Chapter 4Amelia
Chapter 4
Amelia
I’m still rifling through costumes when the curtain to the changing room the rude man darted into flies fully open, and the man himself steps out into the shop.
He's tall—taller than my brothers—with closely cropped dark hair and a presence that inexplicably fills the small shop.
“This is the wrong size,” he says to René, his voice sonorous and smooth. “I might just go get something else.”
Huh . He’s an American.
“Certainly, sir,” René replies in heavily accented English. “I’ll be right with you once I’ve served this young lady. But of course, feel free to peruse the racks in the meantime.”
The rude American’s gaze flicks briefly to mine, and I'm momentarily struck by how starkly deep blue his eyes are. The same eyes that had looked so intense and focused when he'd rushed into the shop now seem much warmer against his strong jaw and perfectly proportioned features.
But he’s still rude.
“Right. My bad,” he says, appearing to notice me properly for the first time.
“If you’re in a hurry—” I begin in English, but he shakes his head. Although I’m Ledonian, I do speak several languages fluently, English being one of them. You can’t be a member of a European royal family and not speak several languages. Mummy made us all learn Latin, too. Not that I exactly have much call for it, like, ever .
“It’s fine. I thought I was pressed for time, but it turns out I’m not.” He glances out the window before he turns back to me and pulls his lips into a smile. “What are you looking for?”
“A costume,” I reply elusively. This guy scared the crap out of me, charging toward me with what appeared to be ill intent only a few moments ago, and then he was rude ignoring my greeting. I'm hardly going to get all chummy with him.
“Well, I would say you're in the right place for that,” he replies, and when I flick my gaze to him, I see his face is lit up in a smile.
It works to soften me a fraction and I smile back. “I suppose I am.”
“This section is where you'll find the more modest women’s costumes, miss,” René says as the doorbell tinkles and a group of people walk into the shop.
I turn to them in alarm, but I relax when I see it's only a group of teenage girls, giggling amongst themselves.
“If you’ll excuse me. I'll be right back,” René says as he makes his way toward them.
I begin to rifle through the costumes, keeping my head down. I find quite a few nun’s habits and medieval dresses, when I notice that the American guy hasn't moved. Instead, he's standing like a statue, his eyes flicking from me to the teenagers and back again. When one of the girls pulls out her phone, he turns his back completely to them and pulls out a nun’s habit.
“Are you going to party as a nun?” I ask pleasantly.
What is with this man?
“Err, no. I was lost in thought for a moment there.”
When the teenagers burst into high-pitched giggles, he visibly tenses. They look our way, and he plucks a Snow White dress from the rack, holding it up like a shield.
I'm not judging. If the guy's a cross dresser, he's a cross dresser. That's his business, not mine. Though hiding behind costumes seems a bit extreme.
“Do you know them?” I whisper, gesturing subtly toward the girls.
“No,” he says quickly. Possibly too quickly. “I just don't like having my picture taken, and I thought that’s what one of them was doing just now.”
Interesting. Is he camera-shy or hiding from someone? Perhaps he has an ex-girlfriend in town. Or maybe he's on the run from the law—though criminals probably don't typically hide in costume shops. They’d have a secret lair somewhere in the rough end of town. Or in a cave.
I take a surreptitious look at him once more. He seems to be assessing the costumes he's got in his hands, a perplexed look on his face, and I notice him glancing nervously at the group of girls once more.
Who is this guy that he would be afraid of a bunch of teenage girls? Actually, scratch that. I have first-hand experience of how vicious teenage girls can be. Thank you, boarding school and supposed friends who only want to use me for my royal status.
But he's a grown man. Surely he can't let a bunch of teens bother him?
“I'm in the wrong section, aren't I?” he says with a short, self-effacing chortle.
“I don't know. I can see you as a nun. The big headpiece would certainly add allure to your look, although getting through narrow doorways may prove a challenge.”
He smiles at me, his face lit up, and it strikes me that not only does he cut a rather fine, tall figure, but he’s clearly struck the genetic lottery with his handsome features, too.
“I'd probably choose to be Mother Superior.”
“You’re the type who likes to be in charge, then?”
He shakes his head. “I'm the middle child. I've never got to be in charge of anything in my life.”
“Same! Bossy older siblings?”
“I'm grateful to only have one. A brother. You've got more than one?”
“I have an older brother and an older sister. She's the eldest and really, really bossy.”
“I think it goes with the job description.”
