Chapter 2
Hal's fork hovered halfway to his mouth as he stared at Jakob's letter for the third time.
The palace breakfast room's morning light caught on the cream-colored paper, illuminating Jakob's neat, economical handwriting.
Something twisted in his stomach that had nothing to do with the untouched eggs cooling on his plate.
"You've been staring at that one letter for at least half an hour," Sigrid said, glancing up from her own correspondence. She buttered a piece of toast with practiced precision, her green eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Is something wrong?"
"The letter is wrong." Hal set it down, running his finger along the edge of the paper. "It's from Jakob."
"Ah." Sigrid's expression softened slightly. "And?"
"I've read it three times now. He's... being so formal.
So cold. 'Your Royal Highness' and 'your most faithful servant'?
That's not like him at all." Hal pushed his plate away, appetite vanished.
"Something's wrong. Either the Finnish front is more dangerous than he's letting on, or...
" He lowered his voice, though the servants had discreetly withdrawn to the edges of the room. "…perhaps his feelings have changed?"
Sigrid snorted, nearly choking on her tea. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, eyes crinkling with barely contained amusement.
"What?" Hal demanded.
"My dear, daft little brother." She leaned forward, speaking quietly.
"Have you considered that everything Jakob writes is read by the Finnish Military Censors before it's allowed to be posted?
And then read again by the royal court before being passed to the Crown Prince?
Perhaps he can't be as... direct as you'd prefer. "
Heat rushed to Hal's face. "I didn't—"
"Of course you didn't." Sigrid picked up the letter, scanning it briefly before handing it back. "He's being careful, Hal. For both your sakes."
Hal took the letter back, feeling foolish. The formality wasn't distance—it was protection. Hal refolded the letter carefully, slipping it back into his breast pocket. His fingers lingered over the fabric, as if maintaining contact with the paper somehow kept him connected to Jakob.
"I worry about him," he admitted quietly.
"Of course you do." Sigrid's teasing smile faded. "But Jakob is clever. Cleverer than most. He'll be fine."
Hal nodded, wishing he shared her confidence. He felt the paper of the letter crinkle with his movement, a subtle reminder of everything he and Jakob had, and how easy it would be to lose it all. .
"I should write back tonight," he murmured. "Though I suppose I'll need to be equally... circumspect."
Sigrid tilted her head. "Just write what's in your heart, then cross out anything that might cause a scandal and recopy it after." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though perhaps have me read it before you post it, to be sure. Your definition of 'circumspect' has proven questionable in the past."
The doors to the breakfast room swung open with decisive force. Queen Margreta swept in, not a hair out of place despite the early hour. The Royal Chancellor, Klas Eklund, stood behind her. Her eyes fixed immediately on Hal.
"There you are." Her voice carried the precision of a metronome. "It's eight-oh-five, Harald. The working day for the Royal Family begins at eight o'clock precisely, if you please."
Hal straightened instinctively. "Good morning, Mother. I wasn't aware—"
"You are Crown Prince now and I will need you to be punctual and aware of your commitments." She gestured toward the door. "Your schedule has been arranged. You will meet me and your staff downstairs immediately."
Sigrid caught Hal's eye across the table and rolled hers dramatically, just out of their mother's line of sight.
"Of course, Mother." Hal stood, folding his napkin with careful movements. "I apologize for the delay."
She turned without waiting for a response, clearly turning him over to the Royal Chancellor. 'Your Royal Highness,' Eklund said, bowing with mechanical precision. 'If you would follow me, it is time to acquaint you with your new offices and responsibilities.'"
They descended the grand staircase in silence, turning not toward the public reception rooms but down the corridor that housed the working offices of the royal household. Hal's stomach tightened as they approached a familiar door—Freddie's office.
Chancellor Eklund swept into what had been Freddie's— and was now apparently now his — office leaving Hal to trail behind, tugging at the high collar of his new jacket.
The antechamber hit him first—that particular mix of lemon oil and old paper that had always meant Freddie's domain.
A neat desk sat against the wall, its surface bare except for a pristine blotter and a telephone.
Behind it stood a woman in a conservative gray suit, her chestnut hair pulled into a severe chignon.
