Coronets and Steel

by Sherwood Smith

  I shifted my gaze to the window. Didn’t it figure! Now that he’d removed himself from the Villains’ List, my radar was on full force, its object a guy so different from my world we may as well have been from different planets.

  And in a couple hours I’ll never see him again.

  It was right about then that his own radar must have sent him some signal because he said, “Problem?”

  “Oh no,” I said airily as my thoughts flailed wildly for a suitable subject. “So tell me about the king biz. How do you train a king anyway? It’s not like there’s a king school tucked up somewhere—or was all that stuff you told me in the Weinkeller a lot of gas?”

  He smiled. “No, it was all true. I did grow up in England, which is where my family escaped when the Soviets took over. Though many of us went back to Dobrenica during the long vacations, slipping over the border. My father considered that part of my education.” He glanced aside, then said, “As for the other, I think I can safely sum it up as mostly committees and compromise.”

  “What? No ‘off with your head’? What good is being a king if you can’t order everyone around?”

  “You can. But every order—every action—has consequences. Unlimited power only belongs to dictators these days. Still there’s enough left that one had better know what one is doing.”

  I found it difficult to wrap my head around the existence of kings in the blandness of modern times. “Hey, that sounds like all work and no fun.”

  He gestured, the light catching on his signet ring, which glimmered with intense, cobalt blue light. “You know about vocation and avocation, right?”

  Memory: my wild-haired father sitting in the kitchen, when I was about ten, the Beatles playing in the background, Dad waving a clock tool as he talked. “My Dad said once that if you couldn’t have the job you loved, then you got one that supported whatever it was you loved.”

  “Your father does what he loves?”

  “Well, since he lost his job when his newspaper went chapter eleven, he repairs rare old clocks. But his avocation is the Roman Empire. The entire garage is filled with his replicas, right down to the last detail. Battles, buildings, you name it, he’s got it. When it comes to Xenophon, Thucydides, Horace, and the Plinys, he can quote you chapter and verse. My mother does cake decorating—and sometimes works for caterers who do fancy Hollywood parties, to pick up the slack. What about your mother? You haven’t mentioned her. How does she figure in?”

  “She’s dead,” he said. “Died when I was small. A yachting accident.”

  “How horrible! I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s all right. It was one of those political marriages you were deploring. She was many years younger than he was. Once she met her part of the bargain—produced me—she handed me off and pretty much went her own way. I don’t remember her at all.”

  “Was she also from Dobrenica?”

  “Yes. Here it is,” he said, turning the car up a steep, narrow track that led to a beautiful half-timbered inn perched high on a hill. “How about a beer?”

  “Cool.”

  A wide terrace with the ubiquitous Cinzano-umbrella shaded tables fronted the inn. We threaded our way to one side of the terrace, which afforded a breathtaking view of an old town built on the banks of a meandering river, the mellow gold of the walls sun-warmed. Beyond, green hills jutted up in picture-postcard perfection; in the hazy distance the silhouette of a ruined castle crested the top of a hill higher than the others, looking in the heavy gray mist like a mirage from the fourteenth century.

  Two large brown birds screeched overhead, flapping energetically. Alec leaned back in his seat, his blue gaze contemplating the line of distant hills until a waiter appeared and set down two heavy frost-sided and foam-crowned beer mugs.

  Alec picked one up and lifted his glass in salute. I remembered another toast in a weinkeller. “Skumps!” And after a long and delicious swallow, “When I said that, did you think I was dropping hints about kings?”

  His eyelids lifted humorously, which made his eyes gleam blue in the bright sunlight. “At that point I was half-inclined to strangle you.”

  “I did it because you did this.” I mimicked his gesture with the wineglass. “With such an air. ‘Skumps!’ was how the two kings toasted one another in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. My favorite film when I was in the second grade.” And, after another tasty cold sip, “It’s amazing how good the beer here is.” I set the mug down.

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  I was surprised, then wary, then came the tide of heat. “Sure. But I reserve the right not to answer.”

