Chapter Two
Astrid
Cradling the clucking chicken in my arms, I stroke its soft feathers as she looks up at me with her little chicken eyes.
“Technically, I don’t think you’re meant to name palace chickens after historical figures,” I begin, as the group of eight-year-olds watch me in wonder.
“But I do think this particular chicken has earned it today. What do you think?”
The children agree, some of them giggling as the chicken’s bock-bocking in the coop around us escalates.
“So, who are we going to name this adorable chicken after?” I ask, holding the chicken aloft and peering into her eyes, as though she might give me naming inspiration.
“What about King Theodore after the King?” suggests Eric, a boy with blond, bowl-cut hair and the greenest eyes I’ve seen all day.
“That’s a fine idea to name the chicken after my father, Eric, but the problem is this chicken is a female. Maybe we should call her Theodora. That’s the female version of Theodore, you see.”
Several of the children nod their agreement.
“I like Cluckington,” says Anna, a girl with long strawberry-blonde plaits and a smattering of freckles across her nose.
“King Theodora Cluckington!” Eric calls out, prompting fresh giggles and cheers from his classmates.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat. Of course, it should be Queen Theodora, but it is rather adorable. “All right then. I name thee King Theodora Cluckington,” I pronounce to the chicken, and the children squeal with excitement.
“Which one can we name next?” asks Ingrid, a girl with the sweetest smile imaginable.
I place King Theodora Cluckington back on the floor of the coop and I’m about to choose another chicken when I hear the sharp click of serious shoes on the pavers, not the farm-appropriate Wellington boots that the children and I are all wearing inside the coop.
Hmmm. I know that sound means the fun is over, and I’m needed in my official capacity.
Pity. I was rather enjoying this little impromptu naming ceremony.
I look up to see the Prime Minister of Elkevik, Mr. Johanne Henson, bustling toward me, his face as grim as his gray suit. His comb-over is sticking straight up in the stiff Elkevikian breeze, making him look a lot like a cartoon character.
He’s accompanied by two other nondescript men in identical gray suits, all looking equally devoid of joy.
I let out a sigh. Yup, the fun is most definitely over.
“Your Royal Highness,” the Prime Minister says, bowing along with the other men.
I catch an eyeful of Mr. Henson’s shiny bald head.
The rebellious comb-over is failing to hide, and I have to resist the urge to reach out to smooth the hair down.
That might be a little humiliating. Although now that I get a proper look at him through the chicken wire, he looks rather a lot like one of the roosters.
Prime Minister Cluckington.
I press my lips together to stifle a smile.
“Prime Minister. Gentlemen. How lovely to see you,” I say brightly. “Have you come to help us name our chickens?”
The Prime Minister’s eyes flick briefly at our feathered friends. “As enjoyable as that might be, I’m afraid I’ve come to take you away for some rather serious business we need to discuss, ma’am.”
“We’re doing important work here, Prime Minister. Can it keep?” I ask.
Mr. Henson grips the wire of the coop between us, and I already know the answer before the words have left my mouth. But I’m reluctant to move. I much prefer being in the palace gardens with a group of children than engaging in any sort of official royal business.
I’m not very good at being a princess.
“We need to have a conversation in private, ma’am.
If you would care to join me?” He poses it as a question, but I know it’s not.
I may be a member of the royal family, but our small island nation is a constitutional monarchy.
The Prime Minister is the one who’s really in charge. He knows it just as much as I do.
“I see. In that case, I’m very sorry, children, but we’re done naming chickens for the day,” I say.
“But we haven’t named all of them yet!” Eric complains to a general agreement among the children.
“I’m afraid it’s of the utmost importance that the princess accompanies me immediately,” Mr. Henson says.
A prickle of fear settles in my chest. “Is everything okay?” I ask under my breath, not wanting to alarm the children. “My parents?”
“Yes, yes, everybody’s fine. Something’s come up, ma’am. It’s of national importance,” he replies.
I turn to the children. “Let’s do this again next week, shall we?”
Several complain, but it can’t be helped, so I bustle them out of the coop, closing the door over behind me.
“Just ask your teacher whether you can have another hour here at the palace with me sometime soon. Maybe we could do it at lunchtime?” I crouch down beside them.
