Chapter 6Amelia
Chapter 6
Amelia
Does anyone still believe the official royal line that Princess Amelia is currently on an Indian mountain, seated in the lotus position, aggressively thinking about not thinking, following a vindaloo and some naan bread?
The answer to that question must be a resounding no .
She may not have run away to join the circus or taken flight into space, as I suggested in the past, because there are rumors abound that she hasn’t in fact gone anywhere at all.
Spotted walking down a busy street in Tleurbonne was one young lady who, despite her casual attire, bore a striking resemblance to our Amelia.
Could it be that instead of embarking on a journey of mindfulness she has instead escaped for an entirely different journey, one we all hope will involve romance?
Has Princess Amelia swapped silent contemplation for silent rebellion?
Sadly, she has only been sighted once, but this royal correspondent shall not be deterred.
Watch this space, good people.
Yours in Tiara-tipping and tea-spilling,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#RoyalEscape
#AmeliaOnTheLoose
#DontDrinkTheTea
“Thank you so, so much,” I say to the guard with my best smile. “You're an absolute lifesaver. I don't know what I would have done if I'd missed this train.”
“Take your seat, miss. We're departing now,” is his bland, expressionless reply.
But my excitement won’t be dented. I'm simply happy I'm here and have made it safely onto the train before it left the station.
“Of course,” I reply, taking my ticket from him.
Right now, I’m breaking Rule number 511: Never take public transportation unless you are in a private carriage . And the fact that the guard treated me with casual disdain proves my disguise is working. I’m just another ordinary passenger on this ordinary train to C?te-des-Papillons—and Greg.
The thought has my belly doing cartwheels.
“Down there on the right.” He gestures down the carriage, and I flash him a grateful smile before I drag my suitcase down the surprisingly narrow aisle. I try not to think as a princess—first class private carriage where you have your own roomy space, complete with whatever you want to eat and drink, with staff at hand to ensure your comfort—but it's impossible not to compare it with this cramped carriage, full to the brim with people, packed in like sardines.
I turn back and ask him, “Where do I put my suitcase?”
He gives me a look that tells me I'm some kind of idiot before he looks up, and I notice overhead compartments, stuffed full of people’s luggage.
“Up there? All right. Thank you,” I tell him, wishing I’d worked harder on my upper body strength with my trainer, Raoul, and wondering if I can in fact lift my suitcase up that high.
But needs must, as they say, and as I move along the aisle, apologizing as I bump up against people’s feet, I remind myself I chose to travel like a regular person, and regular people place their suitcases in overhead racks on trains.
I find my seat, which is next to a man of about eighteen or nineteen, who glances at me briefly before returning his attention to his phone, a surly expression on his pimply face.
“Good afternoon,” I say, but he ignores me completely, continuing his scroll through social media—all about something important to humanity, I'm sure.
Well, at least he won’t be chatty.
I run my gaze over the luggage rail until I find a spot two seats down from mine. I pick my suitcase up, careful not to swing it into anyone’s face, before I take a breath and heave it up over my head with all my strength, aiming for the rack.
Just as I touch the edge of the suitcase to the railing, the train lurches forward which, combined with my frankly pitiful upper body strength—clearly an area to work on with Raoul—my arms give way.
Panic rises as I become aware that I'm powerless to stop the inevitable heading my way. I stagger, trying to right myself and not let go of the suitcase at the same time.
It's at this point my shoulder meets what I can only assume is the back wall of the carriage. But then the wall’s arm encircles me, preventing me from falling as the weight of the suitcase reduces to practically nothing.
Wait. Walls don't have arms.
I look up in alarm to see my rescuer.
“You?” I gasp, my eyes wider than the palace’s most generous of dinner plates.
“Is that any way to thank your knight in shining armor?” he asks in his smooth American accent, his black eyeliner-ringed eyes sparkling in amusement.
In one deft movement he slots my suitcase neatly on the rack as though it’s no big deal at all. Which for a man of his size, it probably isn’t. He’s all contradictions. He’s as solid as the palace walls yet somehow soft. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths that don't betray any exertion from catching both me and my ridiculously overpacked suitcase, and through his T-shirt, I can feel the unmistakable contours of someone who clearly spends his days at the gym.