  “Fair enough. Why do you wear your hair that long? Is it a . . . a family characteristic?”

  “No. Yes. Kind of. Mom I guess had long hair when she was young, but she chopped it off when I was born. Dad’s is still long. Gran’s is also long, as long as mine, though it’s gone silver. I used to love watching her brush it out, and, oh, I don’t know.”

  I didn’t want to admit that Gran used to call mine princess hair. It sounded so twee, if you didn’t know Gran, and you hadn’t heard the way she said it, which to my childish ears sounded . . . sad.

  “I thought it was romantic, and it’s easier to deal with in my sports, because you pin it up. Short hair gets in your face and sticks to your neck. My dad says that life is too short for petty conformity like haircuts. But when I got bubblegum in mine when I was five, and had to have it cut off, Gran was so upset I got upset, and he cut his in sympathy. Neither of us have cut it since. Okay, that was boring. Sorry.”

  Alec’s expression was that odd, slightly puzzled intent look I’d first seen at in the Kaisergruft. Then his face smoothed into politeness.

  I said, “She—Ruli, your Aurelia—has short hair, I remember. Well, shorter than mine, so we’re not alike in that.”

  He hesitated, and again I got that feeling that he was sorting words before he said, “Her mother was quite angry when she cut hers.”

  “She’s three years older than I am and still lets her mom tell her how to do her hair? Never mind, people’s family dynamics always seem weird to outsiders. Hey. You said you’d tell me about how she connects to the Ateliers.”

  The polite blandness faded, leaving that expression of slightly guarded, slightly watchful, always polite distance. The sense of ease between us had vanished. I could not define how. But I could feel it.

  “I asked you,” he said, “if you’d heard of Aurelia Dsaret.”

  “And I said no.”

  “Let me tell you a story, and you tell me if you see any connection. It begins in Dobrenica. Between the wars. With the birth of two daughters to the queen. Aurelia and Elisabeth Dsaret were identical twins, that being common every couple of generations in the Dsaret family. Also common were their names, as family continuity is traditional. They were nicknamed Lily and Rose.”

  “Okay, Aurelia is Lily, and Elisabeth is Rose. Got it.”

  “The eldest by some minutes was Lily, so she was designated heir to the throne. Whether she was constantly reminded of her exalted future responsibilities or simply because she was naturally sober in character, she grew up grave and quiet and studious. Her sister Rose was the opposite: mercurial, with a taste for jokes and play and pretty gowns and the like. When they reached their midteens, Rose especially attracted a crowd of well-born young fellows. Ah, I should mention that Lily had been accustomed since childhood to the idea of her eventual marriage to Milo Ysvorod.”

  “Milo? Ysvorod—isn’t that your last name?”

  “Yes. Milo is my father.”

  “Oh!” I digested this first sign that a story about people in a remote place and time related to anyone here and now. “But, didn’t you give me another name last night?” I frowned, trying to recall.

  “Marius Alexander Ysvorod of Domitrian. Domitrian is the title, when the family isn’t on the throne. It’s my name as well. He was called Milo by family and friends.”

  “Got it. Okay, sh
e was expected to marry your father. How did she feel about that? Did anyone ever ask?”

  “They’d been friends from childhood. They were all teens when World War Two began. Despite the increasingly dire reports elsewhere in Europe, the princesses were introduced to court at the age of sixteen, as usual. Every night was filled with dancing, music, parties. Word got out that court functions were fun. That drew the attention of Count Armandros Danilov von Mecklundburg, who was heir to his much older brother Karl-Johann, the Duke of Riev Dhiavilyi. Think of them as Armandros and Johann.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  He went on, not looking at me but at the ancient, winding streets of the town below. “Armandros had been racketing around Europe, wherever sport was fast, expensive, and dangerous. He also had a reputation—” He stopped, looking at his empty mug. He’d downed that entire beer.

  “As what? A con man? A jerk? What?”

