3. Chapter 3
Michaela
T he eighteen hours of travel time, including layovers, didn’t give me enough time to wrap my head around my adventure. I stepped out of the green taxi with a goat crest on the hood and stared up at the palace gates.
I still couldn’t believe it. Fitz was a prince. If there were ever any doubts, the monstrous Nolcovian palace that looked an awful lot like a castle erased them from my mind.
“You sure you’re in the right place?” The cab driver stuck his head out the window and peered up at me. “Tours don’t start for a few more hours. Awful cold to stand out here on the curb.”
“Yes,” I tightened my grip on my luggage and tried to sound confident, “I’m friends with the prince.”
His chin dropped, his eyebrows rose, and he stared deadpan. “Right, and I’m late for tea with the Pope.” With a wave, he sent me on my way. “Good luck, lady.”
Ignoring his skepticism, I chewed on the inside of my lip and turned my focus on the palace. I told Fitz I’d landed, and even though he asked me to get a cab, I thought he would meet me. Granted, with his royal lifestyle, he likely had people who did that sort of thing for him. But the towering gates remained shut and no one, not Fitz or an assistant of any kind, waited for me.
“Hello?” I called through the wrought iron rails for anyone who might hear. “I’m supposed to meet Prince Fitzborough.” I leaned forward to peer between the gaps. “Is anyone there?”
Discouraged by the lack of reply, I tried to think it through logically. Maybe Fitz got busy and had forgotten to tell someone I was coming. If he lived in a normal house, I would knock on the front door, but his front door was still a good three hundred feet away. To be honest, I expected a drawbridge and a moat. Maybe a few crocodiles for good measure. Did they have crocodiles in Nolcovia?
I tried Fitz’s number, but no answer. My savings account was at risk of being devoured by a swam of piranhas with these international phone calls. My phone buzzed in my hand, gaining my attention again.
Fitz: I got held up. Come through the gate. Reginald will show you in.
Even after I read the message two more times, it made no sense. The gate? The twenty-foot wrought iron gate that served the sole purpose of yelling ‘stay out’ without ever making a sound?
That gate?
I examined it again, noting that the gaps between the bars were larger than expected. Testing a theory, I slipped my suitcase through the gap. Sure, my luggage fit, but Fitz couldn’t mean that I needed to slide through myself, did he?
But my memory flashed back to a time when my neighbors, the Detweller’s, were out of town. They’d told us we could use their pool, but they forgot to leave the key to the gate. Fitz looked about as dejected as a forlorn puppy, and I couldn’t let it stand. Wriggling, squeezing, and with a fair dash of shimmy, I got through the gate and found the key on the patio table. That smile on his face as I opened the gate to our backyard pool party paradise still lived rent-free in my head all these years later. We weren’t doing anything wrong because we had permission, but life got in the way. Maybe this was one of those situations and Fitz needed me to wriggle my way around it.
Exhaling hard, I slipped my arm through first. My shoulder barely caught, but as I twisted my angle the pressure eased. I didn’t have any problems slipping my leg through, but as my bum caught, I had to contort my body a bit to ease through. This was all quite easier as a flat-chested beanpole of a twelve-year-old. Without thinking, I pulled my other leg through, leaving me with three-quarters of my body on one side of the gate and one-quarter on the outside. Of course, I had a few issues with my chest. Size differences had never been more apparent than when I was smooshing myself through metal bars. With a shimmy, I tried to free myself from the bottleneck position, but no matter if I went up or down, curved right, curved left, I remained jammed, head craned far to the side, arm tweaked at an angle, about an eighth of me still outside the gate. At the height of my struggle, with my nose pointed toward the ground, an arm contorted skyward, and my backside serving as the highest point and pinnacle of awkwardness, a voice boomed behind me.
“And what, pray tell, may I ask you are doing, madam?” His voice came out of nowhere, proper, stern, but almost like God was looking down to question all of my poor decisions. I couldn’t blame Him if He was. I twisted, bringing my head to stare through the bars in search of my audience. No deity in sight, but a man in a suit watched me with the deepest frown I’d ever seen.