It's an objective observation, nothing more. The same way one might note that the abdominal muscles on a statue in the royal gardens have been particularly well-crafted.
And then his scent reaches me. It’s vanilla and something woodsy, like the forest at the palace in Villadorata after it’s rained. Not that I'm intentionally breathing him in. That would be decidedly un-princess-like, not to mention the fact the only man’s scent I want in my nostrils is Greg’s.
Wait. That doesn’t sound right.
Oh, I know what I mean. I don’t want to go enjoying any man’s scent other than Greg’s. End of story.
My side remains pressed against Maverick for longer than royal protocol would permit. But then let’s face it: I threw royal protocol right out the window the moment I escaped the palace.
“Or should that be ‘goth in shining armor?’ I guess I'm a confused metaphor right now,” he says as the train lurches again, reminding me that I'm essentially wrapped in the arms of a stranger in the middle of a public train carriage.
As the train movement evens out, I step back with the practiced grace of someone who's spent a lifetime maintaining appropriate distances from people. Rule number 543: A princess must keep an appropriate distance from others in public .
Yup, another rule smashed.
“I'm awfully sorry, Maverick,” I murmur as heat crawls up my neck.
Traitorous biology.
And yes, there’s a rule for that, too. Rule number 149: A princess never blushes except when diplomatically advantageous . Whatever in heck that means.
“Hey, no problem, Amy. I'm just glad I was here to catch you before you fell and hurt yourself. Or someone else, for that matter.”
I glance at his face. His eyes dance with amusement. The black eyeliner suits him, making the blue of his eyes stand out like sapphires against black velvet.
Not that I'm cataloging the precise shade of Maverick’s eyes.
That would be ridiculous, not to mention a betrayal of Greg.
I pull my lips into what I hope is a composed smile, channeling Mummy's expression when I've committed some ghastly social faux pas—like the time I asked the Archduke of Scottopia if his toupee was made from a dead squirrel (and in my defense, it really did look like a dead squirrel, tail and all).
A shadow crosses his face, transforming his features from amused to suspicious in the space of a heartbeat. “What are you doing on my train?”
I raise my brows as they practically reach for my hairline. “ Your train?”
“You know what I mean. It’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Twice in one day?”
His words don't quite slap me with accusation, but they certainly tap me firmly on the shoulder with suspicion. Has he somehow worked out who I am? Is he actually paparazzi in disguise? But surely even the most dedicated royal photographer wouldn't go to the lengths of following me into a costume shop and pretending to be an American goth just for a chance photo.
“I'm on my way to meet a friend, if you must know,” I say, straightening my spine to my full, albeit much more modest, height.
How did this guy get so tall, anyway? He’s like a giraffe and a basketball hoop had a kid they raised on protein shakes.
“A friend?” His question hangs between us, loaded with doubt.
“I do have them. Friends, that is,” I reply, my tone defensive because come on! He’s the one who could be following me , not the other way around. Why would I follow a random American tourist, no matter how attractive he is.
Which I’ve noted purely objectively once more.
“Look,” he begins, his voice softened. “I didn't mean the way that sounded. I thought you were going to a party, because of the costume.”
I glance down at my black clothes. The costume shop alibi. Right.
“The party was earlier today. Right after I saw you at the costume shop, actually.”
“A party in the middle of the day?”
“That’s right. It was a children’s party.” The lie rolls off my tongue with ease. When you've spent your life attending events where you can’t give too much of yourself away, you develop a certain talent for fabrication, aka lying.
The role of a princess isn’t as straightforward as people think.
He widens his eyes. “You dressed as a goth for a children's party? That’s new.”
“Why ever not?” I reply, as though it's perfectly normal to terrify small children at birthday parties by dressing like I’ve been raised from the dead.
Or is that zombies?
The guard, clearly lacking the patience of the royal staff, throws us a glare. “Passengers must be seated at all times while the train is in motion.”
“Is that really a rule?” I ask, genuinely curious. In my admittedly limited experience with public transportation, the rules seem arbitrary at best.
The guard’s already thin lips compress further, transforming into a paper cut across his face, and his hands land on his hips with all the authority of someone who takes their polyester uniform very seriously indeed.
“I would take that as a firm yes,” Maverick suggests, his eyebrows lifting in a way that conveys both amusement and warning.
