Chapter 9
Nine
FRIEDRICH
The last day of the tour is a whirlwind, and I’m hungover as fuck.
I try to ignore the pounding behind my eyeballs as we roll through quaint East Coast towns that look straight out of the nineteenth century.
These are quiet towns, places where children grow up with the same group of friends, where people raise families in the same place they grew up, and those families, in turn, raise their own children in the very same town.
The store fronts and prominent buildings haven’t changed in decades, and everything feels so far away from the glamor and hustle and constant transformation of the capital.
Aurelia can’t take it all in fast enough. Every time I catch sight of her, she’s wide-eyed and spinning, trying to catch every little detail. It’s like watching a child discover something new; I can’t help but share her joy, even if I’m merely watching her from a distance.
I don’t dare approach her at any of the stops, that would draw too much attention from those around us and the ever-present media.
And she has an important job to do, keeping not only her charges safe and entertained, but other children who have been drawn in by her fun-loving and sunny personality.
Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m still sweating whiskey despite the icy shower this morning.
We aren’t able to meet on the train either.
During the longest leg of the journey, I have a conference call with the board of one of the charities I support—a football team made up of military veterans who lost a leg in combat, or in the case of the keepers, an arm.
We’re deep in the planning phase for a match with England’s amputee football team, all proceeds going to survivors’ funds for families who have lost loved ones.
The team captain is a guy I came up with in basic and flight school, Jagger.
His real name is Mick Samford, and when nicknames were being passed around at boot camp, Jagger was the obvious choice.
We arrive back late in Marvia City, so the reporters and paps are thin on the ground at the train station, but I still spare Aurelia the potential scrutiny and give her a small nod as she leaves with the Maiers.
“Thank you, Travis,” I nod to the chauffeur holding the door as I get into the back of a black sedan. Brenton hops in front, and Frank joins the rest of the security team in the black SUV ahead of us.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and shoot off a quick good night text to Aurelia before checking my emails one last time.
There is a new one from Betsy, the head of palace public relations.
She is the point person in project End Friedrich’s Bachelorhood, and all her emails go to a special folder so they don’t get lost amongst the throngs of messages I receive every day.
She informs me of a meeting scheduled for the morning at nine o’clock to discuss the evening’s big event, a cocktail party for the women invited to parade themselves in front of me and my family in hopes of securing their very own piece of the crown jewels.
I hate morning meetings, but maybe getting through my obligations early in the day will allow me more time to get some work done on my house.
Rankten Cottage sits in the middle of a private park in the north of the city, where several other members of the royal family also have residences.
The largest building is Kipton Palace, built by my great-great-great-grandfather for his Swedish wife, who hated the bustle around Vertmure Palace and refused to live in the middle of the city.
It had been turned into separate apartments in the thirties since there was no use in keeping up one large house that hardly anyone lived in.
Now my cousin Trixie lives in one of the end flats, chosen for her so she only bothers one neighbor with her loud music and louder sexual activities.
I was supposed to move into the largest apartment on the other end of the palace, but when my great uncle Wilbur died a few months before I returned from active service, I felt his cottage was better suited to my needs.
My home is quaint, private, and also old. Thus, it has been an active construction zone since I moved in. But after months of work and living with stifling paint fumes and pernicious sawdust, I’m finally nearing the end of the major renovations.
While I was away this week, Tristan supervised the last bit of work needed to bring my home into the twenty-first century.
The kitchen received a full update, and the walls in the living area were torn down, turning half of the downstairs into one open room instead of three separate rooms for the parlor, formal dining room, and rear sitting room.
I love the sound of car tires crunching on gravel, as it means I’m nearly home, away from the media and family obligations and insane numbers of staff.
The drive to Rankten Cottage curves and winds through a lightly wooded area in the park, which provides ample privacy for my little getaway in the middle of the city.
The driver brings us to the edge of the overgrown garden.
Mother has plans to help me work on that come spring.
Brenton does a perfunctory sweep of the house before I can get out of the car.
The security system had been installed before I was allowed to move in, but Brenton never leaves anything to computers that he thinks he can do better.
I’m shocked by the completed kitchen when I enter.
The white quartz countertops gleam, the gold fixtures sparkle against black cabinetry, the blue and white diamond-patterned tile floor shines.
Not only had Tristan seen to the completion in my absence, but it appears my housekeeper, Marta, had the place cleaned to a shine.
Best of all, takeaway from my favorite late-night kebab joint waits on the bar.
I turn to ask Brenton to join me, but he’s already disappeared to his room.
He had insisted on taking on the butler’s quarters in the basement when I moved in, though I had tried to convince him to take one of the larger rooms on the first floor.
In true bachelor fashion, I eat my takeaway straight from the box while leaning against the counter.
The fridge had been stocked with a selection of my favorite beers, and I crack one open after dinner and take it with me to the shower.
Afterwards, I climb into my oversized bed and pick up the book from my bedside table, immersing myself in the fantasy world until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.
I plan to leave for the palace early, hoping to miss most of the morning traffic.
Plus, after days of being cooped up on a train, I’m itching to take my car out, and Brenton hates when I drive myself.
He’ll be less peeved following me if there are fewer drivers on the road to contend with.
The morning is typical for December in Emarvia, grey and misty, fog hanging low about the city.
My morning run around the park is a damp one, but I love this time of year.
We are rather spoiled for weather here. Sure, it rains more often than some like, and the sky is often overcast, the wind off the sea is a given, but it doesn’t get exceptionally cold in the winter, nor terribly hot in the summer. I find that a fair trade.
After a shower and breakfast of toast and a banana, I pour the last of the coffee from the pot Brenton brewed into a steel to-go cup with the Portyard badge stamped on the side and head out the side door in the kitchen.
A brick path leads to the detached garage, where my pride and joy waits under a heavy drop cloth.
The 1967 Volvo sports car was a gift from Father for my sixteenth birthday. We worked on it together, getting the engine back up to snuff and refinishing the interior before sending her off for a fresh paint job to bring her back to her former sleek black glory.
The car purrs to life, and a thrill runs through my hands as I caress the steering wheel.
There are no cup holders, but I have grown used to holding my coffee between my legs even as I use both feet to drive.
It’s perhaps not the most glamorous car; it isn’t particularly fast or flashy like the newer sports cars other rich men like to flaunt, but she’s mine, and the memories I have of working together with Father are worth far more than some overpriced penis extension.
Brenton follows close behind in his behemoth of an SUV.
I had planned perfectly, and the streets are mostly clear of morning commuters.
I roll the window down and drape my arm over the side, relishing the cool air whipping my hair.
Mother will probably fuss that I’ve let it get too long.
She’s long since given up her campaign against the beard I’ve been working on since the end of my military career.
Vertmure Palace sits in the heart of the city, roads and freeways humming around it, but inside the high walls of the grounds behind the palace, the noise dies away.
The Royal Canal—built a decade before a certain other so-named canal—runs in front, providing a decent enough barrier that only an ornate iron fence is needed to keep people out.
The canal had once been used to ferry goods from the port to the palace and farther inland, but now serves as part of a long system of walking paths, public parks, and nature preserves.
The side gate is manned by military men in green uniforms who salute as I approach. The gate swings inward, and I pull up to the portico in front of the palace. A footman opens the door for me, and I leave the keys in the car for him to take it around to the garage.
Stepping into the palace isn’t quite like coming home. I haven’t spent much time here since leaving for boarding school when I was eleven. Summer holidays were usually spent on tour or at one of the country estates, and Christmas was always spent in Switzerland.