Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ELLA
My brain understands that, for the foreign dignitaries and their various delegates and relatives, a little classy pre-games soirée, complete with five types of caviar-laced appetizers, is probably pretty run-of-the-mill.
They probably didn’t spend the whole two hours trying to recall the lists of names they’ve been drilled to remember, or to even stop and marvel at the history of the reception hall we were using.
But for a lifelong Northandria fan and foreign relations major? It’s as close as one can get to a dream come true.
Prince Archer introduces me to maybe half of the people we encounter, and his friends Greg and Eduardo keep me company whenever Archer needs to go greet the actual monarchs.
The champagne is free flowing. I consume one flute.
But it’s not the alcohol that’s intoxicating me tonight.
I’m brushing shoulders with history, and that very idea gives me such a heady feeling that I think I need the whole rest of the night to process it.
Except I don’t have the rest of the night.
Because as soon as the soirée wraps up, I am whisked back to my room, told to change into a predetermined pleated blue dress suit, and promptly escorted to a shiny black car waiting outside.
My assigned bodyguard makes himself scarce as soon as the car door shuts, leaving me entirely alone for the first time since this morning.
I breathe. Or at least try to.
Even in the very short few seconds between the castle and the car, I could already hear the roar of distant crowds. The Carvarell Games isn’t as big as the Olympics. It’s just six countries participating, after all. But it’s a special night in Northandria, especially for a jubilee year.
And I’m about to crash the party.
The car doesn’t move yet, and I take the chance to let my mind catch up from the overstimulation of the past few hours.
Greg and Eduardo might have stopped the questions about proposals and everything after a while, but there will definitely be other people with other questions after tonight.
I like to think that the royal family and their PR officers have taken care of everything just like they did with my royal training.
But what if they haven’t? What if I am throwing myself into the deep end without learning to swim?
Do I even really know what I’ve signed up for?
I’ve seen what happens to unpopular royals (or even very popular royals) when the press gets all up in their business.
Why did I ever think I could handle that kind of scrutiny?
The door on the other side of the car snaps open. I jump.
Tall limbs fold in, and Prince Archer is suddenly beside me.
He gives me a nod right before the car door shuts behind him.
Someone barks commands outside. And then we’re off.
The car glides expertly along the manicured roads of the castle grounds towards the next venue, no doubt having done this dozens of times already just today alone, a posh shuttle service for nobles and ambassadors between the fancy castle and the largest arena in town.
I’m not sure what to expect, but the history notes they gave me said Agmund Stadium was the largest arena in the country.
I’ll have to see for myself later what that means.
Northandrian spring days are apparently long, and the twilight is generous as I take in Archer’s attire. Like me, he’s dressed in the royal equivalent of business formal—all medals and sashes and a bit of a signature pitakan fold.
“They’re all fake, you know,” he says.
“Hm?” My eyes snap up. His face is impassive, as usual, although not entirely cold.
“The medals.” He shrugs. “Mostly honorary.”
“Are they military medals?”
“Technically.”
“But just honorary.”
“I did serve. And underwent training and all that.”
“So you are part of the military.”
“Yes. It helps—having that experience with the armed forces. It does foster patriotism.”
I nod. “I guess that’s helpful. Especially for a prince.”
He looks at me for a moment, as if looking at my face for a clue or some kind. I’m not exactly sure what.
“Yes, especially for a prince,” he says it almost like a sigh. “Among other things.”
“It’s a pretty long job description—this whole heir to the throne thing.”
This time, he smiles a little. “Very. But some think it’s all just champagne and caviar.”
“Like at the soirée? That was pretty good champagne and caviar.”
“You enjoyed it then?” He looks my way, an earnest look in his eyes.
My heart squeezes a little. The Prince Archer at the soirée was formal and gallant and very princely.
But I’m starting to think I like this version of him more, the one who wanders in gardens and bends his head a bit just to fit in car interiors that are remarkably low for a family of tall royals.
“I did enjoy it.” I smile. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome.”
We fall quiet for a bit. Based on what Janet put in my folder this morning, the ride isn’t supposed to be long, although road closures around the venue probably make for a more roundabout route.
“Anything else I should know about tonight?” I try not to sound as nervous as I feel. “I’ve tried to memorize all the etiquette lessons, but most of them are more about the ballroom than a stadium.”
He doesn’t answer as quickly as I expect him to. I look up to find him deep in thought.
“I wish I knew what to tell you,” he says a half minute later. “But the last time this happened, there wasn’t Internet yet.”
“The last time what happened?”
“The last time we had to introduce new royals.”
“Ah.” I think on it. “You mean your parents?”
“Yes.” His eyes look a little more far away than usual. “They were a love match, back in the day.”
“So I heard.”
He looks surprised. “They put that in your royal lessons too?”
“Just for the main royals. You know—you and Alya and your parents.”
He falls into that deep, thoughtful look again for a moment. “I see.”
“Not that it’s a whole biography or anything. Just some pointers to remember.”
“And what were these pointers when it came to me?”
Is it weird to be reciting someone’s royal biography to his face? Is this how celebrities feel when people who have memorized their Wikipedia pages think they are somehow well-acquainted with the actual person?
“Mainly your titles,” I answer. “And the schools you’ve gone to. And your birthday and milestones and a bit of your roman—”
I stop myself a little too late.
The prince quirks a brow at me. “Roman—architecture?”
I flush. “Just what they thought was in your romantic history.”
“Ah.”
“I guess they figured a real fiancée would know.”
“Like ill-fated two-month relationships and other failed attempts at an arranged marriage?”
Was this what his life was like? This lonely and isolated? It was one thing to memorize facts about him. It was a totally different thing to see the man himself talk about his love life with deep-seated resignation and a sense of weariness that really doesn’t belong on anyone under thirty.
My heart aches. Even as an orphan, I’ve always been surrounded by love. When my parents passed, Mr. And Mrs. Schwagen took me in like a real grandchild, and our whole church rallied to be there for me. Even in college, I had professors and roommates who watched out for me.
And yet somehow, a royal prince and the future king of an entire country looks lonelier than I ever was.
I reach over and squeeze his hand. “I hope you don’t mind adding a fake American fiancée to the list.”
The comment seems to lighten him up, and his lips almost curl into a smile. “At least that will make me more interesting.”
As if he needed any help in that department.
The car slows, and I feel my lungs shrinking at the thought of stepping in front of a giant, televised crowd as a pretend princess. This time, it’s Archer who squeezes my hand back, before he intertwines our fingers.
“Just smile. You’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m sure they will love you.”
I can only hope that he’s right.