Chapter 14Marco
Chapter 14
Marco
I sit and watch a poised Sofia, standing at the podium in front of the large audience, giving a moving Remembrance Day speech. She’s hitting all the right notes, just as I expected she would, talking of sacrifice, courage, dedication, and duty to one’s country. She refers to the red poppy on her lapel, the flower of remembrance, and every person present listens to her melodious voice.
Is it weird that I feel proud of her? Probably, but that’s how I feel.
As usual, she’s in a prim skirt suit and sensible pumps, this time black, her hair in a modest bun, and as I listen to her voice, a knot forms in my belly. She’s the woman I desire, the woman I find I can’t stop thinking about, day and night.
But she’s the woman I shouldn’t think about at all.
And here I am, watching her, feeling things for her, this complex, beautiful princess. Enzo sent me here at the last minute, saying he had too much on his plate, but he knew someone should be here to support her. As I look around at the heaving church, I wonder if he realizes quite the impact this woman has on others. She’s powerful, not in the sense that she has control over anyone else, but that she has a strong presence. Regal, is the word that springs to mind. Regal and powerful.
Of course, I know parts of the media give her a hard time. She’s been known in the past as the Pitiful Princess, which is so harsh, and I can’t help but wonder whether they see this side of her, the side that shows how eloquent she is, how her presence gives a sense of gravity and importance to an event such as this. The way she so obviously cares for the causes she’s involved in, meaning every word that falls from her lips.
The more I get to know the princess—or “Sofia” as she’s asked me to call her, which feels so much better than calling her the formal “ma’am” that keeps her at arm’s length—the more surprised I am by what I see. She’s kinder than I expected. More like a real person, I suppose, which I know sounds crazy because of course she’s a real person. But the way she presents herself to the world is like she’s an AI robot, perfectly put together, doing and saying all the right things at the right time. From the perfectly polished shoes on her feet to not a hair out of place on her head. To the way she speaks so carefully and politely, pronouncing every word just so.
She would never arrive late at a gallery opening, trailing dirt behind herself.
For the record, I only did that because Mohammed had called me in a panic, having been let down by some volunteers. So, I’d dashed to the garden, throwing a change of clothes into the back of my truck, thinking I had enough time to get the work done and get to the gallery. But time had run out when the two of us had wrestled for too long with getting a mature lemon tree into the ground. I figured it was better to turn up late in my work clothes than not at all.
It turns out, according to Enzo, I should have stayed in the garden.
That’s so not Sofia’s style. It’s like she’s practiced at being a princess, and that practice has created this flawless perfection that seems impossible to crack.
But I’ve caught some glimpses of the real woman beneath the cracks. I’m learning there is so much more to this woman than just being the perfect princess, a beautiful, unattainable representative of the royal family.
Take Lemon and Pepper for instance. Would a perfect princess have a couple of terrorist dogs who delight in running amok? Two dogs who clearly adore her, and she they?
She reads books to children in lower socioeconomic areas like Tideswell before stopping by to see my community project, showing an interest in what we’re trying to achieve.
And she has this way of looking at me, as though I’m the only man in the room, her gaze intense, with more than a hint of fire that sets my heart alight, yearning for so much more from her .
“Let us honor their memory by committing ourselves to the cause of peace, by standing together in unity, and by cherishing the freedoms for which our fellow countrymen fought so valiantly. We will remember them,” she finishes, and as she lifts her face, her eyes are glistening, and I know her words have struck a deep chord in her.
As the crowd applauds politely, I let out a heavy sigh. As much as I feel for this woman, with her beauty and deep, soulful eyes, as much as I believe she feels for me too, we can’t ever express it to one another. Not when she’s chosen my brother.
But really, what was so important he couldn’t be here on a Sunday?
With the formal part of the day over, we shuffle out into the bright sunlight. Sofia is talking with the mayor and the head of the church, so I lurk in the shadows, hoping she’ll look my way.
I pull the tattered sheets from my blazer pocket and skim them, despite the fact I’ve read them so many times I already know them by heart.
Follow paths where scholars tread,
Texts of old, where knowledge is spread.
Deep within the palace core,
Find the scroll of royal lore.
Through hidden doors and passage tight,
Navigate by candlelight.
In chambers where the old kings rest,
The scroll will put your questions to rest.
As though I’ve sent a telepathic message to Sofia, she says her goodbyes and, trailed by her ever present security, she makes her way over to me.
“Wonderful speech,” I tell her.
She offers me her pleasant princess smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind. ”
“No, I mean it. I could tell you meant what you said. It added resonance to your message. I felt it here.” I place my hand over my chest.
This time, her smile is more genuine. “I do try my best to connect with people, particularly about something as important as the sacrifices the people of our country have made for our freedom.”
“You connected,” I tell her softly, and watch with a certain level of satisfaction as her cheeks pinken. “Sofia, I need to show you something.”
“Yes?”
I glance around us at the throngs of people. “Not here.”
“My car. We can drop you wherever you need to be.”
“Perfect.”
A few minutes, and a lot of hand shaking and pleasantries by Sofia, later, we are safely ensconced in her crown car, and she asks the driver to lift the privacy screen.
