Chapter 2
Valentina
Living in a house that's slowly collapsing around you, eventually, you stop noticing the small disasters.
The shutter that hangs at a jaunty angle like a wonky eyelid?
It adds character. The electrical outlet in the kitchen that occasionally shoots sparks when you plug in the kettle?
Ambiance. The stack of final notices by the front door that's reached architectural proportions? Abstract decor.
Okay, maybe the last example is taking it a step too far.
Over the years. I've become remarkably skilled at creative problem-solving. It’s why I excel in my profession.
When you've spent years figuring out how to shower when the hot water heater subscribes to the “heat erratically” school of thought, writing commentary about people who've never had to choose between hot showers and food becomes surprisingly therapeutic.
“Morning, Nona,” I say as I push through her door and step into the darkened room. “I’ve brought your tea and a slice of toast.”
“Thank you, my love,” she replies as she pushes herself up in her statuesque four-poster bed, a relic of an aristocratic past. “Breakfast in bed. What a treat!”
“Anything for my favorite grandmother on a Sunday morning,” I say as I place the breakfast tray on the dressing table and pull the heavy drapes back to let the morning sun pour in.
“I’m your only living grandmother,” she replies with a smile.
“And being alive gives you a distinct advantage in my affections.” I place the tray across her lap and lower myself onto the end of her bed.
She eyes the envelopes on the tray, her white brows pulled together. “More final demand notices, I suppose.”
“We’ll need to pay the electricity bill, but the others will have to wait. Now, you enjoy breakfast. I’m going to get some writing in before I tackle that leaking tap under the kitchen sink.”
“It’s leaking again?”
“Nona, the whole place is falling around our ears. The leaking kitchen tap is the first task on my rather lengthy to-do list for today.”
“You’re such an angel, my darling Val. What would I do without you?”
I smile at my grandmother. “Hold house parties with frat boys?”
“I mean it.”
“I’m just trying to hold it all together, Nona. That’s all.”
She takes a sip of her tea. “Lovely cup of tea, Val. While you write, I’m going to tackle the weeds in the garden.”
“Just be careful. I don’t want you breaking a hip or something.”
“I might be getting old, but I’m not frail, thank you.”
“You’ve still got it, Nona.” I place a kiss on her forehead. “See you downstairs?”
“In a bit. I’m going to revel in the luxury of breakfast in bed.” She reaches for me, her crepey hand clasping my wrist. “You don’t deserve to have to live this way, Val.”
“Nona, we've been through this. It's not your fault what happened, and we’re fine. Right?”
“Your father always said he was innocent.”
This old tune.
“The evidence was overwhelming. We both know that.”
“What I would do if I met that man in a dark alley…”
I choke out a laugh. “Because the King of Ledonia is always lurking around in dark alleys.”
“It’s an expression, darling. He’s to blame for all this.”
I let out a deep sigh. Nona will always defend her son’s honor, disregarding the evidence against him. Not me. I’ve accepted it. What happened is done. History. And we all know you can’t change history.
I place my hand over hers. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.”
I leave her door ajar and make my way back down the creaking stairs, avoiding the broken step my foot went through last week. I make a mental note to search for a piece of wood in the garden shed later to patch it up.
With my morning brew in hand, I sit down at my desk and crack open my laptop.
I'm greeted with an avalanche of emails.
This morning's entertainment provides my daily glimpse into the collective psyche of humanity. Nestled between the usual lottery winnings notifications and urgent pleas from African royalty requiring my immediate financial assistance—does that tired ploy ever work?—I discover a gem. Someone claims they made sourdough last week, and the crust formed what they swear is Prince Maximilien’s face.
Well, at least that's amusing.
The attached photograph looks remarkably like a poorly formed loaf of bread to me, but if I squint and tilt my head at just the right angle, I can almost make out a rather happy-looking Prince Max. Which, to be fair, captures his default expression nicely.
I could make a fun TikTok with this.
Next there's an email entitled "Royal Aliens." T.K. Ross presents a theory that the royal crest includes a constellation of stars not visible from Earth, which he firmly believes shows their extraterrestrial origins, and he fears they may soon summon their cosmic relatives to enslave us all.
Filing that one in the bin.
Not that I’m in a position to complain. I make my living from information, fed to me by a cultivated network of sources who trust me with their gossip, T.K.
Ross notwithstanding. My sources come from all walks of life, but one thing they all have in common is access to the royal family, which is why I’m always the one to break the stories first.
From upstairs comes the sound of Nona’s voice, raised in what I prefer to think of as "spirited discussion" with someone about a bill. It’s probably the electric company, though it could be the council about property taxes, or the heating oil supplier.
Our house—Nona’s house, technically—is the image you’d see if you looked up “faded grandeur” in the dictionary. It boasts no less than twelve bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a library, and the most useful of rooms in 21st Century Ledonia: a ballroom complete with a sprung floor.
Not a lot of use for that one.
Our heating works in two bedrooms; the plumbing is questionable in all but one bathroom, and even that’s a lottery if you’ll get a water torrent or a mere dribble; the library roof has developed what we optimistically call "ventilation,” requiring a host of buckets to catch drips every time it rains.
Lap of luxury? More like the lap of disrepair.
My workspace occupies what was once an elegant study, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with musty books, and a window overlooking gardens which have long-since been claimed by a terrorist organization of weeds.
