Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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The skill of descending shiny stadium steps with class, while dressed in a full suit, is one that I’ve mastered since my first appearance in the Carvarell Games at age four.
Alya took a little longer to take to it, and I remember a couple of times when Anselm had to scramble to tell the press not to print unflattering pictures of the mischievous princess.
But I’ve always been a perfect model of stoic royalty.
All that practice comes in handy tonight, when I can feel Ella’s fingers trembling in mine.
They’ve given her gloves somewhere between the car and the royal box.
I remember she looked surprised. It’s not exactly cold right now.
But, like everything I’ve seen her encounter so far, Ella takes the request in stride.
And she’s wearing her pure white gloves like a historical heroine who has always belonged in them.
I try to focus on not falling.
Back straight. One hand on my stomach. Perfect, firm strides from one step lower to the next.
My muscle memory eventually takes charge while we approach the front row.
I can hear the cheers roar louder when we reach the last step.
This clip will be all over TikTok by tomorrow, and we have one chance to get it right.
I walk towards Mother, who is in her usual formal wear and cushioned folding seat.
Alya is already seated on her other side, followed by our various uncles and relations, a hundred noble titles in the span of a dozen seats.
Behind them, and now behind us, lie a whole row of seats reserved for the royal members and ambassadors of the other five countries in the Carvarell Compact.
Alya and the other royals rise when I approach. Mother remains seated.
I let go of Ella’s hand and give Mother a smart bow. Then I step aside, the lights and cheering omnipresent, to let Ella reach forward.
She doesn’t swoon. She doesn’t rush. She just smiles sweetly and executes a perfect little curtsy, like it’s the most ordinary thing to greet the current leader of an age-old monarchy. Janet Qi might be a terror, but she’s certainly been an effective teacher.
Although I’m sure most of the credit belongs to Ella herself.
Alya beams from Mother’s other side. Both Ella and I greet her. Ella with a small wave, and I with a nod.
And then we sit down, triggering a chain reaction of sitting down from all the other minor royals and dignitaries. The cheering eases a little, and I allow myself to face Ella.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe nerves or awe or some version of basking in the attention. But all I see on Ella’s prettily made-up features is joy.
“This is beautiful,” she whispers with a smile.
Her eyes roam over the crowd that’s mostly dressed in the national colors of white and sky blue.
There are pockets of deeper, richer colors.
Dedicated fans who have traveled across borders to cheer for their teams. The cauldron looms large in the center of the stadium, ready for the six representatives of the six Carvarell countries to light it together.
The Olympics might like fanfare and innovation, but we’re a pretty traditional bunch around here.
The large LED screens might be a modern touch added in the last ten years, but the cauldron-lighting ceremony is steeped in tradition. “Is it always like this?”
“The crowd size, yes,” I answer. We talk with our faces angled towards the stadium, like actors who dialogue on stage.
It makes sense, given that the whole evening is sort of a show, with the royal family its starring characters.
I’m relieved that Ella catches on readily and doesn’t call me out for being weird.
So much of my normal is other people’s weird, and it takes a special kind of empathetic soul to accept that this is genuinely my life.
“But the enthusiasm is particularly keen this year.”
“Because of the jubilee?”
“Yes, probably. But also, just as likely, because of you.”
“Me?” She faces me fully this time. I sneak a more direct glance at the sincere surprise all over her face. “Why would I matter?”
After years of fending off princess wannabes, I find this woman is as fresh and pure as the morning dew.
“They are excited to see you,” I say before facing the crowd again. The six athlete representatives have now formed a circle and are approaching the cauldron with their individual torches. They move forward in perfect, synchronized steps. “I’ve never brought a girlfriend to the Games before.”
“Never?”
I almost remind her that there has actually never been a girl I’ve dated long enough or considered as a partner seriously enough to have put in a spotlight like this. But that excuse makes zero sense, considering that I am bringing someone tonight who is basically a complete stranger.
Even if I’m starting to feel more resonance with this stranger than with anyone else I’ve ever known, except maybe Gregory and Eds.
“These things go in the history books. It’s usually family only,” I say instead.
“History—oh my.” I hear panic in her voice for the first time all evening. “Does this mean my pictures will go viral tomorrow?”
I want to lie, but I don’t. “Probably.”
“Oh no.”
I feel a small pang of worry. The crowd cheers as the six athletes take the final step towards the cauldron. “Is there someone who might react strongly about you being here as the prince’s fiancée?”
“I guess you could say that.”
My stomach twists a little. Does she have a boyfriend somewhere, even if she claims to be single? I don’t think Ella is so inauthentic, and my secretary, not to mention Mother’s, would have flagged it during background checks if they found someone. But I still feel a little uneasy.
“Would he be a problem?”
“Not he, she.” Ella seems to have recovered her earlier cheerfulness. “My history professor is the world’s largest Carvarell Compact superfan, and she will book her ticket to Northandria tonight if she sees me on the screen.”
So not a boyfriend. Good.
“You are close with this teacher?”
“Yes, I am. I worked at her husband’s teashop for most of college.”
“We can book her a ticket for the closing ceremonies.”
“Do you mean it?” Ella looks genuinely surprised. “That would be—I think she would love it.”
I nod, because I can’t exactly think of what else to do. Since when did the preference of an unknown American history professor matter to me? My priority is, and always has been, and always will be, Northandria. There is no time or energy to spare to think of anything else.
The six athletes lower their torches into the cauldron, and the basin jumps ablaze. The crowd roars its approval. All of us in the royal box applaud.
With perfect synchronicity, the six torches are lifted, extinguished, and set aside. The athletes turn to face the stadium and march.
If I didn’t have anything better to do, I would focus on the look on Ella’s face as she drinks it all in. Being able to take part in age-old traditions is an incredible privilege, but it’s also something that is easy to take for granted for someone in my shoes. Ella is making sure I don’t.
The crowd cheers and claps as the cameras shift to the side of the stadium, where a podium sits just below the royal box.
“What comes next?” Ella asks in a whisper.
I give her gloved hand a squeeze before answering. “Now I give my speech.”