“All right. I'll take my seat,” I concede to the guard, before turning back to Maverick. “Thanks again for catching me.”
“Anytime,” he replies.
“And just for the record, I’m not following you. You have my word.”
He remains rooted to the spot like one of the ancient oaks in the palace grounds, his eyes searching my face. “Do you—? Nah. Forget it.”
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Do I what?”
“I was gonna ask if you want to come sit with me, but you've got a perfectly good seat over there.” He gestures toward my assigned spot beside the teenager whose relationship with his phone appears to be more intimate than most marriages.
I make a snap decision. I may be on my way to meet the man of my affections, but I can still enjoy the journey. Besides, Maverick is infinitely more interesting than Monsieur Phone. No competition, really.
“I'd love to sit with you, Maverick,” I say.
“Great. I'm down the carriage.” He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.
I follow him along the narrow aisle, navigating the obstacle course of protruding knees and bags with all the precision of a royal procession—minus the ceremonial trumpets.
Clearly.
The train lurches around a bend, sending me stumbling against a seat back. Twenty-four years of deportment lessons from Madame Bisset, and I'm pinballing down a train carriage like a toddler learning to walk.
I've spent my life in perfumed palace hallways where even the dust is imported from somewhere exclusive.
Just a joke.
This is different. Real. Totally intoxicating in its ordinary-ness.
Maverick stops at a pair of seats and gestures for me to take the window. “Your royal carriage awaits,” he jokes.
He has no idea how close he’s stumbled on the truth.
I play along. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” I reply as I slide past him into the seat, safely ensconced by the window. My goth skirt, which is so much shorter than anything my princess wardrobe contains, rides up as I sit, and I tug it down with as much dignity as possible. Princesses aren't accustomed to fidgeting with their clothing, as royal tailors ensure everything sits precisely where it should at all times.
I make a mental note to tip them more generously in the future.
I wonder what my family would say if they knew I was on a train with an American who just caught me in his arms, both of us dressed as goths, and me on my way to meet the man I’ve been dreaming about for months?
Reckless , that's what they’d say. Particularly my parents. Alex and Sofia would lecture me in stereo about responsibility and dignity. My only ally would be Max, though he'd hide his approval beneath layers of brotherly teasing.
But then, none of them are here. And for the first time in my life, neither is anyone whose job description includes Keep Princess Amelia from doing anything interesting .
And besides, my family doesn't feel the way I do, hemmed in and restricted. Controlled. They seem happy with the life they've been born into and even managed some changes to make themselves even happier, aka finding their soul mates and living happily ever after with them.
Well, I want my shot at that too, and I can't stand all the dull, weak-chinned aristocrats and handsome but dull as pond water diplomats’ sons who get paraded in front of me in my parents’ vain attempt to provide me with suitable partners. They're all so predictable. They either want to tell me all about how incredibly amazing they are at fishing and hunting and riding horses, or how clever they are at spending their family’s money, or worse yet, tell me how incredibly amazing I am, with my pretty face and polite manners.
Who gives a fig about a pretty face and polite manners? It’s total nonsense! I’m so much more than just that. I have dreams and passions and a drive within my soul to live my life to the absolute fullest.
The last thing I want is those tepid men with their tepid feelings.
That’s not enough for me. Not now, not ever .
I want someone who’s all-consumed by their love and passion for me. Someone who cannot bear to be away from me. Someone who looks at me with eyes filled with sizzle and intensity and love.
Will I find that with Greg?
I have no idea, but I’m more than willing to find out, and I’m on my way to doing just that.
I look out the window as we whizz past buildings and trees, the city slowly giving way to the rolling hills of the Malveauxian countryside. The window is smudged with the fingerprints of previous passengers, a roadmap of other journeys.
Beside me, Maverick drops from his great height into his seat and I become aware that oddly, I’m suddenly conscious of my breathing. I breathe all day every day without giving it a moment’s notice. But now, sitting so close to Maverick that my shoulder could easily brush his arm, I find I need to remind myself to both suck in and expel air.
It must be the physical awareness that comes from sitting inches away from a virtual stranger with whom I've already shared two bizarre encounters today. The universe must have an odd sense of humor, throwing us together. It’s almost like we're characters in one of my favored romantic comedies that my brothers pretend to hate but still watch.
Not that this is romantic. That’s not what I’m saying in the least.
