Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ARCHER
The farthest door down the hallway swings shut with a loud bang. My mother winces, visibly. I do the wincing inside, not a single hair out of place, not a single twitch of the finger.
Her Majesty Queen Merinda might like to pretend that everything in her family, her country, and her castle is in order, but she can’t fool her own family.
As her son and heir, I’ve long mastered the art of detachment she possesses.
The only difference between us is that she cares too much about what people think and only pretends to be above it all.
I genuinely prefer to keep things private.
It’s probably why all of Northandria is expected (and likely) to believe that I’m marrying a foreign princess because I love her, that we have a secret courtship spanning countries and years and dozens of secret rendezvous.
We don’t. I’ve met the girl maybe thrice in my life.
It’s the modern equivalent of an arranged marriage—with maybe a tiny bit more personal agency involved.
I don’t object to her. She doesn’t object to me. And voila, we’re getting married.
“Your sister is far too flighty for her own good,” Mother mutters.
She’s twiddling her thumbs, her usual coping mechanism whenever a big state moment is approaching.
Inside the ornate heirloom interiors of the Blue Room, and in her press-conference-ready, business version of the pitaka, the Northandrian traditional dress, the nervous gesture looks a little out of place, like a man trying to do squats in a tux.
But we all do what we can to deal with the responsibility of 900 years of monarchial privilege.
It’s a pretty big chip on the shoulder, sometimes.
“She should be present at the press con.”
“I would think Princess Kya’s presence is more important,” I quip. “After all, it’s she, not my energetic eighteen-year-old sister, who will be the future queen.”
“Queen Consort,” Mother corrects. It’s a big distinction to her, somewhat understandably, given that she’s the ruling monarch, not our late father. Mother sighs harshly. “You do think the people will like her, don’t you?”
No one has to explain who she is. There’s only one person being introduced to Northandria, and the world, at the press conference this morning.
If it weren’t the nonacentennial anniversary, the royal advisors might have given me a few more years to take this whole search for a future queen thing less urgently.
I’m twenty-eight, my mother’s age when she married, but I’m hardly ancient.
“I liked her.”
“You did? I mean, you do?” Mother sounds more genuinely surprised than I have seen her in a long while.
I shrug, the slight pleats in my suit’s shoulders, a nod to the pitakan, make it a very muted shrug. “I didn’t dislike her.”
For the first time since I was maybe eight years old, I see a flash of compassion cross Mother’s face. She twiddles her thumbs. Then she stops.
“You know I won’t force you if you truly don’t want to marry Princess Kya.”
I smirk, a little bit. “How hard was that to say?”
A deep breath whooshes out of her. “Harder than climbing Mont Blanc.”
“You never climbed Mont Blanc. You did a photo op at base camp.”
“It was still high.”
“It’s a resort town.”
“A good inspiration for how to drive Northandrian tourism.”
We share a look. It’s funny, really, being your mother’s heir in one of the last true monarchies in the world.
You’re family, and yet you’re colleagues.
When most Millennials or early Gen Zers think of work-life balance, a collage of travel photos probably come to mind.
For royal families, it’s less about taking vacations and more about knowing whether you’re going to talk shop more or talk shop less for family dinner tonight.
A knock at the 5-meter double doors is followed by the sound of efficient, unobtrusive footsteps. Oscar Anselm, my mother’s private secretary and all-around right-hand-man, strides in. He bows his bald head to me and gives a deeper bow to Mother. “The press is ready, Your Majesty.”
Mother wipes off any sign of hesitation or anxiety from her face like the pro that she is. “And Princess Kya?”
“Waiting in her guest chambers.”
“Will we all enter together?”
Anselm hesitates. “There has been a suggestion otherwise, ma’am.”
“And what’s that?”
Good old Oscar Anselm clears his throat. “As Your Majesty is aware, the royal family has recently engaged the services of a new public relations company, Fenway and Sons.”
“Very well, and then?” Mother looks up, her profile regal.
“The firm has suggested that perhaps something more—well, dramatic might create a positive reaction for the announcement.”
“Dramatic? What is it, then? Aerial dancers? Fireworks? We have enough on our hands for the Opening Ceremony for the games.”
“Not anything like that, ma’am.” Anselm always manages to keep the perfect balance of professionalism and reverence. It’s probably why he’s kept his job for over a dozen years. “But a grand entrance, perhaps, for the future queen—almost bridal in its tone.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Are we playing the bridal march? Am I going to be married off today already?”
“Not at all, Your Highness.”
“Well, whatever the folks at Fenway think best.” Mother sighs. “They are purported to be the best for a reason.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When are we supposed to appear?”
“Another ten minutes, ma’am.”
“Very good.”
“And Princess Alya?”
Anselm hesitates at the mention of my sister.
I almost want to laugh. Born when Mother was forty, Alya doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.
I also grumble about what Mother calls Alya’s flightiness, sometimes.
But at least she makes the whole family a little less boring.
As long as I’m not being sent to clean up her messes, I don’t mind too much.
“And Princess Alya?” Mother repeats.
Anselm nods his head in a bow-like gesture. “We shall locate Her Highness.”
Mother sighs, and I actually smile a tiny bit. “Please do.”