“Hi.” I waved with my good arm, not the contorted one. “I’m supposed to meet the prince and he said to go through the gate, but I feel like maybe he misjudged the,” I cleared my throat, “practicality of that suggestion.”
“Of course.” The frown puckered into a scowl. “You’re the American.”
Geez. That one word carried a lot of disdain. He might as well have said: You’re the redneck, or you’re the trash panda in our garbage bins.
Not that raccoons didn’t have their merit. I found them to be cute little rodent bandits… from a distance. But clearly this guy didn’t find me, or likely a raccoon, very cute. Granted, there I was, embarrassingly wedged between the railings of his gate, my rear elevated in an undignified manner. It was definitely not a flattering sight. I preferred meeting people face-to-face, not face to… uh… rump.
“Yes, I’m Michaela Caldwell.” I straightened and squared my shoulders the best I could between the bars. “I’m here to meet the prince.”
Grey hair dusted both temples and frosted the ring of hair that circled his bald scalp. I wondered how much of it Fitz had put there and if I was about to add my share. “Miss Caldwell, in the future, I would suggest you learn to operate the hinges of the gates.” His right eyebrow twitched. “You see, they cause the gates to open and close, thus eliminating the need to slip between the bars like a criminal.” I was about to explain why I’d landed in the predicament he’d described, but the fancy fella kept talking. “Are you able to free yourself? Or must I get the blow torch?”
Something about an open flame in the hands of a guy who clearly thought little of me motivated me to pop back the way I’d come in a matter of seconds. Free of the wrought iron rods, I straightened my clothes and smoothed my jacket.
“For the record, Fitz told me to come in through the gate. I never would have otherwise, but you see, when we were kids, I slid through a gate like this to open it for him, so I thought that was what he wanted me to do this time.”
His scowl only deepened. “Fitz?”
“Oh.” I realized my mistake. “That’s what we called him in the States. Fitz. Short for Fitzborough.”
It was like I was digging my own grave with a shovel before, but that had switched it out for a backhoe. The redness started in his nose and then spread like lava until it covered even the top of his shiny head.
“His name is the Royal Highness Leonidas Ignatius Fitzborough III, Crown Prince of Nolcovia.” Nostrils flaring, the man in the fancy suit stared me down. “And it would do you well to remember that.”
On the inside, I knew that was easier said than done. I’d called him Leonidas maybe three times… ever. But, on the outside, I wasn’t looking to make an enemy. “Got it. Thanks for the tip.” I leaned to the left, eyeing my suitcase on his side. “Do you mind opening the gate and letting me in since you’re here? Fit—um, the prince must have thought it was open already.”
“No.” His chilly reception continued. “He wasn’t mistaken. You were. The rest of the women are entering at the west gate. You are at the south gate.” With no direction on his part, he picked up my suitcase and started walking. Instinct said to follow. I monitored him and trailed after him with my other suitcase in tow. I lost sight of his navy jacket at the corner and my heart dropped. At least until I made the same turn.
Before me, a sea of women gathered, some inside the gate, some outside. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume we were all just dropped off for summer camp. Luggage dotted the grounds. Girls hugged and squealed as they saw each other, a few were even shedding tears. The crowd had to be close to fifty people deep. Fitz told me there would be fifteen women in the competition, but the gathered mob, I mean, group, had me wondering if there was some kind of raffle at play. Golden Ticket, anyone?
A trumpet’s melody brought all conversation to a halt. I turned toward the open gate where the man who resented my American blood waited for us.
“Ladies, if you would say your goodbyes for now.” His tone warmed for the rest of them. “We have a schedule to keep.”
Goodbyes took the place of the cheerful chatter and one by one the women moved away from their families. It hit me that this was a big deal. That sounded stupid even as I thought it, but Fitz was… well, Fitz. I still hadn’t wrapped my mind around the whole prince thing and then, to have a crowd of… I started counting.
Twenty- five? Twenty-five gorgeous women all signed up to want to meet him? Even though I had spent a fair share of my flight looking at the current picture of Fitz that I’d found online, I still couldn’t undo the image of him in my head. Ears too big, body gangly, and reading glasses typically askew while he read about Greek mythology and amphibian biology for fun. Obviously, something had changed, or I guess the idea of becoming a future queen held a great deal more appeal than I had ever considered.
