18. Courtney
CHAPTER 18
COURTNEY
T here’s more to see in the museum — rooms upon rooms. But there’s only one topic that interests me now.
My grandmother’s story. My family’s story.
My gaze drifts across the gilded frames, each one a frozen moment in time, capturing smiles and grandeur now long faded. A black-and-white photograph catches my attention, its edges worn but the faces within it unmistakable. There’s my grandmother, Anna, a young girl with eyes full of mischief, playing tag with a boy about her age.
I recognize her right away, thanks to her photos back home. While she didn’t bring a lot to America, there were a few photos of her from childhood in her small collection.
“Your grandmother had quite the childhood, didn’t she?” Jakob’s voice is gentle beside me, but I barely register it.
“Is that…?” My words trail off as I lean closer, studying the image. Beneath the photo, a caption reads: Anna J?ger and Prince Rolph enjoying summer days at the Royal Palace.
“Prince Rolph?” I ask.
“My grandfather. He lives outside the city, at his own house. He never had much of an interest in royal life, and retired young. I suspect he would choose to have not been born noble, given the option.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. I’m still dazed by everything I’ve found out, and I suspect there’s more around the corner.
I turn to Jakob, noticing the hopeful glint in his eyes — he wants this to be the answer to all my questions, the key that unlocks my family’s past. But the heavy velvet ropes separating us from the displays feel like barriers around my heart. I thought I was prepared to uncover secrets — but this?
“Are you all right?” Jakob’s brow furrows with concern.
I muster a half-smile, feeling disconnected. “It’s just a lot to process. I knew she kept secrets, but… a noble?”
The word feels foreign on my tongue, an ill-fitting title for the woman who taught me to make apple pies and bandaged my scraped knees. A woman who worked as a maid and then a teacher before spending her retirement in a tiny ranch house. A woman who volunteered weekends at her tiny Texas food pantry.
“Let’s take a break, shall we?” Jakob suggests.
“Sure,” I agree, my heart heavy with a sadness I can’t quite explain. It’s as if with every new discovery, the grandmother I knew slips further away, replaced by this stranger in sepia tones.
As we walk through the corridors, passing by other families immortalized in oil paints and marble, I wonder what it would have been like to grow up in Bergovia, surrounded by this splendor. Would I have been happy? Or would I always have felt the burden of social responsibilities I never asked to take on?
We thank the tour guide for her time, and Jakob leads me out of the museum and into the warm afternoon. “Fancy a walk?” he asks.
I nod. “That sounds good.” I don’t want to go back to my hotel just yet. Don’t want to sit alone in that room with all of this information swirling around me, making me seasick.
“Here,” he says, guiding me into a bookstore that has a café in the back of it. Its windows are adorned with hanging plants, and the soft strumming of a guitar flows from the speakers. It’s nearly empty, save for an elderly couple sipping tea by the window and a young man lost in the pages of a book.
We slip behind a curtain into a secluded corner. The world outside fades away, and it’s just Jakob and me in this quiet sanctuary.
“Are you hungry?” Jakob asks, his voice gentle.
I shake my head, trying to smile. “No, thank you. Just some tea would be lovely.”
He orders from a passing waiter, then turns his attention back to me, his blue eyes searching mine. “Courtney, about your family…”
I brace myself, wrapping my arms around my torso as if holding myself together.
“Your grandmother’s parents… they were quite influential and vocal in their beliefs,” he begins, his tone careful. “They stood against the royal family on a critical political matter. It was about the future of Bergovia, the direction the country should take.”
My hands clench into fists beneath the table. I can almost picture them — my great-grandparents — standing tall and proud, unafraid to voice their convictions. I know next to nothing about them, but if they were anything like my grandmother, they did not back down easily when they believed in something.
The waiter sets down a pot of tea and, perhaps noticing the tension between me and Jakob, scurries away.
“They didn’t cave, even when things got heated.” Jakob pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Eventually, the conflict reached boiling point, and, for their safety and the stability of the nation, they had to leave Bergovia. Your grandmother Anna was only fourteen at the time.”
Fourteen. The same age I was when I started high school, fretting over friendships and algebra tests, not exile and political strife.
