A Princess for Christmas

by Jenny Holiday

  “That’s so kind of you,” Dani said, “but I have a two-week date with my book manuscript. If I don’t get this thing done, I can kiss any hope of getting tenure good-bye.”

  “I have a . . . dear friend who is spending the holidays writing his master’s thesis, so I understand,” Marie said.

  “Wait.” Leo needed to impose some order on this conversation.

  “Oh, but we can FaceTime you!” Gabby said to Dani. “We can show you the big fireplace and the cauldrons of hot chocolate.”

  “Hang on,” Leo tried again, but no one heard him. They’d launched into a discussion of the time difference between Eldovia and New York and when they could call Dani for her to get the optimal view of the Christmas festivities.

  He stuck his fingers into his mouth and whistled, high and shrill, like he used to do at Islanders games back when his life still included things like Islanders games. That did it. Three pairs of wide eyes turned to him.

  “We can’t go to Eldovia for Christmas.”

  Right?

  “Why not?” Gabby demanded, and before he could answer, she followed that with, “You were just saying we could go to Florida. This is better than Florida. Way better.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t just—”

  “Leo.” Marie walked over until she was standing right in front of him, and for fuck’s sake, he needed her not to be so close so he could think clearly. “I know this is an impulsive invitation. But I have a feeling that none of us has done anything impulsive for far too long. Christmas in Eldovia is lovely, but I will admit that the last few have been terribly lonely. Since my mother died, things have . . . not been the same. I would truly love to have you and your sister as my guests.”

  Oh, that forthright honesty, that vulnerability. It was like a paper cut: minor on the surface of things, but after a beat to absorb it, stealthily sharp and stinging.

  “I can’t,” he said automatically, the words a defensive shield against her earnestness. “I’m the super of this building. I can’t be gone for a chunk of time in the middle of the winter. I have to shovel, and—”

  “I’ll shovel,” Dani said. “It will be good for me to get a little exercise amid all the hunching over the computer.”

  “But—”

  “Anything else, I’ll call in the professionals. You’re allowed a vacation, Leo. I’m pretty sure that’s even in your contract, yes?”

  And Marie, damn her, kept going. “I’ve had so much fun with you these last few days.” She turned to Gabby, as if to include her in the sentiment, and then back to him. “I just thought . . .”

  Oh god, he had no defenses against her. The way she seemed to lose her nerve and trail off sheepishly. Well, he would have given her anything in that moment, opened a vein and bled for her, and all she was asking was that they come for a vacation in a literal palace.

  Could they . . . do this?

  “. . . you would really enjoy it.” Marie was speaking to Gabby now, and Leo had the sense that that wasn’t how she’d initially meant to finish her sentence. I just thought . . . she’d started out, and she’d been talking to him. He wanted to know what she’d thought.

  “There’s skating and hayrides and—”

  “A ball!” Gabby exclaimed.

  “But not for children, I’m sorry to say. My father is very strict on that front.”

  “But I can watch you get ready, maybe? See your dress?”

  Marie smiled. “Yes. I would love that. I secretly hate balls—I’m a terrible dancer—so I’d love the company to calm my nerves.”

  Dani caught Leo’s eye as the other two kept chattering as if the decision had already been made. Very slowly, her eyebrows lifted, like she was issuing a dare.

  And as if they had somehow heard Dani’s wordless challenge, Marie and Gabby fell silent. They both turned to him. Gabby’s face was an almost comical plea. Leo could tell she desperately wanted to burst out with a barrage of words to get him to agree but somehow sensed that was the wrong approach.

  And Marie. She smiled. Those fucking dimples.

  He sighed. Because apparently he was going to spend Christmas in a palace with a goddamn princess in a country he had never heard of before this week.

  “I’m not going to any balls, though.”

  Chapter Eight

  This had been a mistake.

  The first hint was the palace itself.

  It looked like the result you’d get if you did a Google image search for “castle in the Alps.”