With the goodbyes out of the way, two guards moved in to close the gate as we passed through. It made sense. It was a palace, and they didn’t want just anyone stumbling in off the street. Or through the gate…
I nearly tripped over my luggage as I followed the crowd. The cheerful fella had so sweetly left it for me. He probably worried he might get American cooties all over him. No one else had any bags, but I tried not to let it bother me as I gripped the handles on each of mine and stuck to the back of the crowd to stay out of the way.
As we moved, guards shouted orders, but at the back, the words became muffled and indistinguishable. I figured these were kindergarten rules. Stay with the pack and you’ll be fine. I took the travel time as an opportunity to survey Fitz’s prospects.
At the front, dressed in all black, other than the white fur halo framing her face, a black-haired woman looked down her perfectly sculpted nose at every person around her. Now and then, her full lips would pucker into a scowl when she felt like her competitors came too close. I’d seen her type before, better than everyone else, at least in her mind. She locked eyes with another tall beauty only a couple of feet back in the crowd. Unspoken words passed between them like they could speak telepathically. A shiver ran up my spine as the moment passed. I watched the second woman with her sandy-blonde hair. She shelled out big money to fake a sun-kissed hair color look, because her pale skin tone wasn’t fooling anyone. If I wasn’t mistaken, the two women obviously knew each other and they had already formed an alliance.
Excited chatter burbled up around me as we took a path through the gardens. I’d never claimed to have a green thumb, but I couldn’t believe how many plants were still in bloom in the chilly temperatures.
“Look at that rose!” A voice snagged my attention. One of the shorter girls had broken off and rushed into the bushes. “It’s a Silver Duchess rose. I’ve never seen one bloom this late.” Her voice became more distant as she moved deeper into the greenery.
Another young woman hurried after her. “Dagny, come back. You can’t go running off.” But ironically, the brunette scurried into the garden after the first deserter.
“What’s going on back there?” The guard escorting us wasn’t in the mood for any of these shenanigans. Our entire company halted as he did. He noticed the two in the garden and sighed. Mumbling under his breath, he started in their direction.
Laughter erupted from the two women standing in front of me. The redhead tilted toward her friend to keep her voice low. “Of course, Blair went too. Watch Reginald lose his mind, in three, two, one…”
As if she was psychic, the fella who’d found me jammed in the gate drew in a deep breath until he looked so swollen I thought he might pop. Reginald. The name rang more than one bell. Fitz had mentioned him in nearly every letter. I’d never believed him when he referred to advice given by his personal royal advisor, but amid this fairytale come to life, it made sense. And, of course, Fitz had sent him to track me down when I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
“Ugh.” A sharp sound of derisive disapproval caught my attention. One of the snooty girls from the front row checked her watch with obvious distaste. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, which was probably her goal to begin with, but the gossiping duo in front of me actually voiced their opinions.
“I’m sorry, Lady Esmerey. Are the commoners taxing you?” The rest of the group burst into reserved laughter, at least until the one with hair like a raven turned to face them.
“I’m only taxed, Gwendolyn, by the immaturity of those wishing to be the future queen.” Her chin jutted out, raising the angle of her head to a higher level. “This is hardly the time to act like children and run fancifully through a garden when his Royal Highness is waiting for us.”
“I don’t know.” Another more jovial voice joined the debate. I traced it back to the most stunning woman I’d ever seen. Her bright-green eyes sparked with mischief. “I think Prince Leonidas would fancy a jaunt in the garden.”
Esmerey looked ready to take her head off, but the guard returned with the two who’d run off and the conversation ended as we resumed our walk. We passed more rose bushes, a giant willow, and sculptures of every kind in near silence, but the two gossipers in front of me couldn’t stay silent any longer.
“You know she’s bitter that there are some without noble blood here.” Gwendolyn kept her volume low, but I had no problem hearing her. “The kingdom would benefit from someone who has seen the bottom and clawed their way up, don’t you think, Fallon?”