It's simply coincidental. That’s all. Coincidental and not romantic.
“Great view. It’s a stunning country. Kinda like Northern California meets Montana,” Maverick says, breaking the silence that stretches between us.
“Malveaux is really quite lovely. Although I must admit, I haven't spent all that much time traveling by train. Only a few trips, really.”
And they were all in the royal carriage with a butler and servants and the whole shebang.
“Let me guess. You're more of a private jet kinda gal?” he asks, the edges of his mouth lifting in a smile.
Although he's joking, the uncanny accuracy makes my heart perform a gymnastics routine.
“Nothing nearly so glamorous, I assure you,” I lie with practiced ease, most certainly not thinking of the royal jet I only just flew to Malveaux on for The Games.
And just like that, we fall into conversation and the initial awkwardness of physical proximity fades, and it’s like we’re back in that costume shop, chatting about random, inconsequential things.
“Good call on losing the wig,” I say. This close, I notice the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow, barely visible unless you're paying close attention. Which I'm not. Obviously . “But tell me, why are you still in your goth costume? Don't you want to keep it fresh for your party?”
“How come you’re still in yours?”
Touché.
“I find I quite like this look. In fact, I'm thinking of going goth. For a while, anyway.”
The train whistles as we pass through a small town. A child across the aisle presses her nose against her window, drawing imaginary shapes with her finger.
“Is your ‘friend’ also into the whole goth thing?”
“The way you say that makes me think you don't believe I have a friend in C?te-des-Papillons. But I assure you, I do. We’re due to meet tonight in fact.”
“Where are you meeting her?” he asks, and I wonder whether he purposefully chose to make my “friend” female.
“I'm meeting him at a bar.”
“Your friend is a guy? Huh. So, this is a date.”
I bite back a smile. “Yes. I suppose it is.”
“I find that generally you either know it's a date or you don't.”
“It’s a date then.”
“A first date?”
“Yes, but I know him very well,” I reply, purposely elusive.
Is he just making conversation? Because this feels a lot like the sort of interrogation I would get from a member of my nosey family.
His eyes search my face, and I lift my chin as though to show that I do know Greg Smith well. Because I do. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting online. Sure, I've never technically met him, and I’ve only seen a few photos of him, but those are just minor details in our relationship. Meeting him will be the icing on the already very sizable cake.
And so what if I haven't given Greg my real name and I’ve pretended to be part of the palace staff rather than a princess? He’ll understand perfectly when I explain it all to him, I’m sure.
When you think about it, it’s the kind of thing we can look back on and laugh about in the future. Remember when I thought you were a lady’s maid and you were in fact a princess? he’ll ask as he gazes tenderly at me, and then he'll kiss me softly, which will be his way of telling me it made the whole experience that much more exciting.
At least that's how I hope it will all turn out.
“You met this guy on the internet, didn't you,” Maverick says.
“That's maybe how we met, but we've got to know one another extremely well over the past couple of months, and now that we finally get to meet, I'm sure things will work out perfectly. For both of us.”
There’s a small voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Sofia. Really, Ami? You’re pinning your grand romantic adventure on a man you've never actually met?
I squash the unwelcome thought immediately. I don’t need my bossy older sister’s voice in my head while I’m on my grand adventure.
I’m writing my own fairy tale here, one that starts with a goth costume and a dashing winemaker called Greg.
And sitting here with Maverick, who seems genuinely concerned—even if I don't need his concern, thank you very much—I can't help but wonder if Greg would have offered to help me with my suitcase or caught me when I fell.
Wait. What am I thinking? Of course he would have. Greg is perfect. Greg is wonderful. Greg writes me paragraphs about his hopes and dreams and asks about my day with such genuine interest. He's everything I've been looking for.
“It's a good thing for you there are no weirdos on the internet in that case,” Maverick says.
I catch his sarcasm, but he doesn't understand. Greg isn't like the people he's thinking of. Greg is different. Greg is... well, he's Greg.
Though the fact that I can't come up with a more specific defense is slightly concerning.
“Don't a lot of people meet online these days?” I sound defensive even to my ears.
“I guess they do,” he concedes.
“I'm on the internet and I strongly suspect you are, too. Are we weirdos?” I ask, pleased with my comeback.