“Thank you so much for giving up your class time to come here today. Next time, I’ll take you to meet my favorite goats: Lord Bleatsalot, Little Pickle, and Buttercup. They’re so much fun.”
The children burst with excitement, and Eric gives me a spontaneous hug.
“I love you, Princess Astrid,” he says, and my heart squeezes.
This is the best thing about being a member of the royal family. Being around the genuine, open nature of children, getting to share things with them, enjoying their company. I wouldn’t change it for the world, even if I don’t always love being a princess.
Several more children crowd into a hug, and I’m almost toppled off my Wellington boot-clad feet by their enthusiasm.
I beam at the children. “I love you, too. All of you.”
The two men escort the children back to their teacher as I traipse across the lawn with Prime Minister Henson.
“Can you tell me what this is about?” I ask as we make our way down the wide path.
“As you know, ma’am, we’ve been in trade talks with Ledonia following the collapse of the energy deal.”
“Yes, of course.”
The failed energy deal was a disaster for Elkevik, and I know it’s been a major concern for my parents. Frederic, the Ledonian Crown Prince, accompanied the Ledonian Prime Minister to our island nation last week to discuss solutions.
I admit, it was rather nice to get to see the prince once more, even if it was only for boring trade talks.
I hadn’t seen him since I was a child, and I always remembered how handsome he was.
Olive skin, dark hair, deep brown eyes, and a jaw that could cut glass, like the ones you see on TV stars, like Luke Perry from that Beverly Hills show.
I found myself trying to make him smile each time I saw him because his smile lights up his face, making him even more handsome.
Because if there’s one thing Prince Frederic doesn’t do much of that’s smile.
Of course despite his good looks, he was about as exciting as rewinding your favorite cassette tape with a pencil when you’re dying to listen to it. But he sure was nice to look at while he was here.
I think back to our visit to the children’s hospital, where so many of the children looked glum.
To win some smiles, I’d asked the staff to put on some music and they chose George Michael’s Faith, which is impossible not to dance to.
Before long, several of the children were dancing with me, their faces lit up, the entire atmosphere transformed.
I even got a smile out of Prince Frederic, which is quite something. I think he smiles maybe once a year. Possibly scheduled for Christmas Day.
“What have I got to do with trade talks?” I ask the Prime Minister.
“We received a proposition from King Leonardo of Ledonia this morning that’s a little, shall we say, left-field,” he replies as he holds the palace door open for me.
My ears prick up. Left-field sounds more interesting than expected.
“What are they proposing?”
“Let’s wait until we’re with your parents, shall we?”
We make our way to Papa’s study, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, some of them centuries old. I’ve always loved this room. It’s so full of wonder. You can crack open any book and dive into a new world unlike your own.
My favorite is the enormous map of the world. It was almost as big as me as a child, and it creaks when you open it as if to announce you’re about to enter some wonderful place. I used to get lost studying all the world outside of Elkevik: from Africa to the Americas, from Indonesia to Peru.
You see, I’ve spent most of my twenty-three years on this small island in the North Sea, only ever traveling to different palaces around Europe.
And yes, I know that makes me sound like I live a life of privilege, which I know I do.
But when all you’re allowed to do is meet other royals and country leaders, it’s not exactly the world. It’s simply a teeny, tiny slice of it.
Inside the room, my parents are huddled together, their voices an indistinct murmur.
“Mama. Papa,” I say as I cross the room, trailed by Mr. Henson.
As they look up at me, their features are taut, and my heart skips a beat. Neither of my parents are worriers. They’re like me: they take everything in their stride, always seeing the positive in life. Eternal optimists.
My parents are my role models, both of them made from the same blueprint.
“Asti. Sweetheart. Come, sit. We have something we need to discuss with you.” Papa gestures toward the seating area by the large windows overlooking the city of Scandora, with Elkevik’s snow-capped mountains in the distance.
It may be early summer, but we’re so far north the mountains are always snowcapped, and completely white by early autumn.
“You’re freaking me out,” I say, clasping my hands tightly.
“There’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” Mama says gently as she too gestures for me to sit.
I sink into the cushions, my body stiff. “What’s this left-field idea from Ledonia? Mr. Henson mentioned it as we walked here.”
“It’s a proposition from the Ledonian King and Queen,” Papa begins.