“Strange coming from you…” Her companion shot her a dubious look and straightened her glasses. “Seeing how you’re of noble blood.”
“My bloodline has little to do with the fact that nothing in this palace has changed in hundreds of years. The king is so removed from his own reality, the whole place is stuck in the Dark Ages.” Gwendolyn shifted her gaze to the towering palace. “Someone should help them see the truth of the world and I think someone of common blood would do the trick.”
Fallon smirked. “Is that your way of saying you hope he doesn’t pick you?”
“Leo can do as he pleases. He’s the prince.” Her eyebrow jumped once, as if to communicate something deeper beyond her platitude. “But the chances of him choosing me are almost as bad as they are for him picking the American. You know the pressure from the crown is to make a political move in marriage. You and me, we’re not even in the running.”
Was she aware I was the American? And, if so, how did she know? I pulled back to give them a little more space. The steps to the palace stretched up before us, but Fallon had one more question.
“If that’s true, then why did you bother coming?”
Gwendolyn frowned like the notion was stupid. “And miss a chance to see Leo again? I think not.”
Jealousy lit a flame in my heart. Not because they were talking about marrying Fitz, but because she spoke of him with such familiarity. I thought that was my place, his oldest and dearest friend. It was na?ve of me to assume that he wouldn’t form connections with other people. Never mind that Gwendolyn, with her barrel-rolled blonde curls that looked fresh from a salon, would definitely fit his type a lot better than I ever had.
I shook it off. Naturally competitive, I would have to watch myself to be sure I didn’t forget why I’d come. Fitz needed my help to collect information, not to get bent out of shape because someone knew him as Leo.
Still, I cast a glance in her direction and wondered how the blonde beauty had ever gotten her hooks into Fitz.
The massive doors rolled open like thunder on a distant mountain. My eyes widened as we crossed the threshold into the Nolcovian palace. Gwendolyn had said the whole place was stuck in medieval times, but as I took in the double staircases with engraved vines twining up the length, not to mention the tapestries, the paintings, the gold leaf on every surface imaginable, I couldn’t catch my breath. The one who’d run off into the garden looked equally amazed, mouth agape, large eyes wide with wonder at the luxuries to be found at the entrance of the palace. Although it didn’t feel like Camelot, the sight of maids in grey dresses and footmen at every doorway made me feel like I was on the set of Downton Abbey .
“Ladies,” Reginald raised his voice to catch our attention. “As you can see, there are twenty-five of you here today. Only fifteen will stay. You will meet the prince tonight and he will make the final selections. For the time being, you may rest and prepare for the night’s festivities in designated areas. If Prince Leonidas selects you, an escort will take you to your room after the choosing ceremony.”
Fallon scoffed and spoke under her breath, “There are at least sixty rooms, surely the king could—“
“Ms. Avondale,” Reginald pinpointed the naysayer, “is there something amiss you’d like to discuss? Some policy of the king that deserves our attention?”
Her face paled, and her chin tipped to the floor. “No, sir. I eagerly await my prince.”
“Your prince,” that same stunning woman from earlier spoke up, “presumptuous, don’t you think?”
Fallon lifted her head enough to glare, but kept her mouth shut. Reginald went on explaining how to split us into thirds, but Fallon’s eyes remained locked on the one who’d embarrassed her.
“Why is she even here?” Her whisper barely carried beyond her lips, but Gwendolyn picked it up. “She broke his heart. I don’t see why he would ask her—“
“The queen invited Chantal,” Gwendolyn cut her off. “You know her majesty loathed their breakup. I think she’s hoping for a reconciliation.”
I could hardly hide my reaction. Fitz had dated the supermodel? In high school, he couldn’t even get the head cheerleader to look at him, let alone date him. What alternate reality had I landed in? Before I could dwell on it, a footman took hold of my bags and nodded for me to follow him. I started to, but noted the groups were walking in another direction.
“Um, excuse me.” I hated to be a bother, but I also didn’t want to end up halfway through a gate again. “I think I’m supposed to go that way.”
The footman frowned and shook his head. “You’re Lady Caldwell, yes? From America?”
Lady? Not typically. “I’m Michaela Caldwell, from California.”
