Chapter 12
Twelve
AURELIA
I somehow manage to avoid my best friend all night.
Perhaps Margaret doesn’t recognize me in my slinky black dress or my curled half ponytail.
I have to admit, even though I’m hopeless at dressing myself up, I think I did a fine job tonight.
Apparently, the prince thought so, too, if his white knuckles and stiff back were any indicator when we met before the party.
Or the hardness in his pants, which he teased me with just before leaving me in the care of his cousin.
It is easier to stay away from Margaret than to explain why I’m here in the first place. And I’m not ready to tell her about my little arrangement with the crown prince. She would get way too excited about it and then blow it up into something that it definitely isn’t, like a real relationship.
I’m still not quite certain how Prince Friedrich’s cousin by his estranged uncle retained her title after her father’s abdication, but Princess Beatrix turns out to be a perfect guide for my first court appearance, however informal it may be.
She has this trick of talking from the side of her mouth so she can slip me tidbits without drawing too much attention.
And I start putting faces to names I’ve heard from Lady Maier during our afternoon gossip sessions.
I was worried initially when Prince Friedrich suggested bringing his cousin in on our little secret, but she is not at all what I expected.
Maybe it’s her heavily scripted press engagements or perfect not-so-candid photographs that grace the occasional tabloid that have framed my idea of the woman.
But Princess Beatrix is vibrant and fun and even a bit saucy.
She and Margaret would be trouble together.
I make it back to my dorm a few minutes before curfew and somehow sneak in without drawing the attention of my housemates.
They would be almost as bad as Margaret with the questions and speculations.
The women I have shared the dorm with over the last year and a half know I am a bit of a recluse.
More than a few times, they’ve tried to talk me into going out with them on weekends, but I’ve always refused.
After removing my mask of makeup and showering, I lie in bed and remember Prince Friedrich’s request of me.
Touch yourself. I shudder at the thought.
I’d tried masturbating before, I mean, who hasn’t?
But it’s never really done much for me. I don’t understand what the fuss is and why people think it feels so good.
I just felt icky anytime I tried in the past.
If I’m going to do this thing right—this journey of sexual discovery with the prince as my guide—I have to trust him to lead me right.
My hands tremble as I reach below the elastic of my panties.
I cringe at the coarse pubic hair. How do women manage this mess?
I make a mental note to figure out what to do about the disaster down there before I let the prince anywhere near me.
I’m about to press my fingers to the forbidden flesh between my legs when my mind is flooded with Bible verses and lectures and sermons that I haven’t thought about in years. My lungs seize, and my throat tightens as my head rings with the voices of my childhood pastors.
I snatch my hand away. It’s no use. I’ll simply tell him I couldn’t do it. Or maybe I’ll lie.
How am I going to let him touch me if I can’t even touch myself?
Instead, I pick up my phone and mindlessly scroll my news app in search of some boring article that might put me to sleep.
A piece about Prince Friedrich’s younger brother catches my attention.
The picture next to the headline shows the young prince wrapped tightly around a tiny brunette in some dimly lit space.
And then I remember a moment with Prince Friedrich earlier in the week. He asked if I was a habitual subscriber to the gossip columns. There was something he was hiding. But then the prince doesn’t really get to keep his life all that hidden, does he?
A quick internet search of his name doesn’t net me more than the usual quick facts and a few articles about charity work and such. I hesitate before I hit search on Prince Friedrich sex scandal.
My brain says this is an invasion of his privacy, but my heart has to know what kind of man I’ve opened myself up to. And my guts are only twisting up more as I let my mind wander to increasingly bizarre and deviant scenarios.
The search brings up tons of articles, all dated right around the same time, about nine years ago. And all have roughly the same headline. Prince Friedrich’s long-time girlfriend tells all, sexy secrets inside.
I battle in my own head over the potential harm of reading something that obviously still causes the prince great pain, something so deeply personal as his sex life splashed across every form of media.
Can I trust the veracity of such pieces?
But what if there’s something in there that I should know?
I can’t figure out what makes me trust this man so much, especially given I haven’t been able to trust any man, like, ever.
