Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Dolphins, Divas, and Deltoids: A Newfound Respect for Our Ice Prince
By Penelope Pemberley-Price for The Ledonian Gazette
Stop the presses. Cancel your appointments. Sit down, preferably with a stiff drink. Ledonia has just experienced something truly historic.
Prince Frederic. In. A. Wetsuit.
Yes, our very own Ice Prince, known for his ability to drain the joy from a room simply by entering it, has emerged from the waters of the Lysoria Aquarium positively glistening and flexing.
I am speaking, of course, of muscles. Muscles for days.
Muscles we were never warned about. Muscles that appear to have been hidden beneath years of impeccably tailored suits and emotional repression.
Fresh from a dolphin encounter (the dolphins, I’m told, were equally impressed), His Royal Highness surfaced looking less like a beige heir to the throne and more like a man who could single-handedly rescue a nation, preferably while lifting something rather heavy.
His bride-to-be appeared equally impressed, her pretty face appearing as though it might crack from her broad smile.
One can’t help but wonder if we’ve misjudged him. Perhaps the solution to his woes was in front of us all along. Perhaps we should spend our time simply admiring the biceps, and encourage him to remain silent.
Ledonia, I am recalibrating my expectations, and I strongly suspect Princess Astrid is, too.
Frederic
We traveled inland early this morning, and now we’re standing in a muddy field after a night of relentless rain, the humid air around us growing sticky. Both Astrid and I are wearing rubber Wellington boots, but only one of us is remotely comfortable.
Spoiler alert: it isn’t me.
Astrid, meanwhile, appears perfectly at home.
She’s chatting animatedly with Miss Singh, the head gardener at the Ravelle Botanical Gardens, firing off questions about planting schedules, soil composition, and maintenance programs. She listens with interest, nodding as though this is the most fascinating conversation she’s had all week.
“This is the garden bed we’d like to focus on today,” Miss Singh says, gesturing to the stretch of churned earth beneath our feet. “We have an array of indigenous plants ready to go. It would be wonderful if Your Highnesses could plant a few for us.”
Astrid doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I would love that!” she says, clasping her hands together. “I haven’t been able to get my hands dirty since I arrived in Ledonia, and I do miss it. There’s something so real and wonderful about getting your hands into the earth.”
Miss Singh beams. “I couldn’t agree more.”
I, however, remain unconvinced. It’s fair to say, I’m not exactly an enthusiastic gardener. In fact, I’m not a gardener at all. Given the choice, I would far rather ride my horse or lose myself in a well-written biography than spend an afternoon digging in damp soil.
The ground squelches under my weight.
“These are our native garden beds,” Miss Singh explains. “We only plant shrubs and flowers that have traditionally grown in this particular part of Ledonia.”
Astrid claps her hands together as though she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
She’s wearing one of the new skirt suits given to her for this tour.
I already know it’ll be covered in splodges of dirt before the afternoon is done.
“Oh, I love that! We have an entire garden devoted to native plants back home at the palace. It feels so wonderful to restore the land to how it was before human occupation. I like to imagine dinosaurs roaming among our gardens, although that may be going back a few million years too far.”
Miss Singh laughs, and the small cluster of spectators around us chuckle. Even the press seem to be charmed by my fiancée.
Once again, Astrid has won them over, just as we’d hoped she would.
As for me, I simply stand beside her like a lamppost in daylight, present, but completely unnecessary.
I remember reading about how the Princess of Wales eclipsed her husband during royal walkabouts. How crowds would brighten when she approached. How some made little effort to disguise their disappointment when they got Prince Charles instead of her.
Watching Astrid now I understand in a way I never did before.
But for my part, I’m relieved. Relieved to allow the spotlight to move away from me. Relieved to allow someone else to take the attention.
Astrid doesn’t hesitate in kneeling down to plant the first shrub, patting the soil down with firm, capable hands. “You’ve got such hard work ahead of you,” she tells Miss Singh. “But it will be absolutely worth it. It always is.”
“You’re doing a splendid job, ma’am. Miss Singh passes Astrid another plant. “I wondered whether you might like to join your fiancée in planting, sir.” She holds out a small shrub, its roots bundled neatly in dark soil.
“Of course,” I reply at once. “I would love to plant shrubs.”
The words sound rehearsed, even to my own ears.
I move to crouch beside Astrid, feeling more than a little conspicuous as I do so.
“You’ll be much better off if you kneel, Fred,” she murmurs under her breath.
I glance down at my perfectly pressed trousers, the center crease sharp enough to slice paper.
It can’t be helped. I don’t want to be the prince who refused to plant a shrub while his wife showed the country how capable she is.
I sink to my knees. Cool dampness seeps through the fabric, and I suppress the urge to wince.
Miss Singh hands me a trowel, and I start digging with what I hope appears to be gardening competence, when in reality the last time I did this was at another botanical garden, while being photographed by the press a year or two ago.
I’ve made a decent hole when a thick worm wriggles into view.
I stop at once.
“Oh! Look at that,” Astrid says, delighted, as though we have uncovered buried treasure.
I’m less certain how to proceed. I do not particularly wish to touch it.
“Why don’t you budge a little closer to me,” Astrid suggests. “You could dig a fresh hole? We’ll cover this one back over. Keep Wyatt Worm looking handsome.”
“Wyatt Worm?” I repeat.
She shrugs. “He seems like a Wyatt to me.”
I exhale slowly, then shift closer to her.
Our shoulders brush as I begin again, carving out a second hole a few inches to the left.
The cameras click relentlessly, but I focus on the neat rhythm of the trowel cutting through earth.
For a moment, I forget about the mud soaking through my trousers, the worm, even the press.
Instead, I find myself enjoying our closeness, the way her hands occasionally brush mine, our shoulders touching.