  “He was what my father called ‘a bit of a lad.’ His own family branded him a hellion, irresistible when he wanted to charm. Followed by tales of numerous exploits ranging from the adventurous to the scandalous—including, apparently, two duels by the time he was eighteen. He had a temper, and courage to match. Anyway, he came on strong with the princesses. When the king’s disapproval of his activities in general and this in particular reached him, he responded by making it a point of honor to court them. In this he had the enthusiastic cooperation of the princesses. And he was skillful enough that—” He broke off to signal for more beer.

  I picked up my own mug, watching him over the rim. His profile was elegant, inscrutable; he sat so still the glinting reflection in his signet was a steady blue gleam. The humidity intensified, underscoring a subtle sense of expectancy; he’d fallen into a brief reverie. I didn’t know if he was listening to some voice of the past, or choosing his words, but when he lifted his gaze, I flicked mine past him at that ruin. Not a ruin. In the slanting rays of the sun it shimmered oddly, its crenellations even between towers—

  I blinked hard. When I looked again, it was a ruin.

  “What is it?” Alec leaned forward, all his attention on me.

  I was afraid he’d think I’d gotten squiffy on two sips of beer. “Looking at the, um, ruin.” I forced my attention back to the Wicked Armandros. Picturing a tall, sinister but handsome guy, maybe with one of those pencil mustaches and a monocle, I said, “I think I know what comes next: the good girl Lily fell for bad boy Armandros. Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “And so—?” I prompted as the waiter set another mug down and Alec handed him some money.

  “And so—” He turned his head as someone behind us let out a lungful of smoke, which hung for a time in the motionless air. “—her father felt it necessary to remind her of her duty. The union between Lily and Milo was increasingly important . . . for various reasons. The most obvious being the troubles elsewhere in Europe.”

  He stared down at that second mug of beer while I thought to myself, if he drinks that I’m either taking his keys away or walking back.

  His fingers ran up and down the frosty side in an absent movement as he said, “They were supposed to marry when she turned eighteen—he was a year older—but there was talk of moving the wedding up.”

  “Because nobody wants to put on a big royal wedding in the middle of a war. I get it.”

  He paused, looking away, then back. “Right.” He went on quickly, “Young as he was, Milo had proved to be capable and strong, so the king, whose health was failing, gave him increasing responsibility in the government. Lily as well, but when she wasn’t busy she spent more time with Armandros, whose reputation was as dismaying as were the ambitions of his powerful family.”

  He turned the beer mug around and around, his body tense, sparking my awareness of how his arms shaped the shirt. You’d think the king biz wouldn’t lend itself to much beside royal decrees and throne warming, but it was clear that Alec was in shape.

  His glance flicked my way and I turned to gaze at the ruin, half-obscured in fog. Or was that a tower?

  “Is there something interesting up there?”

  “No ruins in LA. Real estate costs too much.” My face burned; maybe he thought I was bored. How to tell him I wasn’t without sounding like a dweeb? “Go on, please. Armandros was hitting on Lily, and she was into him.”

  “The king sent court home for Easter Week, and the royal family withdrew to their retreat.” He shifted in his chair, his profile toward me as he studied the ruin, wreathed in drifting vapors. “Easter morning, Lily rode in the royal carriage next to Milo for the procession to the cathedral in Riev. Bowing and smiling. Those who had watched anxiously relaxed. But not long after, Lily laid down her titles and went into exile, all in the space of a day.”

  “Exile?”

  “Rose told her friends that her sister tried to break her betrothal, but the king forbade it. You can imagine the scandal. Lily said that honor left her no recourse: she had made a vow to Armandros, and she respected Milo too much to marry him when she had given her hand and heart to another.”

  “That sounds so . . .” So teenage? Everyone laughs at teenage emodrama, but this one sounded too real, too heartbreaking for jokes. “. . . so desperate,” I finished. “Back to the Evil Count. He was after a title, right?” The combination of strong beer, the soft garden-scented air, and my awareness of the man sitting an arm’s length away made the moment hyper-real. “So this connects to my grandmother how?”

