Anglesey whiskey. He refills my glass. “Hell of a way to pick a wife,” he observes, settling into the empty seat across from me, crossing his legs.