Chapter 24
ADDISON
The king’s private library smells like old books and pipe tobacco, even though I’m fairly certain no one has smoked in this room for decades.
It’s a nostalgic smell, familiar in a way that reminds me of Papa’s study back home.
I find myself relaxing as a butler guides me to a pair of armchairs positioned near a window overlooking the eastern gardens.
“His Majesty will be with you shortly,” the guy says, and then I’m left alone.
I use the time to study the room, looking for details that tell me a story about Louis’s father. The bookshelves are packed with volumes of books that have actually been read. The spines are cracked and the pages are worn soft, just like the recipe books in Louis’s kitchen.
Family photos cover one wall. They’re not like the formal portraits that hang in the public rooms, but candid shots of children on beaches and picnics in meadows.
There’s one of what looks like a very young Louis, covered in mud and grinning like he just discovered magic actually existed.
I’ve seen that look on his face before—genuine happiness.
His front teeth are missing, and his hair is sticking up in twelve different directions.
I’m still looking at that photo when the door opens behind me.
“That was the summer he decided to build a moat around the garden shed,” the king says, and I turn to find him smiling at the memory. “He was seven. Very determined. Very muddy. His mother was furious about the state of his clothes, but I couldn’t bring myself to scold him. He’d worked so hard.”
“It’s a wonderful photo.” I turn and curtsy to him. “Your Highness.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
He crosses the room, and I notice the way he moves, like he’s conserving energy for the things that matter. His face is thinner than it looks in the official portraits.
“Please, sit. I’ve asked for tea and those little sandwiches my wife pretends she doesn’t like, but always eats half of.”
“I love those,” I tell him. “With the tuna salad inside?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
I settle into one of the armchairs while he takes the other, sinking into the worn leather.
It’s like he’s done that a thousand times before.
I try not to let my disappointment show when I glance toward the door, but I hoped Louis would be here.
I’ve been counting the hours since I last saw him, replaying our stolen moments in my head.
The not knowing is the worst part. I don’t know how much more I can take.
“I’m afraid Louis won’t be joining us,” the king says, reading my expression with unsettling accuracy. “He had prior engagements that couldn’t be rescheduled. I’m sure he would’ve loved to speak with you more. I’m sure you’re aware, but he loves art. It’s not personal.”
“Of course.” I force a smile and fold my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting. “I’m honored to have this time with you, Your Majesty.”
“Are you?” He tilts his head, studying me with Louis’s eyes. The same shade of blue, with the same intelligence behind them. “Most people find me rather boring compared to the others.”
“I doubt that very much.”
He chuckles, an inviting sound that fills the space between us.
It settles me as the tea and sandwiches are delivered.
The china is old and beautiful, hand-painted with tiny blue flowers, and I wrap my hands around the cup when it’s offered to me, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
The tea smells like chai and something floral I can’t quite place.
We wait in comfortable silence while plates are arranged, and then we’re alone again. I look around the space, feeling like I’ve stepped into a painting.
“Your competition entries were incredible,” he says, selecting a sandwich from the tray. “The chess portrait in particular. It was quite remarkable.”
“Thank you.” I take a sip of tea to give myself something to do with my hands.
“The perspective was so real. First person, almost like I was sitting across from Louis, seeing him like when we play.” He pauses, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. “He always plays black though.”
I keep my expression neutral even though my pulse quickens. “We played a game together. You can’t tell anyone though.”
“Did you?” the king asks. “Who won?”
I laugh. “I did.”
“No,” he says. “How?”
I go through the moves, reliving it.
“You do realize he’s a master?” the king says. “If you can beat Louis, you can beat anyone in the world.”
“Really?” I ask. “Do you think he let me win?”
The king shakes his head. “No. He never gives anyone pity. Too proud.”
This makes me giggle. “Thank you. I needed the confidence boost.”
“Yes, well, the prince has been painted a thousand times, but most of those portraits show him from a distance. You showed him up close. That was brave. He never allows that.”
“Thank you. I have a way with people.”
“You do.” He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. “My wife tells me you’re quite clever.”
My brows rise, and some of the tea sloshes in my cup. “Clever?”