  It shouldn’t have been that jarring. Leo was doubly qualified to deal with the concept of a castle. He had half an architecture degree, and he was Gabby Ricci’s brother and therefore well acquainted with the concept of fairy-tale palaces.

  Still: holy shit.

  The thing was perched on top of a steep, treed hill. It appeared, from a distance, to be white, but he suspected it was actually constructed from yellow limestone or something similar. He counted three turrets, the asymmetry of which annoyed him. He checked himself. He had no business being offended by the placement, number, or mere existence of turrets on the royal palace of Eldovia.

  They had been steadily gaining elevation since they got off the plane. He’d been cheered—falsely, it turned out—by the fact that they had flown commercial from New York to Zurich. But then a private plane had puddle-jumped them to a small airfield a short drive from “home,” to use the princess’s understated term for the monstrosity in the distance. And now they were being driven in a huge SUV, Marie and Mr. Benz in the second row and Leo and Gabby in the third. Torkel was riding shotgun.

  The slope increased as they entered the palace compound through a gate. The guard, like the driver before him, and the pilot before him, had seemed genuinely happy to see Marie. They’d all offered a perfectly correct but warm, “Your Royal Highness,” and she had greeted them all equally warmly by name.

  Marie glanced over her shoulder at him from time to time as if she was expecting him to say something, but he had been silent since they’d gotten off the second plane, the fact of which was less awkward than it would have been thanks to Gabby’s incessant chattering interspersed with amazed exclamations.

  The car wound its way up the road from the gatehouse, climbing the hill on a series of switchbacks. He kept twisting around to see the castle as they approached. It was, objectively, ridiculous. But it was so . . . vehemently ridiculous that it was hard not to be impressed by it, even as it simultaneously inspired mild revulsion.

  “Can you hike in these woods?” Gabby asked. “Oh! Can you ride horses in these woods? I’ve never ridden a horse. I think I might be afraid to, but I’ve also always kind of wanted to try.”

  “Mr. Benz is an avid horseman. I’m sure he’d be delighted to take you riding,” Marie said. Mr. Benz looked anything but delighted at this suggestion, but he did not object.

  The car moved slowly, laboring as the slope increased, and Leo felt a little like he was being driven to his own execution. When they finally reached the front door—was that the term? Did palaces have front doors?—there was a lineup of people outside.

  Not people, or at least not regular people. Servants. Some of the women even wore black dresses with white aprons and caps—like “sexy maid” Halloween costumes minus the sexy part.

  “Oh dear,” Marie murmured. She turned to Leo. “There is going to be a bit of silly pomp and ritual right now. Just smile and ignore it, and we’ll soon be done.”

  “Smile and ignore it? Have you met me?” He couldn’t help the retort, but she grinned, so he doubled down. “I’m not bowing to your father. Or to anyone.” He was teasing, but not really.

  “Of course not. You’re not his subject.”

  He refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t anyone’s subject and never would be. That it wasn’t his citizenship that kept him from bowing; it was that he didn’t bow.

  There were several opportunities in the ensuing minutes to feel once again like he had made a mistake. But he buck
ed up and endured the “pomp and ritual” as a butler—so apparently Mr. Benz truly wasn’t one—greeted Marie. Gabby provided distraction just by being her credulous self and was properly fussed over by the housekeeper, whose name was Frau Lehman.

  Mr. Benz and the butler started conversing in German.

  Marie, who had been chatting with Frau Lehman, suddenly whipped her head up. “Is Father in Riems?” There was some alarm in her tone.

  He had noticed that Marie always spoke English when he and Gabby were around, even when she was speaking to her associates about matters that didn’t concern them. He supposed it was her innate politeness—she didn’t want them to feel excluded.

  “Indeed, he is, ma’am.” The butler, following her lead, had switched to English. “He and the duke had business to discuss.” He turned to Mr. Benz. “And to answer your question, he is not yet returned. He is en route, though, and expects to be back in time for dinner.”

  Marie pressed her lips together like she wanted to say more but was holding herself back. Something about the situation was unsettling her, but Leo couldn’t ask. Not here.