As he steps a little closer, I notice more details—broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, the kind of athletic build that comes from exercise, the kind our security team all seem to have. The women and the men.
“Between you and me, I'm glad I'm not the first born. Being the middle child might have its drawbacks, but I think it's the best,” he continues.
“You don't have to be bossy, and you're not the baby.”
“Right?” he replies, his eyes alight. “I’m Maverick Mitchell, by the way,” he says with a confident, pearly white smile, his hand outstretched.
I take his hand in mine. “Your parents called you Maverick?”
“Sure did.”
“Well, I suppose there’s an actress called Rebel, so why not Maverick?” I say, more to myself than to him.
“Are you saying my name sounds feminine? Because it’s very manly where I’m from.”
I glance at the nun’s habit and Snow White costume in his hands. “Oh, I believe you,” I deadpan, and win another smile from him.
This is surprisingly fun. He's got no clue who I am and he's not bowing and calling me Your Royal Highness or any of the things I detest. He sees me as an equal, a fellow shopper who happens to be looking for a costume to wear to a party.
“And you are?” he asks.
“Amel—,” I begin, realizing too late that the last thing I should be doing is using my actual name. Surely a fake name is Subterfuge 101. Basic, entry-level stuff. In all my careful planning for this adventure I’ve failed at the very first hurdle.
“Amel?” he asks.
“Amel-ikintoflin,” I say.
Amel-ikintoflin ? Where did that come from? I had all the names in the world to choose from, but somehow I’ve managed to land on quite possibly the most ridiculous name ever.
Maverick raises his brows. “Amel-ikintoflin? That’s… unusual.”
Scrambling to fix my frankly ridiculous faux pas, I reply hurriedly, “It’s Dutch.”
Because it could be Dutch. It sounds Dutch. And I did meet a woman from The Netherlands at a charity function last month whose name was equally long and contorted. I think. Or was that a man?
I channel my inner Sofia by lifting my chin to show him that not only is Amel-ikintoflin my name, but that I'm mildly offended he's questioning its validity.
“Dutch?” he asks, his features visibly relaxing as René shows the girls some 80’s costumes and they giggle and chat among themselves.
“Dutch. In fact, I’m from a long line of Dutch Amel-ikintoflins.”
I’m doubling down. There’s nothing else I can do. Don’t they say the first rule of successful lying is to fully commit to the lie?
Well, I’m committing.
“A long line of Dutch Amel-ikintoflins?” he questions.
I offer him my most pleasant princess smile. “Indeed.”
He pulls his brows together. “So, Amel-ikintoflin is your last name?”
Dang it!
Time for some quick thinking.
“No, actually, it’s my first name. All the women in my family are called Amel-ikintoflin. Have been for generations upon generations.”
By now his brows are pulled so closely together he could hold a one Euro coin between them. “Isn’t that confusing?”
“Not in the least. Why would it be?” I ask, lifting my chin a fraction more, because I need all the Sofia I can get right now.
He presses his lips together. “Tell me something. If all the women in your family are called the same name, how do you tell each other apart?”
Luckily, I land on an idea to dig me out of this self-inflicted hole. “We have nicknames.”
Yes! That’s good. Believable. Now all I have to do is think of a plausible nickname.
“What’s your nickname?”
“Mine’s Amy, like Amy Adams from Enchanted .” When he looks at me blankly, I add, “You know, the Disney movie?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“It’s very good. You should watch it. It’s about a beautiful cartoon princess who gets sent to real life New York City, a land where there’s no happily ever after.”
He looks at me as though I’ve just made that all up and have quite possibly forgotten to take my meds today. “Noted.”
The chattering girls make their purchases and leave the shop, and Maverick’s shoulders relax.
“So, should I call you Amy?” he asks.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If I can call you Mav?”
“I’d like that.”
Fake it ’til you make it.
“Pleased to meet you, Mav.” I offer him my hand and we shake.
“You, too, Amy.”
“So, you're American?” I ask, keen to move on from my allegedly Dutch name and movies about princesses leaving their royal lives behind.
Far too close to reality.
He raises his hands in the air. “Guilty. What gave me away?”
I shrug. “Everything.”
He chortles. “Right.”
“What are you doing in Malveaux?”
“I'm on vacation.”
I twist the sleeve of one of the costumes. “Oh. I thought you might have been here for The Games.”
I'm sounding him out to see if he actually does recognize me and is just toying with me before he produces a camera and destroys my life.
Well, my next twenty-eight days, anyway.