  “Princess Lily—no longer princess, as she had renounced her title—left the country.”

  I felt the impact of his gaze as a tingle through my nerves. “I know a bit about old-fashioned families and how they operated,” I said. “She was driven out by scandal, and he stayed behind to marry the other princess, right?”

  “You’re partly right,” he said, looking away again, this time at a hawk riding high on the slow, warm air currents. “Lily moved in secret to Vienna, right before the Germans took over Austria.”

  “Vienna. Whoa,” I said, the tingle changing to one of those chills of apprehension that get you along the backs of your arms and your neck.

  When I shifted my gaze to the ruin, there was the tower again.

  I turned in my seat so I couldn’t see it.

  “Vienna,” he repeated, again with the hesitation, almost reluctance. “For a time,” he said slowly as he tracked the drifting hawk. “The war halted communication from the homeland. She fled to Paris.”

  My guts tightened, and I rubbed my hands together, trying to shed tension. “To Paris?”

  “Yes. With a daughter. Who was called Marie, in the French manner.”

  Golden fire tipped the edges of the hawk’s wings as it rode the high currents. The bird’s head flicked back and forth, back and forth, scanning the ground for prey. The chill had frozen me.

  “Right before the war ended, the house she’d lived in was found gutted by flames from a nearby bombing, and Lily and the child had disappeared without a trace. It was impossible to ascertain whether or not they had been inside the house when the bombing and fire had occurred.”

  Numbly I said, “So that Princess Lily was my grandmother, is that what you’re saying but not saying?”

  “It’s possible.” He pushed away the beer. “Did she ever mention anything at all about any of this? Speak German, even?”

  “Never. I never heard one word of German from her.” I shook my head firmly. “Even when I was studying it and practicing it. All she said about Europe was how beautiful Paris had been in the spring, and how much good French was an asset to a young lady. But Gran had saved a single Viennese memento: a pair of concert tickets.”

  “Which is what brought you to Vienna?” His voice was sympathetic.

  “Yes. Well, that and a vague memory my mother had, of a . . . conversation about Vienna, Germany, the east. More like an argument, not that she understood any of it. Anyway, when I had zero luck in Paris, off I went to Vienna to put a genealogist on the tr
ail. Well.” I took another deep breath. If I decided to believe that his princess was Gran, how to tell Mom? Call? E-mail? Wait until I got home and tell her face-to-face? I said, “She must have adopted France as her new country when she married Grandfather Atelier. That is, if Gran is your missing princess. It would explain my resemblance to your Aurelia, who I’m going to think of as Ruli, so my brain doesn’t explode. Who is she, Rose’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she has good French. Too. Taught by somebody of Gran’s generation, am I right? So our accents and vocabulary are pretty much the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well! You’ll certainly have a great story to tell her when you do catch up with her. Funny, how genes will do that. I wonder if her mother looks at all like mine, and for that matter, what all the various fathers and grandfathers have in common.”

  “Would you like something more to drink?” he asked.

  “Not beer. Despite my performance the other day, I don’t drink much and rarely during the day.”

  He indicated his untouched beer. “I think I’d better switch to coffee as well. Shall we order lunch?”

  “Now that you mention it . . .”

  The humid air was motionless, heavy. We ate the savory Slovenian food and talked easily on a range of subjects, discovering odd things we had in common (a fondness for early Beatles’ music—his favorite tutor had played it all the time, like my Dad had when I was a kid); a partiality for Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas, whose works we’d both devoured as teens, and how much funnier Dumas was read in French; oh, I don’t remember what all, because I was mostly trying to impress the sound of his voice on my memory.

  Behind him, the fog slowly whorled around the ruin, but that did not explain why I saw the outline of a castle, and then a ruin. So I turned my chair so that my back was to it.

  When I straightened up, I found him regarding me in silent question. I blurted, “Have you ever done any fencing?”