“Very good, milady. I’ll escort you to your room.” The faintest smile twitched at his stoic lips. “By order of Prince Fitzborough.”
Well, if the prince wanted it, I suppose the prince got it.
We moved through the halls, past literal knights in shining armor, or at least their empty armor. Paintings in ornate frames adorned the wall, paired with so many antiquities that it was commonplace. No time to ooh and ahh when another one would pop up in the next ten feet.
He stopped at the corner and opened a hand-carved door. Before I had time to admire it, I caught sight of my room. The gasp came without my consent, but I didn’t blame my subconscious for the reaction. I could fit my entire apartment into the room, and the canopy bed that adorned one wall wouldn’t have fit through my front door. The arched windows looked out on the gardens. A fire burned in the fireplace, where a chair waited with a blanket and a couple of books on a side table. Everything from the burgundy bedspread to the scent of lilies that lingered in the air told me I was there. In fact, the only thing missing was Fitz.
I turned to ask the footman if the prince was going to come by, but he was almost out the door. Pausing at the entrance, he turned back. “Your lady’s maid will be here at five to help you prepare and will escort you to the parlor.”
“And the prince?” I looked around, wondering if he was going to pop out of a closet or something. Was Fitz really going to ignore me until he greeted the rest of the women?
The footman’s brow furrowed. “The prince will be there tonight, and…” he hesitated for a moment, “I assure you, he doesn’t make a habit of visiting guest’s chambers for visits.”
My eyes widened at what he was insinuating. I rushed to correct him, but the door closed, and I groaned. What a great impression I was making on the people of Nolcovia. First, I was the criminal trying to slip through the palace gates and now they thought I was looking for… well never mind that because I wasn’t.
I sighed and sank onto the bed, comforted by the softness. Why had Fitz put me off in the corner instead of with the others? Was he ashamed of me? They were the real deal, and I was just his royal wingman? And if Gwendolyn was so close to him, why not have her do my job? Why would he want me to come all the way from America?
Oh, I couldn’t even think straight. At home, it was the middle of the night and the sun beaming through the windows made my head hurt. Growing older didn’t make the complexities of a high school relationship any less confusing.
I flopped back on the mattress with every intention of maybe stealing a nap, but my head thumped against something hard. Confused, I pulled back the blanket and found a hardback copy of Romeo and Juliet and a small flashlight. I stared, not sure why it was beneath the blankets. We’d read it freshman year and Fitz and I had mocked it incessantly. Did he forget that? Or was this a nod to it? Did he want me to read it at night with the flashlight?
I cracked the cover and a card tumbled out onto the bedspread. Through the years, I recognized Fitz’s flowing cursive script. Curiosity peaked. I read what he’d written.
Bookcase. Frog. Two inches to the left. Stand back. Take the light.
Of all the cryptic…
I read the note again, hoping for clarity, but none came. But a bookcase waited against the far wall. Would it be so bad to check it out? Logically, it made some sense.
The handwriting belonged to Fitz.
He had an affinity for frogs.
Maybe the rest would come together if I followed the instructions.
Almost as if he was right beside me, I felt an urgency to at least check it out. Flashlight in hand, I crossed the room to the bookcase and slipped Romeo and Juliet back where it obviously belonged. Searching the shelf, I quickly located a small metal frog. The rough surface grated my finger as I touched it. Pinching the sides, I tried to pick it up, but it didn’t budge. It was as though someone had welded the figurine to the shelf. Thinking of the note, I pinched the sides again and instead pushed it to the left.
The frog clicked into place, leaving an open track behind it. Grinding gears and squeaky mechanisms churned to life behind the wall. I stumbled back a step, fearful that I’d screwed things up again. The bookcase shuddered once before a thumping sound released a latch and the entire thing hinged forward.
Wide-eyed, I peered beyond the bookcase and stared into the depths of a pitch-black tunnel. Did Fitz want me to go in there?
Was I about to get into hot water by following through on his request? Fitz hadn’t even taken the time to meet me, and now he wanted me to go through some creepy dark tunnel?
I groaned and clicked on the flashlight. How bad could it be?