Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
FRIEDRICH
Seeing Aurelia at that surprisingly lively funeral last week only served to remind me that she still holds my whole heart.
I kept trying to find the right time to get her alone, to tell her that my heart isn’t finished with her, to put my lips on hers again, to feel her soft body fitted against mine in the way my soul knows we belong.
But when Liesel called from a bathroom at yet another house party she’d snuck off to, I rushed to my little sister’s aid just as I promised her I would, as I always will.
I shot off a text message to Aurelia the next day to apologize for my sudden departure and received a polite message back, but that was all.
I don’t want to push her too much; I’ve already scared her away once.
But after that conversation with Jagger on his last night in Marvia City and then seeing her again, it was exactly the kick in the ass that I needed to finally talk to Father and the parliamentary committee at the head of the princess search.
Surprisingly, Lorelei was a great help to me in crafting my argument and researching precedents and even laws adopted in other monarchical societies.
So, when I enter one of the smaller conference rooms in the parliament building today, I’m fully confident, armed with my folder of carefully curated discussion points and counterarguments.
It’s no good, though.
“Son, I understand your frustrations and concerns,” Father says in the same tone he used with Claus as a repugnant teenager. “But this is the law. It has been the law for centuries.”
“Laws can change, Father.”
Lord Heston, the committee chairman, slams his fist on the oak table. “Not in the time frame you are proposing, Your Highness, and certainly not just because you don’t want to follow them.”
“So, we legislate love now?”
“For you, we do,” Lord Heston bellows, spittle splattering on the table in front of me. Thank Christ it’s a wide table, or I would have caught some of that.
Father holds up a hand. “Stand down, Thomas.”
Heston sputters but slumps back into his seat, face still redder than a beet. I swear the man is about to burst an aneurysm.
My father turns to face me from the head of the table. “Friedrich, we have given you as much time as we can to allow you to come to this decision on your own.”
“Yes, but I don’t need time, Father.” I know I’m out of line interrupting the king, but right now, I’m talking to my dad. “I need her.”
Just then, the doors burst open, and my cousin flies into the room in a swirl of blonde hair and tenacity.
“Just the men I was hoping to see,” she trills as she strides up to the table. “Oh, and good day to you, as well, Lord Heston.”
I hide my snicker behind a cough, and Father slides a glass of water towards me. I gulp it down as my cousin flips through her own large and ancient book.
“Pardon the interruption, Uncle, but there are new considerations before us, and I simply cannot let my dear cousin fall into the trap that has been laid without every avenue being explored.”
“Princess Beatrix,” Lord Heston grumbles. “This is not a matter with which you should be concerning yourself.”
Trixie doesn’t break stride. “On the contrary, my Lord. This is a matter of great importance to me. Not only am I one of the few in this government looking out for the future happiness of His Highness above all other considerations, but I am also to be subjected to whichever woman he selects as a bride from here until the end of my days. So, yes, I am quite concerned.”
She’s making a show of flipping pages in the tome, which details all the noble families of our small country, but if I know my cousin, she already knows exactly the place she intends to reference.
Trixie makes a little hum of approval as she finds her page, dragging her finger down the yellowed paper and then exclaiming for dramatic effect.
“As you can see here, Uncle, our dear Miss Sumner is descended from the line of Grafs, which have been a part of our nobility for centuries, going back to the fight for our independence from the British. Miss Sumner’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great—”
“Beatrix, we get the point,” Father interrupts.
“Right. Anyway, her, like, ten times great-grandfather fought alongside who would become King Germund and was thus given the title of Earl upon the defeat of the British army in 1779. The title was passed down through the generations, until it landed on the late Sarah Graf—the first female to hold the title, incidentally.”
“I’m sure no one in this room needs a lesson on heritable titles, Your Highness,” Lord Heston guffaws.
“Are you sure about that, Lord Heston, because I’m having a difficult time understanding why Aurelia comes from a long line of minor nobility and is yet excluded from the list of approved noble women who have been paraded about like prized cattle these past months.”
I don’t know what has gotten into my brain, whether it’s shielding me from the knowledge that I really am about to lose Aurelia forever or I’ve at last reached the end of my rope on this whole courtship bullshit, but I have to actively resist the urge to moo.
I adore my cousin for taking up my cause; she’s been in the Fritz and Aurelia corner almost from the beginning, but I knew this was a losing battle before I even came into the room this afternoon.
“Trixie, I’ve already tried,” I sigh. “She’s too far removed, and anyway, her claim went away when her father left the peerage.”
“Yes, but with the death of Lady Sarah Graf, she’s potentially the heir for her uncle, who no one has heard from in ages. We don’t know if he’s married or ever had legitimate children. Aurelia might be closer to this title than we think.”
Hope balloons in my chest. This is it. This is the caveat I’ve been looking for.
I could pursue Aurelia if she were a part of the nobility.
She could be mine. I wouldn’t have to spend my life trapped in a marriage to someone who doesn’t excite me.
Instead of having a vapid socialite with only her own advancement in mind, I could have Aurelia as my partner in this royal life. And what a princess she would make.
“The line of inheritance could take many months to sort out, perhaps over a year.”
Lord Heston’s words are the safety pin to my hope.
“Fritz.” Father’s voice is soft and maybe a little sad. “I am sorry. This is never what I wanted for you. For any of my children. But this is the life we lead. I told you when you were young, there will come a day when you must choose between the heart and the crown.”
I bow my head. I do remember the conversation. I was just a child when he first began having this talk with me regularly, and it didn’t mean anything to me then. Heart and crown and future were all so abstract.
“We are only allowed to rule as long as we have the heart of the people. Every day we must earn our title.”
“Pushing for a change like this, to push for rapidity, it does not look good in the court of public opinion,” Father continued.
“We do a disservice to our title if we appear fickle. If we go changing laws so we can chase our own desires, how might that be perceived by the commonwealth? We serve the people of this country. Our laws serve the people. We do not get to change those laws to serve ourselves.”
My stomach is in my feet. Of course, I know he’s right.
These are all things Father has instilled in me as long as I can remember.
I spent many nights with Father in his study while he lectured on our place in society, where monarchy fits in the modern day, our duty to our people.
I was shuffled along to the opening day of parliament and shepherded through formal visits with foreign leaders.
By his side, I honed my skill in reading emotions, learned to listen between the lines, began to understand the underhanded words and dealings in European politics.
From a young age, I was taught my place in this world, my role in this government, my lot in this life. And I’m a fucking moron for thinking anything—even great love—could stand in the way of that.
“Pick one, Father.” I look up into his eyes, so much like my own, I could almost imagine I was looking in the mirror.
Except for the tired lines like roots from the corners of his eyes.
And I remember thinking my father looked old twenty years ago.
And I remember the cancer. And I remember it could indeed be very soon before I have to lay aside all else.
Before I’m sitting in that seat at the head of the table.
Before I have to make every decision in my life for the crown, not for Friedrich.
“Pick one of the remaining five for me, Father. It makes no difference anymore.”
I stand, bow to my father, place a kiss on his cheek, as all his children do in greeting or farewell, and take my leave.