  Mr. Benz, apparently not seeing the need for the palace guests to feel included, said something curtly in German, did one of those bow-nods to Marie, and left.

  Soon, Leo and Gabby were being shown to their rooms by Frau Lehman and a man he could only describe as a footman. Leo insisted they all go to Gabby’s first because he wanted to be able to find it in case of . . . what? The need for an emergency exit in the event that the king decided to eject the commoners when he got home?

  As he looked around at the enormous portraits of fancy, old-fashioned people that lined the wood-paneled walls of the seemingly endless corridors they traversed, it seemed like a distinct possibility.

  “I’m sorry your rooms aren’t closer together, but I thought we’d put Miss Gabriella in the nursery wing,” Frau Lehman said as they arrived at a room and the footman opened the door.

  “Oh, I don’t need to be in the nursery,” Gabby said. “I’m eleven, so—”

  Yep, Leo would have been struck dumb, too, if he’d been talking. The room was like . . . a giant marshmallow. It was painted white, and the bed was covered with one of those flowy netlike things. Why did rich people always want their beds covered with what was basically fancy mosquito netting? Wasn’t that what you resorted to if you didn’t have air conditioning or, like, walls? There was an enormous dollhouse—one of those nearly life-size ones you saw in places like FAO Schwarz. Even though Gabby had recently declared herself “too old for Barbies,” she gravitated toward it with an “Ooh.”

  Frau Lehman smiled. “That belonged to Her Royal Highness when she was a girl.” She bustled around the room fluffing pillows. “We’re all so glad to have a visitor who appreciates it.” She walked over to a small table at the foot of the bed. On it was a small potted pine tree strung with lights. “Miss Gabriella, I thought perhaps tomorrow we could decorate your tree. We have an ornament room, and you can choose what you like.”

  Gabby turned, her eyes wide. She hadn’t registered the tree in her enthusiasm for the dollhouse. “Oh, yes, please! I’ve never had my own tree! And an ornament room? I can’t believe you have a whole room for ornaments!”

  Leo met Frau Lehman’s smiling eyes over Gabby’s head. This lady was all right.

  “Mr. Ricci, if it meets with your approval, I will stay and help Miss Gabriella get unpacked and dressed for dinner, and Thomas can show you to your room.”

  He wanted to tell her that unpacking Gabby’s small duffel would take about two minutes and that her version of “dress for dinner,” might be different from the Riccis’ version, which was basically, “You should be dressed,” but Leo agreed, leaving Gabby in raptures over the Juliet balcony that overlooked a courtyard lit with what looked like millions of tiny white lights.

  His own room was more masculine. Its centerpiece was a massive, mahogany four-poster bed. There was an ornate writing desk, a pair of wingback chairs in front of a fireplace, and the walls were covered in dark-green fabric.

  “Shall I light a fire, sir?” the footman—Thomas—asked. “It can get rather drafty in the palace in the winter.”

  Leo’s inner architect wanted to ask about the central heating the palace appeared to have. It must have been a feat of engineering to retrofit. But maybe that was a topic best saved for the king. They’d have to talk about something, and if the man was at all house-proud, there was a topic Leo was actually interested in. As to the fire, the room was cold, but he was ready for some solitude. And a concrete task—doing something for himself, with his own hands—would be a welcome corrective to the past twenty-four hours. “No, thanks. I can do it myself.”

  That was the incorrect answer, judging by Thomas’s slightly raised eyebrows, but Leo stood his ground. Raised his own eyebrows. Thomas opened his mouth like he was going to protest but got control of himself, nodded, and murmured, “You’ll find the fireplace already laid with firewood and kindling. There are matches in the box on the mantel.” He moved to the door but stopped to point out a velvet rope that was hanging out of the wall there. “Simply ring if you need anything.”

  And Leo was alone. Finally, blessedly alone.

  Which was when it happened. The thing that definitely, conclusively, absolutely told him he had made a mistake. That he was way out of his depth here.

