Chapter 14 Leo
LEO
“I’m fairly certain this wasn’t in my job description,” Rangi mutters, expertly adjusting the Eleanor’s hat as we prepare to take the royal children for their first public outing since Fiona’s birth.
“Welcome to life with my sister,” I reply, cradling my niece with practiced care. “Nothing is ever coincidental with Kit.”
Kit’s “innocent” suggestion that Rangi and I take three-week-old Fiona and two-year old Eleanor for a stroll through the palace gardens—where, coincidentally, the press would be gathered for the announcement of the Future of Astipia Bill—is about as subtle as a ceremonial drumbeat.
“Do I look presentable?” Rangi asks, his usual confidence momentarily faltering.
Despite his years of military service and diplomatic experience, I can see the nerves beneath his calm exterior.
This isn’t just a walk with royal babies—it’s a carefully choreographed introduction to a role he never expected to fill.
I take a moment to study him, admiring the way his formal attire—a modern suit with traditional touches in the embroidery—emphasizes his broad shoulders and strong features. The warrior markings visible at his collar and wrists add a distinctive cultural element that he wears with pride.
“You look perfect,” I assure him, as I step closer, lowering my voice despite the empty nursery. “Unofficially, you look devastatingly handsome, and I’m finding it difficult to maintain royal decorum.”
His smile is slow and knowing, warming me from the inside. “Later,” he promises, his voice dropping to a register that makes my pulse quicken. I give into temptation, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He turns slightly toward it, not quite chasing the kiss—but not not either.
High-pitched giggle erupts as Eleanor watches us, a stuffed giraffe in one hand, her hat already askew once again.
“And what are you laughing at, Princess?” Rangi asks with a playful growl, swooping up my niece to tickle her. She scream-laughs, her little feet kicking in delight.
Our moment is interrupted by the nursery door swinging open to admit Victoria, clipboard in hand.
“The press is in position,” she informs us, her expression betraying nothing of what she thinks about this orchestrated display. “Her Majesty suggests you proceed through the East Garden to the Sunken Terrace where the announcement will take place.”
“Any specific instructions for when the vultures start shouting questions?” I ask, adjusting Fiona’s blanket where she sleeps in her pram.
Victoria consults her notes. “The official line is that Captain Rangi is assisting you in your capacity as uncle and as part of the deeper cultural integration of the royal family with tribal customs. Fiona will receive a traditional blessing today.”
Rangi shoots me a look. “She will?”
“She is now,” I murmur back.
Victoria continues, “Her Majesty suggests natural interaction, dignified but warm. And she specifically said, ‘Tell Leo to stop looking like he’s marching to his execution. It’s a garden stroll, not a firing squad.’”
I roll my eyes. “Helpful as always.”
“She also said,” Victoria adds, her lips twitching slightly, “that if anyone asks direct questions about your... friendship, you’re to neither confirm nor deny, but simply comment on the importance of cultural exchange. Charlotte’s been briefed to deal with the relationship questions.”
“Cultural exchange,” Rangi repeats with dry amusement. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
Victoria’s professional demeanour cracks just enough to reveal a quick smile before she returns to business. “The royal photographer will be documenting for the official archive. You have approximately fifteen minutes in the garden before proceeding to the terrace for the announcement.”
“Understood.”
Victoria clears her throat. “And Rangi, your brother is here. Tahma will be joining you later. Unfortunately, he’s been delayed.” There’s a flush to her cheeks.
Rangi nods. “Anything wrong?”
Her blush deepens. “Just a small issue with his wardrobe. Nothing to worry about.”
I bend down to lift Fiona from her pram. “Ready?” I ask Rangi.
He nods, his expression shifting to one of public dignity while his eyes remain warm when they meet mine. “As I’ll ever be.”
We follow Victoria through the palace corridors, the staff we pass bowing or curtseying with practiced discretion, though I notice more than a few curious glances at Rangi.
News of our relationship hasn’t been officially acknowledged within the palace, but the royal household has always had its own efficient information network.
I suspect there are few who don’t know or at least suspect the nature of our connection.
As we approach the garden doors, the royal photographer, a reed-thin woman with a perpetually harried expression, falls into step beside us.
“Your Highness, Captain,” she greets, camera already raised. “If you could proceed naturally, I’ll remain unobtrusive.”