“And they went to the United States,” I finish for him.
“The way that I heard the story, they thought it would be temporary, but… they never returned.”
A cold draught seeps into my bones. My family, uprooted and cast adrift because they dared to defy. And all this time, I was oblivious, living a life devoid of any inkling of royalty or rebellion.
“Thank you for telling me,” I manage to say, though the words sound hollow in my ears.
“Of course. You deserve to know the truth,” he replies, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his.
His touch is warm, reassuring, yet I feel so far removed from the woman who once roamed these historic streets.
I can’t help but feel a surge of anger at the royal family, his family, for the pain they’ve caused mine. The irony isn’t lost on me — I’m sitting across from a prince, someone whose ancestry once decided my family’s fate.
“My great-grandparents… they made decisions they thought were right,” Jakob says carefully, as if navigating a minefield. “But that was a different time, Courtney. And it certainly wasn’t me.”
I know he’s right, and yet, the unfairness of it all stings sharply. If history had taken another path, if stubborn pride hadn’t gotten in the way, I could have grown up here, amid these ancient streets and grand palaces. Nobility might have been my birthright, not just a fascinating tale to uncover.
“Jakob, I— I just need some time alone.” Whereas before I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to my empty hotel room, suddenly I feel like I can’t stand to be around anyone.
I need to process all of this, and that might involve tears. It might involve yelling or punching a pillow. Either way, I want all of that to happen in private.
He nods, his eyes reflecting a worry that perhaps he’s revealed too much, too soon. “Of course. Let me take you back to your hotel.”
We rise from our hidden booth, leaving behind the still-hot tea and a silence filled with history.
“Thank you for understanding,” I say, though part of me is upset that he didn’t share this information sooner.
Then again, why should he? He owes me nothing, and I already know that his allegiance is to his family and his country. Once I go back to Texas, I’ll be nothing but a memory to him.
“Certainly,” he replies, offering a small smile that doesn’t entirely reach his eyes.
He’s clearly worried about today, about the revelations that may have opened old wounds rather than healed them. And while I appreciate his concern, what I crave most now is solitude, a moment to gather the scattered pieces of my identity.
We barely clear the threshold of the bookstore when a soft murmur sweeps through the crowd gathered outside. Jakob’s presence draws people towards him with an almost gravitational pull. I hang back a step, watching as he greets each person with a warmth that seems to come as naturally to him as breathing.
“Prince Jakob, could we please have a photo with you?” A young woman clutches a book to her chest, her eyes alight with admiration.
“Of course,” Jakob replies, his voice laced with genuine warmth. He positions himself beside her, flashing a charming smile that will no doubt make its way into countless social-media feeds within the hour.
“Thank you so much, Your Highness!” she beams, and my heart twists at the affection in her voice. It is clear how much he means to these people.
“Jakob, may I have your autograph?” another asks, holding out a pen and a well-worn notepad.
His hand moves with practiced ease, this being something I can tell he’s done hundreds, maybe thousands, of times.
“Thank you for your kindness,” he says, handing back the notepad with a gracious nod.
The crowd murmurs their thanks, their faces lit with joy from the simple act of acknowledgment from someone they hold in such high esteem.
“Your people really love you,” I comment, more to myself than to him as he finishes and turns back to me.
He shrugs modestly, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. “I am here to serve them, in any way I can.”
I watch him, this man who navigates fame with such ease and grace, who has found his place in the fabric of his country’s heart. He belongs here, rooted in Bergovia’s rich soil and history. Unlike me. I’m an outcast, a person who kind of belongs to this country but doesn’t really.
As we begin walking again, I feel like a leaf caught in the wind — drifting, searching for where I might land. Perhaps, like my grandmother, I am meant to find my own path — one that strays from the expected course and into the unknown.
“Thank you for today,” I say, waiting until we’ve left the crowd behind and we can speak in private again. “It was… enlightening.”
“Anytime, Courtney.” Jakob’s smile is gentle, and there’s a promise in his tone, an unspoken vow that he’ll be there, wherever my search for belonging takes me.
But as we walk on, I can’t shake the feeling that, while Jakob has found his anchor, I am still adrift, caught between worlds and wondering if I’ll ever truly find my place.