“Her words, not mine. She said you held your own in conversation with her. That you didn’t back down.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I was being honest with her, not clever.” I set down my teacup harder than I intended, and it clatters against the saucer. “There’s a difference.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, and then he smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and that grin transforms his face. “Most people don’t know that.”
He studies me, his head tilted the same way Louis tilts his when he’s trying to figure something out. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Cross. Not the artist. You.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you’d like to share.” He picks up his teacup and cradles it in both hands. “I find that people reveal the most interesting things when they’re not asked specific questions.”
I think about what to say and what matters.
“I’m the youngest of three,” I tell him.
“Two older brothers. Both athletes. They’re super protective and convinced they know what’s best for me.
My best friend is in love with one of them.
They’re going to get married and start a family, probably.
” I smile. “That’s my only regret about being here.
I won’t get to see my brother’s son grow up like I would if I were back in the city.
When they’re little, there are too many precious moments. ”
“Your friend and your brother,” he says. “How long did it take them to figure it out?”
“Six years.” I laugh. “They circled each other forever. Everyone could see it except them.”
“What changed?”
“They stopped fighting it.” I pick up a sandwich. “My brother spent all that time convincing himself he didn’t love her. Turns out, he was the only one who believed it.”
The king goes quiet, and when I glance up, he’s looking at the fireplace with an expression I can’t read.
“That sounds familiar,” he says softly.
I wait, sensing he wants to say more.
“When I met the queen, my advisors wanted someone else for me. Someone softer. More agreeable.” He sets down his teacup. “Margaux was sharp and difficult and didn’t fawn over me like everyone else. She challenged me at every turn. Made me work for her attention.”
“And you chose her anyway.”
“I chose her because of it.” He meets my eyes. “That’s rare when you’re a prince. Most people tell you what you want to hear. She never did.” He pauses, thinking on it. “She still doesn’t.”
I recognize what he’s doing.
“The people who push back are usually the ones worth keeping,” I say carefully. “Anyone can agree with you. It takes someone special to tell you when you’re wrong.”
He nods slowly, watching me. “My wife believes she’s protecting Louis by controlling his choices. I’m not convinced control and protection are the same thing.”
The words hang between us.
I take a breath. “Can I be honest with you, Your Majesty?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“I think people deserve the chance to choose their own mistakes.” I hold his gaze. “Even princes. Everyone else gets to be human. Why shouldn’t he?”
Something changes in his expression. Not surprise. Recognition. Like I just confirmed something he’d suspected.
He rises from his chair and crosses to a small table near the window. There’s a portrait there I didn’t notice before, simple and unframed, leaning against a stack of books. He picks it up, studies it, then turns it toward me.
It’s Isabella. Younger than in the gallery portraits, with her hair loose and her expression unguarded. The brushwork is raw and intimate, nothing like the formal paintings I’ve been studying.
“My mother,” he says. “Painted before she was queen.”
“Henri Beaumont?”
He nods. “She understood what it meant to love someone when the world made it impossible. She never stopped.” He sets the portrait down gently. “I didn’t understand that until I was much older. By then, she was gone, and I couldn’t ask her how she survived it.”
I file this away, not entirely sure what it means, but feeling its weight settle into me.
“Do you want grandchildren?” I ask, moving the conversation because I sense he needs it.
A smile touches his lips. “Yes, of course. I always imagined watching my grandchildren become men.”
“Won’t you?” I ask, nearly begging with my eyes.
His mouth opens, like he’s going to say something, but he hesitates.
“I certainly hope so,” he says finally, but his voice is lighter than I expected.
“Hope is passive.” I pick up my sandwich.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Hope is like wishing. Without action, what does it do?” I say, taking a tiny bite from the corner.
The room goes quiet. He’s watching me differently now, like I’ve shifted into focus.
“That’s an interesting thought,” he says.
I brush crumbs from my fingers. “Hope doesn’t finish my paintings and help me make my deadlines.”
He laughs, but it’s more thoughtful.
“No,” he says. “I don’t suppose it does.”
He’s thinking about something, and I don’t want to interrupt it.
“You’re direct,” he finally says.