She folds her hands primly in her lap and turns to me. “It’s good to see you in a suit today, rather than your wellington boots, Marco.”
I glance down at the suit Enzo bought me. “I think it might be disrespectful to turn up on a day like today in my gardening clothes, although I would be more than happy to change if that’s what you’d prefer?” I tease as I begin to pull my blazer from my shoulders.
“No!” she replies, startled.
I flash her my grin, enjoying the effect my teasing has on her.
I know I shouldn’t but I do.
Sue me.
“I’ll stick with the suit, then.”
She swallows. “What did you need to talk to me about? ”
“I’ve had another verse sent to me to add to the puzzle.”
Her reaction surprises me. “Do you have it with you? Oh, what am I saying? Of course, you don’t have it here at—” She stops midsentence when I pull the folded sheets from my blazer pocket.
“I thought you’d written this off as anti-royalist nonsense,” I say.
“It may very well be, but I’ll admit, it has played on my mind since you shared the first riddle.”
“You and me both.” I unfold the paper and hold it up for both of us to see. She shifts in her seat, and I catch her scent in the air, an enticing combination of a cool breeze on a spring morning, with hints of citrus and fresh flowers. So very Sofia.
I watch her face as her eyes skim the page, her long dark lashes curled upward. Her pillowy lips are parted in concentration, and I’m forced to fight the urge to reach out and touch the soft skin of her cheek, tilting her face toward mine.
She pulls her brows together. “‘Hidden doors and passage tight?’ ‘A scroll of royal lore?’ What can that mean?”
“Taking the first part of the original riddle into consideration, I think what we have on our hands is a classic quest, Principessa ,” I reply, using the Italian word for princess.
Her eyes flash immediately to mine, and I second guess my boldness.
“Sorry. I got carried away.”
“No, I… I like it.” She holds my gaze, her dark eyes like polished mahogany, glistening and rich.
“All right. Principessa it is . ”
She pulls her gaze away, pressing her lips together. “A quest, you say?”
“You know, like Harry Potter or Indiana Jones?”
“Or The Princess Bride ,” she offers.
“Or Nemo.”
She laughs. “Nemo.”
“But this quest won’t be movie length. We’ve got all the clues we need right here. I think whoever sent this to me wants us to go on a quest to solve the puzzle.”
“You and me?” she asks, her voice breathy, and I nod. “But why?”
“I have a theory. This part, ‘in the library’s hidden nook—’” I say as I point at the riddle, “—suggests there’s something to be found in the palace library. That’s clue number one. Then when it goes on to say, ‘beneath the throne, where shadows lie,’ that’s the second clue. Combine that with having to navigate a tight passage through a hidden door and I think there might be some tunnels under the palace where this scroll is hidden. Which one of us has access to all these places? Certainly not me. That’s where you come in.”
I don’t mention the fact I’m almost certain Amelia is behind the riddle. Think about it. Amelia was the one who came up with a plan for us to find soulmates for both Enzo and Sofia. She then turns up at the garden party with a woman who could quite possibly be Enzo’s perfect match, introduces them, and then lets nature take its course. I of course bring no one to the garden party because I’ve come to the conclusion that her plan is too harebrained to work, which she seems happy about because—and this is where I took a leap—she thinks I’m Sofia’s soulmate.
That’s right, my theory is that Amelia sent this riddle to me to solve so that she could throw me and her sister together .
It’s pretty clever.
The big wrench in Amelia’s plan is that I’m Enzo’s brother, which makes it all a little close to home—but what’s a little family connection when you’re Amelia and you’ve got a grand plan to come between her sister and the man she thinks is all kinds of wrong for her?
“The phrases could be a metaphor for something,” she says.
“I think they’re more literal than that. Is there a library in the palace?”
“Of course there is. You’ve been in it.”
“And is there a throne room?”
She gives me a look that questions my intelligence. “You’ve been in that room, too.”
“Hence your involvement.”
“You’re a veritable Einstein, Marco,” she says on a light laugh.
“One of my many talents.”
That definitely sounded a little flirty.
“Look, I’m good at puzzles, and this looks like fun to me. Who knows? We might learn something interesting about a righteous heir.”
That’s another clue as to who sent this riddle to me. Amelia mentioned that if Sofia got what she wanted, aka being named as their father’s heir, she would drop the whole arranged marriage idea.
Really, Amelia couldn’t have been more transparent if she tried.
“Tell me you’re not curious. Tell me you don’t want to know what this is all about.”
“I suppose.”
She’s trying to downplay it.
I fold the paper up again and slot it back into my top pocket. “We don’t have to go on an Indiana Jones style quest to solve this riddle. You’ve got other things to do with your time.”
“No!” she says hastily, and I can’t help but smile. “What I mean to say is that perhaps it might be interesting to find out what this riddle is all about. A diversion.”
“You mean it’ll be fun.”
“I mean we might learn something,” she replies firmly.
“Sure.” I grin at her. As much as I know my feelings for this beautiful, intriguing woman can never see the light of day, and as much as I know Amelia is trying to throw us together, I need to know what this ancient scroll is all about. Once we’ve solved the riddle, we can get back to being a princess and assistant, neither of us the worse for it.
And that’s the story I’m choosing to tell myself.