Nona will need industrial-grade machinery to locate the plants this morning—and a medical degree to resuscitate them.
The house reflects our family's trajectory rather poetically—once grand, now crumbling, hanging onto dignity through sheer stubborn determination.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the same thing.
As I pad across the study floor, the photograph on the mantelpiece catches my eye. My father, looking impossibly young and happy, captured during what I didn’t know at the time was our golden period.
I remember it as if it was yesterday, even though it was fifteen years ago now. My world ended with a knock on my dormitory door. The headmistress wore the expression adults adopt when they're about to obliterate a child's world with a handful of words.
“I'm afraid there's been some trouble with your father, Valentina,” Mrs. Walters had said, her expression more pinched than usual. And that was saying a lot. The woman closely resembled a prune.
The “trouble” was splashed across every newspaper and media site in the land the very next day, labelling my father as a traitor.
Using his position to steal money from royal charities.
My sweet, kind, quirky dad, who, with my mother passing away when I was only four years old, had done what he could to be both dad and mum to me.
He sent me care packages to my boarding school as regular as clockwork every week, always sneaking in some extra chocolate.
He taught me how to ride a bike, how to throw a cricket ball, and how I should expect to be treated by a boy.
I still have the letter he sent me, telling me he was innocent. I believed him. Of course I did. He was my dad. But the evidence against him was too strong, and over the years, I’ve lost my previous conviction. I love my dad, but everything pointed to him having done it.
We email. Stilted, careful messages where he asks about Nona and I tell him she's fine. I’ve never told him I'm working as a journalist, that I write about the royal family. Some truths are easier left unsaid.
The last email came two months ago. He called me “piccola”, his childhood nickname for me. Little one. It still has the power to make my chest ache.
I want to forgive him for leaving me behind. I want to believe he's innocent, like Nona does so vehemently. But mostly, I'm just angry that he chose exile over fighting for his name.
Over fighting for me.
He fled Ledonia in the dead of night, leaving behind a scandal that was talked about for years. I was twelve, suddenly notorious, unwelcome in the world I'd been born into with one brush stroke that sent me to Nona in Villadorata.
The bullies at my new public high school had been creative with their taunts. “Disgraced Daddy's little princess” was the kindest thing they'd call across the schoolyard. I won’t mention the others. I'd learned to keep my head down.
I adapted. I had to. There was no other choice.
So, I became someone new, someone no one could connect me to.
Change your name, and you can change your life’s trajectory.
The beauty of anonymity is freedom. I can attend events, cultivate sources, write commentary about behavior I understand all too well, and nobody connects me to anything except the byline I've created.
My phone rings. Unknown number. It usually means either somebody wants to sell me insurance I can't afford, or someone has information.
I answer it using my alter ego, hoping for the latter.
“Good afternoon. This is Ronan Clementine, the Director of Communications for His Majesty, King Frederic.”
It’s clearly a prank call.
“Uncle Bertie, I’m busy, you know,” I reply, a smile in my voice.
The man at the other end of the line repeats, “I am not your Uncle Bertie. I’m Ronan Clementine, Director of Communications at the palace. His Majesty requests your presence this afternoon at three o'clock."
“You’re very good, Uncle Bertie. You sound just like you’ve got a carrot stuck—”
“Miss!” The prim and proper voice cuts me off. "I was told to invite you to the palace today at three o’clock to meet His Majesty.”
I narrow my eyes, moving the phone from one ear to the other. “You’re not my uncle?”
“I am not.”
“And this isn’t some kind of joke?”
“It’s deadly serious.”
“What does the King want to talk to me about?”
“His Majesty would like to meet with you regarding your recent articles about a particular member of the royal family. This afternoon at three. We’ve spoken with Judith Giovanni, and she gave us the green light to talk directly with you.”
My stomach hollows. They’ve cleared this with my boss.
As if declining an invitation from the King of Ledonia is something people do.
“We can send a car to your residence if you require transport.”
“No, no. That won’t be necessary,” I reply rather hurriedly. The last thing I want is for the royal family to figure out who I really am.
“That’s settled then. Mention your name at the gatehouse. The guards will let you in. Good afternoon.” The line goes dead, his words sliding over me like ice water.
I stare at my phone as though it's personally betrayed me.
The King wants to talk with me at the palace, a place I haven't set foot in as my true self since I was twelve years old. Where people probably still whisper my family's name there as a cautionary tale about trust and betrayal.
This is it. It’s all over. Someone's figured it out. Someone's connected the dots between my insider knowledge and my actual inside experience.
The King’s going to have me prosecuted. Exposed. The country will know who I really am.
My hands shake as I set the phone down on my desk. Years of building a new identity, of avoiding recognition, and it could all be about to crumble at the hands of the man who destroyed my father.
My phone rings once more, and I almost leap out of my skin.
“Judith, hi,” I say into my phone.
“You’ve spoken with the palace?” she asks.
“I have.”
“And?”
“I’m meeting with them this afternoon, but I’m not sure what they want with me.”
And I’m terrified they’ve worked me out.
“You won't know by sitting at home on your thumbs. Go, meet with them and find out. They’ve singled you out. It's an honor.”
Or an execution.
I look around at the water-stained wallpaper, the photograph of my dad and me in our golden moment.
I’ve done what I’ve done to survive, to eke out an existence amid the rubble of my family’s downfall.
It’s time to discover what the King wants with Fabiana Fontaine.