Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
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One thing people never tell you about life as a royal is how much waiting is involved.
Our days might be scheduled down to the minute, especially during Carvarell Games season, but we still have to be prepared for every event early.
And then we sit waiting in our pretty clothes for the actual hour to strike.
It used to be, once upon a time, when absolute monarchs and feudalism were a thing, that kings and queens could be three months late to an event and no one would care.
Now, in a modern world where any celebrity or government official is one viral scandal away from being cancelled, there is absolutely no room for something as tawdry as tardiness.
And in order to avoid something as human as tardiness, we are primped and prepped to an inch of our lives at least half an hour early before any sort of public appearance. And then we wait.
We wait for the scheduled events. We wait for the lighting and the press and crowd control. We wait for the tides of public opinion. We wait for the day we have to take up the throne.
It’s a lot of waiting.
But just because I have to do it a lot doesn’t mean I like it.
“Is it not time yet?” Mother grumbles in the press room’s antechamber. I almost crack a smile. Apparently, I’m not the only one who hates waiting, especially when we have to stand up in formal wear for the whole duration of it.
“We should be ready for the announcement soon, Your Majesty,” good old Anselm placates her as only good old Anselm can.
“Surely, Princess Kathryn cannot require such a lengthy amount of time to prepare herself.”
“I have it on good authority that the princess has been located and should be able to be with us shortly.”
“Located?” Mother spins to face her personal secretary the same time I furrow my brow.
I glance over to see Anselm, and a collection of representatives from our supposed new PR firm behind him, grimacing in different degrees.
“Why is there a need to locate my son’s future bride?
I thought my daughter was the one missing. ”
“Both princesses are on palace grounds—we believe, Your Majesty,” the agent behind Anselm steps up. The queen whips him a sharp look, and the poor guy positively withers. “That is, of course, we know, well, sort of know—Princess Kya, I mean, Princess Kathryn—”
“Has my fiancée decided to make a run for it?” I cut through the stammering.
Mother glares at me. Everyone else tenses up even more.
I don’t mind it, frankly. I barely know the girl.
But there’s also a big room full of reporters waiting for nothing now.
Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that we never disclosed her name beyond a few strategic tips planted by our PR officers.
“I suppose that would solve the arranged marriage thing.”
“This is not an arranged marriage,” Mother insists. “We are not as archaic as all that.”
“Of course we’re not—we just believe it is imperative to see our royal heirs turn into settled, little family men before they turn 30.”
“If you had managed to find your own bride—”
“Mr. Fenway!” a breathless young messenger rushes into the anteroom. This place is positively stuffed. I should have taken my time in the Blue Room. Much more comfortable, high ceilings and all. “We cannot find—”
The young man in a suit, probably an intern, gapes when he sees both my mother and I in the room. He turns beat red. The stammering agent from earlier, whom I now figure is one of the Fenways from Fenway and Sons, shoulders his way towards him. The two start to whisper.
“Pray, tell,” Mother talks over everyone, with all the command of hundreds of years of hereditary monarchy on her shoulders, “what or whom exactly can we not find?”
“It’s Princess Alya, Your Majesty,” Mr. Fenway turns around while he answers.
“My sister?” I ask. “Your team has been looking for her since half an hour ago.”
“And we have narrowed down her location to the North Wing.”
Oh great. That’s only about three dozen rooms to search.
Why are we hiring this PR team again?
“Much as I would prefer to show a sense of family solidarity for this announcement, I would believe the presence of another, particular princess is of much greater import.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“So is she ready? I could be off to Drenland and back with another bride for my son at this rate.”
“Do I necessarily have to marry someone Drennean?” I cross my arms. “Can’t I take a page out of Prince Harry’s book and marry American? Or fly to Australia like King Frederick did.”
“I would be happy to see you settled with anyone at this point.” Mother snaps at me. “Preferably before the room full of reporters catches wind of this scandal.”
I open my mouth to make some kind of comment about how this whole engagement announcement had been her idea in the first place.
I shut my mouth. She has her issues, my mother—but when it comes to our royal heritage, we’re on the same team. Infighting is the last thing we need.
“Should we put a time limit on this thing then?” I try to be helpful. “If we don’t find her in, say, ten minutes—we call off the whole presscon?”
Everyone in the room looks at each other. I didn’t clarify who exactly she is—but at this point, locating either my sister or my missing fiancée seems to be pretty good news.
“Very well,” says Mother. “And if we don’t, then we announce that I am suspected to have gout. That should give them something.”
“You don’t have gout, Mother.”
The edge of her lip twitches. For once, she looks like she could be Alya’s mother as well as mine. “Well, I could. Sometimes I wonder what I’m missing out on.”