She rose as they entered, hands clasped in front of her.
"Your Royal Highness." She inclined her head precisely. "I am Astrid Lindholm, your private secretary. I've prepared your morning correspondence and today's schedule for your review."
Eklund barely paused. "Miss Lindholm comes highly recommended from Uppsala University's administrative offices. She will manage your appointments and correspondence with appropriate discretion." He pushed through the inner door without waiting for Hal's response.
The main office sprawled before him, unchanged since the last time he'd visited Freddie here six months ago.
Dark wood paneling climbed the walls, broken only by the stone fireplace where a small fire crackled despite the mild September morning.
Freddie's desk—his desk now—sat perpendicular to the hearth, positioned to catch both warmth and the light from the tall windows.
Behind it, floor-to-ceiling shelves held leather-bound volumes on Swedish law, military history, and statecraft.
The soft green carpet beneath his feet muffled their footsteps, the same carpet where he'd once watched Freddie practice speeches, pacing back and forth until he wore a faint path in the pile.
The burgundy leather sofa opposite the desk still bore the indentation where Freddie used to throw himself after long council meetings, one arm flung over his eyes while he complained about Mother's latest diplomatic maneuver.
Hal's throat constricted. He forced himself to walk to the desk, running his fingers along its polished edge.
Eklund stood by the fireplace, watching him with those pale, assessing eyes, already launching into an explanation of filing systems and daily briefing schedules that Hal only half heard.
Hal's throat tightened. They hadn't even asked which of Freddie's things he might have wanted to keep.
Ms. Lindholm cleared her throat. "The dispatches, Your Royal Highness, are just there." She gestured toward the neat stack on the desk, then opened her leather-bound agenda. "Following those, we have the Aftonbladet interview at one o'clock."
She removed a typewritten sheet from her portfolio and placed it precisely on the desk. "Her Majesty has provided these talking points for your interview. You are to emphasize:
First, your commitment to continuing the wisdom and stability established by your brother and father. The public needs reassurance that the succession will bring continuity, not uncertainty."
That part, at least, was true, he thought.
Hal could remember his father's quiet pride when describing Sweden's neutrality during the Great War—how they'd shepherded their people through the worst conflict in history by charting a middle path.
He could only hope to do so well in the war that every one knew was coming.
"Second, you will emphasize your deep gratitude for Her Majesty's invaluable guidance during this transition. The queen's experience in European affairs will be essential to your development as Crown Prince."
The hell it will, Hal thought, but he filed that one away.
"Third, when asked about personal matters—" Ms. Lindholm's tone remained perfectly neutral, "—you should emphasize your enthusiasm for the prospect of marriage and eagerness toward establishing your own household and starting a family."
Hal's hands clenched involuntarily. Enthusiasm for establishing his own household he had in spades; he fell asleep nightly dreaming of what it would be like to have Jakob home, to have him here, in Hal's life and bed and arms. But there would be no brides in Hal's life, and no royal cathedral wedding.
The sooner he prepared the Royal court, the Swedish press and the nation for that fact, the better.
"Finally, you should express enthusiasm for learning from experienced European leaders who understand the importance of order and progress, rather than clinging to outdated notions of isolation."
Hal's throat constricted. There it was—the direct repudiation of everything his father stood for. Gustav had spent twenty-five years building Sweden's reputation as a voice of reason in an increasingly mad world. And Mother wanted him to throw it all away for Hitler's idea of order and progress.
Hal stared down at the typewritten sheet, the words blurring slightly as their true meaning crystallized. This wasn't a briefing—it was a script. His script. For the next however many years of his life.
He read through them again, translating: Continuity meant never challenge what I decide is tradition.
Her Majesty's invaluable guidance meant you are too stupid to think for yourself.
Eagerness for a suitable bride meant pretend Jakob never existed.
And experienced European leaders... his stomach turned.
She meant Hitler, and she wanted him to publicly reject his father's greatest achievement.
This wasn't preparing him to be king. This was training him to be her mouthpiece—a grinning puppet who would enthusiastically dismantle everything Gustav had built while pretending to honor it.