Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ELLA
A crowded bus isn’t exactly much better than a crowded train. In fact, it’s probably ten times worse, even without the TMI grandmas. But the jostling and the bumping and the loud families don’t really bother me.
When you’re teetering at the edge of a cliff, the last thing you worry about is what you’re going to have for lunch.
The bus wheels screech as we push uphill. The crackling bus speakers announce on a loop, in probably around seven languages, about the importance of keeping all limbs inside the metal box that is currently dragging us towards the next stop.
I don’t care. Or at least I’m too nervous to care.
After twenty-two years of a vague, dubious understanding of where I’ve come from, I am about to finally, finally set eyes on Langford Castle—Northandria’s royal residence and the place my great-grandfather was born.
That’s right, I may not be blue blood, but I am marginally related to someone marginally related to a tiny European royal family.
Makes for a pretty cool yearbook footnote, if nothing else.
A sharp turn in the mountainous bus route sends the large man next to me halfway into my personal space.
“Oops, sorry,” he apologizes gruffly before pulling back.
I try to straighten myself, and my dignity. “No worries.”
“Got bigger problems on your mind, eh?” He says with a grin. As men thrice my size go, this one looks pretty harmless, probably someone’s jolly old grandpa or uncle, complete with the full beard, balding head, and Santa-esque laugh. But he also looks pretty nosy. “Fan of the games?”
Was I a fan of the Carvarell Games? Seeing that I don’t exactly know how fan levels are measured for regional European sports amongst six tiny, lingering monarchies (constitutional or otherwise), it’s a little bit of a trick question.
“It’s a cool tradition,” I say politely.
“In a jubilee year too.”
Right, it’s a milestone year for Northandria. As an American, it's hard to fathom a country celebrating almost a thousand years of existence, but I gotta admit it’s pretty cool.
“I’m sure Northandrians are very proud.”
“And excited about the prince, no doubt.” He laughs loudly at his own comment.
“The prince?”
“Word has it they’re announcing his engagement today.”
Oh right, that.
Do I really care who Prince Archer is marrying? Maybe a little bit. I am a royal fan, and I am ever-so-slightly Northandrian. But my mother’s side was also a bit British, and that doesn’t mean I gobble up every piece of news about the Windsors.
Just a bit of the news.
A big bit.
The teenagers in his party catch my seatmate’s attention, and I’m left to admire the Alpine view again. Granted, it’s not technically the Alps. But it looks close enough to all those postcards for a girl raised in the American South.
A few more bumps later, the bus pulls into a tunnel surrounded by mountains—and then rolls out the other end into the most breathtaking sight I have ever seen in my entire life.
My heart thumps heavily, my pulse roars in my ears.
Langford Castle, the name on my father’s lips and the picture on my grandparents’ treasured old postcard, stuns me in real life with all its breadth, its length, its intricate turrets and buttresses, and its sprawling, manicured gardens.
Other voices from other tourists chatter behind and around me while I try my best not to cry.
No one cries from just laying eyes on a castle.
Not even an orphaned long-lost child of Northandria who feels that this is her last tie to actually belonging somewhere.
Even the most nostalgic parts of me know that’s just a bunch of sentimental nonsense, good for books and streaming movies, not real life.
But I don’t think I breathe again until my feet touch the hallowed grounds of the castle’s long paved driveway—wide enough for a tiny army to march through.
Everyone else snaps pictures while the friendly porters unload everyone’s luggage.
The more practical part of my brain, which is sort of microscopically tiny right now, reminds me that I should make sure no one steals my hand-me-down luggage and go check in to my shared Airbnb in the neighboring village before dark.
Even if the host insisted her place was within walking distance to Langford Castle, one never ever really knows.
If the hosts are to be believed, half of Europe is within walking distance of both the Eiffel Tower and the Tower of London.
But the rest of me ignores that annoying little corner of rational thought. I stumble forward, entranced, feeling very much like breaking into song Maria Von Trapp style. The hills are alive, and so am I. Who cares about my meager worldly belongings when such beauty exists in the world?
“Oof!” A large human being bumps into me. “Sorry! Enjoy your day!”
I turn just in time to see Friendly Old Uncle walking away towards the gardens with the gaggle of teenagers in his party.
I twist around. Everyone else has paired off or stumbled away in their happy little groups.
If I remember correctly, entrance to the castle grounds are free for the next two weeks thanks to the Carvarell Games.
Higher security, free entrance. It’s a fair trade.
“Miss, is this yours?”
I turn to see a skinny, freckled young man.
He’s wearing the old-fashioned liveries of bygone days—white and sky blue, aptly patriotic.
He looks a little flustered, probably mistaking my spaced-out look as staring, and points at my ratty old luggage sitting by its lonesome self at the edge of the road.
It’s supposed to be red, but the color looks closer to maroon or dried blood at this point.
The bus is long gone, probably rolling down the mountains to haul up the next batch of tourists.
I sigh. “Yup, that’s mine. Thank you.”
He nods and walks away.
At least he didn’t ask for a tip. Northandria is already ten times better than home.