“No, but that's not to say this friend of yours isn't,” he replies in measured tones, as though he’s talking to a child. “What's his name?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
He holds his phone up. “So we can Google him or course.”
Knowing exactly what he’ll find because I’ve already Googled him a number of times myself, I reply, “Be my guest. His name is Greg Smith.”
“Greg Smith. Got it.” Maverick's thumbs move across his phone screen, and I watch his face carefully, waiting for the inevitable look of embarrassment when he realizes he's been wrong all along.
Instead, his eyebrows draw together slightly, his mouth tightening. “Greg Smith is probably a pretty common name, you know. Let’s narrow it down. What does he do?”
I smile as I think about how Greg spends his time working with his hands to produce fine wines. It's so very romantic, like a hero in a romance story.
“He's a winemaker,” I say with pride.
There. That should narrow it down. Not that many Greg Smiths can be winemakers in a small coastal town in Malveaux. Only my Greg.
“And this Greg Smith lives in Coat dess Pa-pill-ions?”
I let out a giggle at his pronunciation. “It's pronounced coat day papyon,” I say, pronouncing it so he will hopefully understand.
Maverick shows me his phone screen and I see familiar photos of Greg, looking debonair in a suit and tie, and in his working clothes at his vineyard.
“This is the Greg Smith you’ve been chatting with online?" he asks, and there's something in his tone I can't quite place.
“It’s so much more than ‘chatting.’ We’ve dug deep, right into one another’s souls.”
“Sounds painful.”
I ignore his silly joke and instead point at the screen. “See? Greg is real. He’s exactly who he says he is. And in a few hours, I'll be sitting across from him at a bar overlooking the sea, finally in the presence of the man I've been dreaming about.”
“You know, I find that really interesting because this guy?” He holds his phone in place. “This guy is Noah Francis.”
“No, that's Greg Smith. Noah Francis is someone else,” I say carefully.
Poor Maverick. All those good looks of his must be at the price of intelligence. Pretty and smart? You can’t have it all, Maverick.
“I have no idea who Greg Smith is, but I can tell you that this guy is Noah Francis, and I know that because he's an actor on a TV show in America. It got canned after the first series, but it wasn’t half bad. I know he has a decent following on social media, though.”
No. That can't be right. Greg isn't an American actor. Greg is a Malveauxian winemaker. He’s the reason I'm on this train, dressed as a goth, heading to a coastal town. Greg can't be someone else.
Can he?
For a brief, dizzying moment, I feel like I did when I nearly dropped my suitcase—off-balance and out of control.
But he can't be right. He must be confused.
I reach for his phone, needing to prove him wrong. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
I scroll through the search results, my heart pounding. I find the photo I know best. It’s of Greg on a trek with a mountain backdrop, the broad smile I've thought about more times than I care to admit pasted on his face.
But as I click on it, it jumps to a social media profile of someone called “Noah Francis.”
I blink at the screen, my belly tying in knots.
There must be an explanation. Perhaps this Noah person stole Greg's photos? Perhaps they're twins? Perhaps?—
Cold builds in my chest. Perhaps I've been a fool.
But I absolutely and resoundingly refuse to believe it because the alternative is that I've built up an entire romantic fantasy in my head about someone who doesn't exist.
The idea is far too humiliating to even contemplate.
I go to Greg’s Instagram and see the photos I’ve gazed at too many times to count. I know every part of Greg’s face, from the creases at the edges of his eyes to the way his hair always flops over the left of his forehead, to the curve of his smile.
Turning the phone around, I say, “See? Greg and your Noah Francis may look alike, but this is the real him.”
The words sound hollow even to my own ears, but I cling to them desperately. Because if Greg isn't real, then what am I doing here? What is this whole adventure for?
Maverick looks from the photo back to me before he presses the side of his phone, and the screen turns black.
The finality of that gesture makes my stomach drop.
“Does that mean you believe me?” I ask.
“That means I'm coming with you to the bar tonight to make sure this guy is who he says he is.”
Part of me wants to refuse, to insist that I don't need a babysitter, that I'm perfectly capable of handling my own romantic affairs, thank you very much.
But another part, a part I'm not ready to examine too closely, is almost relieved. I’ll have an oversized goth bodyguard with me when we meet. A backup plan, if you will.
Because what if Greg isn't Greg at all?