“As unobtrusive as someone constantly taking our photograph can be,” I murmur, earning a soft laugh from Rangi.
The moment we step outside, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of late roses, I feel the weight of dozens of lenses turn in our direction. The press corps, stationed at a respectful distance along the garden path, immediately begin capturing the carefully staged moment.
“Showtime,” I whisper to Rangi.
We begin our stroll, moving unhurriedly along the gravel path between meticulously tended flower beds. I’m acutely aware of how we must appear—the prince with his niece, the captain with the heir, both of us seeming so natural in these roles that were thrust upon us.
Eleanor darts here and there, pointing out flowers and stones that spark her interest. Rangi is patient with her, laughing and teasing her with a familiar ease that’s come from living in the palace for the last few weeks.
I grin as she stops us yet again, Rangi crouching to watch the lady beetle she’s discovered. It warms my heart that he’s slotted so easily into our family.
“Your Highness!” calls one of the reporters. “How is Princess Fiona adapting to palace life?”
I pause, turning with a practiced smile. “Admirably. She’s already mastered the art of commanding attention at three in the morning.”
A ripple of polite laughter follows, cameras clicking furiously.
“Captain Rangi,” another voice calls out. “Is this your first time assisting with royal children?”
Rangi answers with perfect diplomatic poise, his deep voice carrying easily. “It is. I’m honoured to participate in the traditional welcoming ceremonies for the young princess.”
“What specific traditions are being observed today?” calls a cultural correspondent I recognize from the national broadcaster.
Rangi glances at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at our improvisation. “Today the princess will receive her first keturah—a blessing that connects her to the land and her ancestors. It’s traditionally performed outdoors, allowing the children to feel the elements.”
The reporters scribble notes eagerly, apparently delighted.
We continue our walk, pausing occasionally for the optimal photo opportunities—beside a flowering shrub, near the ancient stone fountain, beneath the sprawling oak that has witnessed centuries of royal history.
All the while, I’m conscious of the calculated nature of this appearance, of Kit’s hand orchestrating our movements from a distance.
Yet there’s something genuine happening beneath the choreography.
There’s an easy synchronicity of our movements, developed through months of working together and weeks of increasing intimacy.
These things can’t be staged, and I wonder if the observers can see past the official narrative to the truth beneath.
“They make a striking picture, don’t they?” comes a voice from behind us.
I turn to find Charlotte approaching along a side path, Roy at her side. Her casual appearance is, I’m certain, another piece of Kit’s orchestration.
“Lottie,” I greet, genuinely pleased to see her. “Come to join the parade?”
“I couldn’t miss my niece’s garden debut.” She bends to coo at Fiona in my arms. “Hello, precious girl. Are your uncles taking good care of you?”
The emphasized plural isn’t lost on me, nor on the reporters who’ve edged closer to capture this family moment.
“Would you like to hold her?” I offer.
“In a moment.” Charlotte straightens, turning to Rangi with a warm smile. “Eleanor seems quite content with you, Captain. She’s usually fussier with new people.”
“She knows quality when he sees it,” Rangi responds with a small smile, adjusting his hold on the princess, who is currently sitting on his shoulders.
“Clearly it runs in the family,” Charlotte says with just enough emphasis to make my cheeks warm.
Subtle, Lottie. Very subtle.
Roy, ever practical, steps in to suggest we continue toward the terrace where the announcement will take place.
As we resume our walk, now a family group rather than just the two of us, I notice how seamlessly Rangi is incorporated into the tableau—not as an outsider or mere assistant, but as someone who belongs.
“Your sister,” Rangi murmurs as we lag slightly behind Charlotte and Roy, “is about as delicate as a battering ram.”
I chuckle softly. “It runs in the family. Subtlety has never been our strong suit.”
“I’ve noticed.” His eyes meet mine briefly, warm with affection. “I don’t mind, you know. Being seen with you like this.”
The simple statement eases a tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. “No?”
“No.” He adjusts Eleanor’s legs around his shoulders. “I’m proud to be by your side, Leo. In whatever capacity you’re comfortable acknowledging.”
I want to respond, to tell him that I want to acknowledge everything, but we’ve reached the Sunken Terrace where a much larger press contingent awaits, along with various officials and dignitaries gathered for the announcement.