  He tried to eat a piece of soap.

  In his defense, there was chocolate everywhere. He’d noticed it in Gabby’s room, and Marie had told them on the flight to Zurich that the Christmas chocolate theme in Eldovia extended beyond cocoa. Various artisanal chocolate makers made truffles and other treats to celebrate the season. A box of those truffles rested on the bedside table.

  He had eaten every one of them, and they were freaking delicious.

  Then he’d moved into the bathroom, intending to wash his hands and face after the long journey. There were more truffles in the bathroom, laid out in some kind of crystal bowl.

  Well, when in Eldovia . . .

  And . . . fuck.

  There was a knock on his door while Leo was rinsing his mouth out. The phrase “rinse your mouth out with soap” came to mind, but what did you call it when you were rinsing your mouth to try to get rid of the soap that was already in there?

  He swung open the door to reveal Marie. She was wearing jeans. He had to blink several times in order for his brain to process the sight of Casual Princess. Though she wasn’t really casual-casual. Those were what he would call fancy jeans and she was wearing a blouse and blazer on top, and her hair, which in New York had either been down or twisted into a bun, had been styled into an elaborate Princess-Leia-style over-the-head braid. But, still, a princess wearing jeans. Skinny ones. Leo let his gaze slide down, but only because they were alone, and because he’d gotten the sense, in New York, that Marie liked it when he checked her out.

  And because she was so . . . check-out-able. “You look good,” he said, because it was true.

  Hello, dimples.

  “So do you,” she said.

  “No, I don’t. I look like a schlub from the Bronx who has been on planes for eleven hours.” And who can’t tell the difference between soap and chocolate.

  “My father is on his way home and has texted to invite us for predinner cocktails in an hour’s time, should you care to join us.”

  Should he “care to join them.” Leo could think of few things he would care to do less, but he didn’t really have a choice here, did he? You didn’t come to the Eldovian royal palace and refuse a summons from the king. “Will there be more pomp and ritual?” he asked.

  “Not really. It will just be us.”

  He suspected her definition of “pomp and ritual” was different from his, but he merely asked, “Will there be beer?”

  “There will, in fact, be beer. I’ve made sure of it. I have an old friend who owns a pub in the village, and she’s started some small-scale brewing. We also have various Oktoberfests an
d Hefeweizens on hand.”

  Leo had been kidding, of course, with the beer question, but he was oddly touched that she’d gone to the trouble.

  “And,” Marie went on, “I am told that the cook, who is a lovely woman who thrills to new challenges, is outdoing herself concocting nonalcoholic creations fit for young New Yorkers with discerning palates.”

  “You are a good egg, Princess.” He had the sudden, ridiculous urge to rest his hand on her cheek, but of course he checked it.

  “And if you’re not too tired,” she said, “after dinner I can take you down to the village and show you around. That way you’ll know how to escape when you need to.”

  “And where do you go when you need to escape?”

  It was out before he could help it. He was fairly certain she didn’t escape. That duty and the sad king and the beautiful but impersonal palace were the boundaries of her universe.

  But she surprised him by grinning playfully. “I’ll never tell.”

  What was the matter with her?

  Had Marie’s time in New York made her forget everything about her life?

  About her father?

  He made his displeasure over the fact that she’d returned with guests known immediately upon his return from Riems.

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to see the duke,” she said as he strode into her sitting room, a footman trailing him because he hadn’t even taken off his coat.

  “You didn’t tell me you were bringing Americans home for Christmas,” he shot back.

  Fair enough, but that was because if she’d “told” him, he would have interpreted it as “asking” and would have said no. “They’re my friends. They’ve had a difficult few years, and they’re alone for Christmas.”

  “I won’t ask how you made friends with a couple of—”

  She channeled the spirit of her mother and glared at him. Her mother had always had a way of tempering her father’s sternness, his most aristocratic instincts.

  It must have worked, because he said, “New Yorkers” even though they both knew that wasn’t originally how he’d intended to finish that sentence.