But the Prince Friedrich who helped me talk through my boundaries, who offered subtle touches to ground me during difficult conversations, the prince whose very presence was ease, that man has earned the benefit of the doubt.
I click out of the web browser, check that my alarm is set for class in the morning, and turn out my bedside lamp.
The rain is coming down in sheets when I wake up on Sunday morning.
Rain is a common enough occurrence in Emarvia, but it’s usually just a light drizzle.
Big storms like this tend to blow in fast but pitter out just as quickly.
Sure enough, by the time I step out of the shower, the rain has let up considerably.
My phone flashes with an alert as I’m drying myself.
Fritz:
Looks like it’s going to be a wet one today. Hope that won’t change your mind
I always assumed club level was well shielded from the elements
As long as the wind behaves
Haha! The wind never behaves on this island
Look. I’m just the prince. Not God
You’d think as the future head of his church he’d help you out a little
I dig my Portyard jersey from the back of my wardrobe.
It’s a few seasons old, but the player on the back is still with us, so it will work.
My scarf hangs on the wall above my bed, and I take it down and throw it loosely around my shoulders, texting with Prince Friedrich as I continue getting ready.
I had planned on reading for a bit before time to leave, but I can’t stop with this guy.
Even when he’s not trying to be flirty, my heart responds to his texts with flutters.
Finally, I have to finish getting ready or risk being late.
Mass transit on match days is always a struggle, even with the transit authority running extra buses to the stadium.
With a dark blue ear warmer secured just right to not mess up my hair and my rain jacket on, I make my way to the bus stop nearby.
As predicted, it’s packed. People are standing in the aisles holding the poles and straps for stability.
I manage to cram myself between two burly men also sporting blue kits.
Someone at the back of the bus starts singing a stadium song, and soon the whole bus joins in, the air crackling with excitement and warbling harmonies.
It's like a scene out of a comedy sketch as we file off the bus in one huge mass, still pressed together like we’ve been stuck with glue.
The roads around the stadium are cordoned off in a three-block radius, and I follow along with the throngs of supporters.
Navy Yard looms ahead, the structure of brick and steel situated right on the edge of the harbor.
Flags hanging from light poles flap in the wind, and I knot my scarf tighter around my neck.
The rain has slowed to a heavy misting, and I feel that memorable pregame thrill, chanting along with the more familiar odes to our beloved team as the blue mass shuffles along.
It’s been so long since I’ve been to a match in person, I’d almost forgotten the electrical energy being in the crowd can bring.
I don’t know some of the newer songs the fans have made up in recent years, but the old standbys garner a loud roar as the whole street of people joins in.
It’s almost enough to make me forget to be nervous about seeing Prince Friedrich.
I assume I’ll be meeting the famous Miles today, too.
I’m not sure why that makes me more anxious; it’s not like I’m his girlfriend or anything.
The will call line is long, but thankfully moves quickly. I give my name to the attendant who, after a quick search, looks at me with wide eyes.
“Ma’am, you didn’t have to wait,” he squeaks. “You could have used the Admiral’s Club entrance.”
“Oh, sorry.” I blush. “It was no problem really. But, um, where is the Admiral’s Club entrance?”
“West gate, on the dockside opposite here, ma’am.” He gestures over his shoulder.
“Oh,” I say again. I didn’t even know there was such an entrance on the side of the stadium that sits along the docks. “I’ll just walk around then.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’ll call an escort.”
I can feel the eyes of the others behind me in line boring into the back of my head as the attendant picks up a phone and speaks quickly to whoever is on the other end.
He sets down the phone and says to me, “Please wait just to the right there, Lady Sumner. Someone will be by in a jiffy to take you around.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, still not quite sure about this kind of treatment. “And I’m not a lady.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” he stutters.
I wait where I was shown, glad to no longer be holding up the line. Mere moments later, a man in a black suit and a navy blue beanie pulls up in a golf cart.
“Lady Sumner?” he asks.
“Not Lady,” I repeat. “Just Aurelia is fine.”