Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARCHER
I stand beside her, keeping my hands together, posture impeccable. It’s practically Lesson One in the Manual of Princes.
And no, I’m not joking. It’s a real thing among the Carvarell Compact nations. My friends will attest to it. Some think being born royal means more privileges and more luxuries. What it really means is more homework.
Mother clears her throat at the mic, and the whole room stills. She may not be the best mother, but no one can fault her for how good she is at being Queen.
“It is a fact of general knowledge that you have all been gathered here today for an announcement of a momentous nature,” she begins, padding her words and making every syllable sound grandiose.
Camera-holding arms jostle a bit. Fingers fly over keyboards—on phones, laptops, and otherwise.
“We do not deny that it has always been the intent of our family to ensure that this season of the Carvarell Games be not only of national, but also personal, significance.”
My eyes scan the room. Despite Anselm’s comment about Fenway and Sons mixing up the public relations tone of the royal family, most of the faces are familiar—all seasoned royal correspondents. At least we’re not dealing with inexperienced tween influencers. Please, no one give them the idea.
“Given the historic nature of this year’s jubilee,” Mother continues, “such expectations and intentions are consistent with all the things we have long associated with the great kingdom of Northandria.”
There’s a stray, hushed whisper or two. But everyone is quiet for the most part. Nobody disrespects Queen Merinda in these parts.
We’ll see how long the sentiments last when gout comes up.
Mother goes on, “It has been widely understood that today will include an announcement of a personal nature, especially with regard to my son and heir Prince Archer.”
I stand as still as I can, my eyes impassive. Whatever Mother says next, there will be reaction videos to my reaction posted all over social media within the day. I’ve avoided becoming a meme for a good two years at this point. I would very much prefer for the streak to continue.
Some other princes might prefer to be showmen. I don’t.
“In light of such an expectation,” Mother says, “I believe it best that the remainder of today’s press conference be led by Prince Archer.”
I shoot a look at my mother, forgetting the fear of memes for a dangerous moment. She steps back from the mic, a slight nervous tick on her face, the only indication that she’s not completely at ease. Her body language directs me to take her place at the podium.
I grit my teeth. I am very, very unamused.
The least you can do when you insist your son have an arranged marriage with a foreign bride is to have the nerves to announce it. Or to announce that it is no longer happening. Or, worse comes to worst, at least mention the gout.
I try not to glower too hard as I step forward. Mother tilts her head upward, one of her regal mannerisms documented the country over and often imitated by comedians.
On some days, it sucks working with family.
I clear my throat and loom over the twin mics. One glance up is enough to confirm that every eye and camera lens in the room is now trained on me. Me, the man with absolutely nothing to announce.
It’s a good thing I’ve been well-trained never to curse aloud.
“Good afternoon,” I start. “Her Majesty the Queen has indicated that I have a personal announcement to make.”
Clicking sounds smatter around the room. I try not to swallow too visibly.
“The fact of the matter is,” I continue, “while there was initially an announcement slated for today, circumstances have changed and made it impossible for us to reveal the details at this point in time.”
Discontented grumbles ripple across the room. I hate being the cause of it, but it’s part of the job.
I clear my throat again. “As such, we believe that it would be to everyone’s best interests if we—”
A loud shuffle from the back end of the press room pulls everyone’s attention. I try to focus on the far end of the room, noticing for the first time the large, bridal-style arch that covers the entrance. This must be what Anselm was talking about. Talk about subtle.
And underneath the floral arch, the double doors fly open, revealing my ever-unpredictable sister, pushing a bespectacled young woman into the room in front of her.
I don’t recognize the girl, but I certainly recognize my sister.
“There you are,” the words fall off my lips without thought.
Mother shoves me aside, surprisingly strong for her age, and announces into the microphone, “Yes, she has arrived in time, after all. We are honored to introduce Prince Archer’s fiancée—the future Crown Princess of Northandria.”