It’s the sort of image my press secretary would describe as “excellent optics.”
As we press soil around the base of the shrubs, I feel the same current I felt yesterday at the aquarium. I hadn’t planned to take her hand in mine. There’d been no calculation, no awareness of cameras or headlines. It had simply felt right to reach for her.
Natural.
Inevitable.
Later that evening, we’re granted the rare gift of a night with nothing scheduled. No civic dinners. No mayors. No polite laughter over indifferent wine. It’s simply Astrid and me, alone in the sitting room in our suite, trays set out before us.
“This food is absolutely delicious,” Astrid says, twirling another forkful of pasta. “Is all the food in Ledonia this good? Because everything I eat here seems to be supercharged with taste.”
“I couldn’t tell you if it’s all good,” I reply, sounding robotic, even to my ears. “I haven’t conducted a comprehensive survey.”
She grins. “I can imagine you’d like to.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You like binders and organization. I bet you love a good set of numbers to crunch and dissect.”
I’m not sure if she’s teasing me or not.
“My fish is very good, although I’m not entirely certain I have regained my appetite for fish,” I say.
She blinks. “Fred. It’s been over twenty-four hours since we fed the penguins at the aquarium.”
“The olfactory memory lingers. One does not simply feed penguins and immediately return to seafood without consequence.”
“Salmon’s a freshwater fish. You’re perfectly safe, Fred.”
We share a small smile.
“You enjoyed gardening today, didn’t you?” I ask.
Her expression softens at once. “Oh, Fred. I didn’t want to leave.
It’s one of the things I love most about home.
When I was a teenager, I asked my parents if I could work with the gardeners, and they agreed.
I’m usually out there most days.” She glances down at her hands.
“I haven’t been able to do any of that since I’ve been here. ”
There’s no accusation in her voice. Only honesty.
“We should arrange for you to have a garden of your own at the palace, if you want,” I say, the decision forming in my mind.
Her face lights up as though I’ve offered her something far grander than just a patch of soil.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I want you to be happy in your new life here. If that requires a designated area in which you may enthusiastically commune with worms, then so be it.”
“I wonder how Wyatt’s doing? He was a very fat worm. Well fed.” She smiles at me in that unfiltered way of hers, and something in my chest loosens.
“Have you listened to the mixtape?” she asks, lifting her wine to her lips.
“I haven’t yet had the chance,” I admit.
I don’t tell her I removed it from its case, inserted it into my tape player, and then stood there for a full thirty seconds preparing myself to press play, only to be interrupted by Father, who invited me to go target shooting with him.
“Well, I hope you do. The songs all mean something.”
“I gave you my word I would,” I say in reply. “I will. I brought it on this trip for that express purpose.”
“That’s all I ask.” She sets down her glass. “Tell me about your hobbies. You know I like music and gardening and being with animals. What do you like to do? What do you do to unwind, Fred?”
I hesitate, absurdly aware that my answer may sound achingly dull.
“I run most days. And I enjoy riding each morning. I’m missing it on this trip.”
Her face lights. “Oh, of course I know about your show jumping prowess. You won a medal at the 88 Olympics!”
I shake my head, the near miss at a medal still stinging. “I came fourth.”
“That’s nothing to sniff at, Fred. That’s about three million places more than I would have come.”
I raise my brows. “How did you calculate that exactly?”
She ignores my question. “We’re riding tomorrow morning, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We are. Have you ridden before?”
“Only the horses on our island,” she says. “We’re a bit like Iceland. We have native horses that are much smaller than regular ones and we have a strict rule that no one can import larger breeds.”
“How small are they?”
“They’re basically My Little Ponies, only not pink and purple, and with significantly less glitter.”
I blink. What is she talking about?
I consider asking, but something in her tone suggests that My Little Ponies are a cultural reference I ought to understand. Instead, I smile in what I hope is an informed manner. It feels like the safer course of action.
“And you?” she prompts. “Surely that’s not all.”
“I also enjoy jigsaw puzzles,” I say, bracing myself. “Which makes me sound like a retired gentleman with too much time on his hands.”
“Really?” she asks, leaning forward, her face bright. “I love jigsaw puzzles!”
“You do?” I cannot quite keep the surprise from my voice.
“Of course. The bigger the better. A thousand pieces at least. Two thousand if I’m feeling ambitious. I love the ones that are famous paintings.” She gestures animatedly. “Like Ophelia, the one by—”
“John Everett Millais,” I say automatically.
“Yes! That’s the one.” She beams. “How did you know I meant that one?”
“I have the jigsaw.”
Her eyes grow wide. “You do?”
“I completed it when I was a boy.”
She laughs. “Of course you did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re clearly significantly more successful at jigsaws than I am.”
“You enjoy the process?” I ask.
“I love the moment when you realise the picture is emerging. When all the tiny pieces that don’t seem to belong anywhere suddenly find their place.”
“Exactly,” I say, suddenly animated about jigsaw puzzles. Don’t judge me. “I find the faces the hardest part, but when I’ve got them—”
“Suddenly the whole thing makes sense,” she finishes for me and it’s as if she took the words out of my mouth.
“Yes.”
“See, Fred? We’re not that different.” She holds my gaze, and electricity crackles between us.
I swallow. Is it getting hot in here?
“Perhaps,” I reply.
“Well, we’re definitely doing a puzzle together sometime soon.”
The idea lodges in my mind with surprising force: Astrid and I bent over a table, sleeves rolled up, arguing over sky pieces and edge pieces, constructing something together, side by side.
It’s a domestic image, yet thoroughly appealing.
“Very well,” I say, aiming for composure. “But I warn you, I’m extremely competitive about corner pieces.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the room. “Game on, Fred. Game on.”