“What are The Games?” he asks, and I feel a rush of relief. He genuinely doesn't know who I am.
Which is refreshing, I admit. His relaxed demeanor and easy smile now that the teenagers have left are so different from the stiff, formal interactions I'm used to.
“The Games is an annual competition between Malveaux and the neighboring country, Ledonia. They only finished last night. Lots of people are here in the city for them. They’re very popular.”
“I'm sorry I missed them.”
“The Royals compete in the lighthearted games, too, you know,” I lead.
“Is that so?” he asks, his tone suggesting he's not at all interested in hearing about the royal families.
I blow out a breath.
I think I’m in the clear.
René rushes over to us, and I notice that the shop is now empty but for us. “I'm sorry about that. How did you get on with finding a costume, miss.”
Costume. Right. I'm not here to converse with American tourists called Maverick.
“Not very well, I'm afraid, René. I don't think I'm looking for one of these sorts of costumes.” I wave my hand at the selection. “I think I'd like to look like the sort of person you might see walking down the street, rather than a character. Does that make sense?”
“You mean like a rocker or punk or a goth?” Maverick suggests, and it's like a bulb alights in my brain.
“Yes! Exactly that. I want to be a goth,” I declare, remembering a girl from school who used to dress all in black, with black-rimmed eyes and black lipstick, and never, ever smiled. She was rather severe looking, and quite the opposite of me. The perfect disguise for a runaway princess!
With my dark hair I know I could pull the look off. I might not have the porcelain skin, what with my skin tone being decidedly olive, but that’s nothing a touch of makeup can’t take care of.
“I like the idea of being a goth, too,” Maverick says. “If that's okay with you, Amy?”
“I'm sure we're going to entirely different parties. It won't matter at all if we’re both goths,” I assure him.
The fact I'm not going to a party at all is a mere detail he doesn't need to know.
René leads us to a section of the shop filled with entirely black clothes. Both Maverick and I gather all the elements needed to look like a goth and disappear into our respective changing rooms. For my part, I pull on a black T-shirt featuring a large skull front and center, a slim-fitting black skirt covered in a fine skull pattern that hits mid-thigh, and some stick-on tattoos in the shape of—you guessed it—skulls.
I’ve got a theme and I’m sticking to it.
I gaze at my reflection. Not bad. Quite goth, but I'm missing something.
I pull my black eyeliner from my handbag and draw a ring around my eyes and blacken my lips, the result being I look a lot less me and a lot more unapproachable and moodier.
Now all I must do is make sure I don't smile and I'll have this whole goth thing down pat.
I pull back the curtain and step into the shop, where René runs a critical eye over me. “That’s what's called a clean goth aesthetic, miss. Are you sure you don’t want to be more extreme for your party?”
“Quite sure,” I reply with a smile and then stop myself, instead arranging my features into appropriately brooding, dark, and macabre.
Whatever macabre looks like exactly. Doesn’t it mean “dead?”
Maverick’s curtain rustles, and I turn to see him in all his dark glory. Like me, he's wearing a black T-shirt, but he has a moon on the front, with the silhouette of a gnarled tree. He's wearing it loose over a pair of black trousers, which he’s paired with entirely the wrong shoes: white sneakers.
Unlike me, he’s wearing a long black wig that looks a lot more like a wig than it does actual hair. The darkness of his outfit makes him look paler and more intense, entirely appropriate for a goth.
“What do you think?” he asks, holding his arms out to the side.
“Fabulous! But the wig? It’s not great,” I say.
He reaches up and touches it. “It doesn’t work?”
I shake my head, and he pulls it off. Instantly, the color returns to his skin, and he looks a thousand percent … less dead.
“Might I suggest you lose the shoes, as well?” René says.
“René’s right. Those shoes scream American tourist to me,” I say.
He looks down at his feet. “Yeah. Not very goth, huh?” He looks at me and his face lights up in a smile.
“You need to stop doing that, too, to get into character,” I tell him.
“Doing what?”
“When did you ever see a goth smile, Mav?”
“Good point,” he says, his smile moving in entirely the wrong direction.
“One final touch.” I collect my black eyeliner. Holding it up I ask, “May I?”
His brows crease up again. “What are you going to do with that?”
“I'm going to put black freckles right across your nose and draw an upturned moustache on your top lip,” I say, holding my expression.
“You are?”
“Of course not. I'm going to put some eyeliner on you.”
“In that case, be my guest.”
“You're very tall. You might need to sit.”
“You bet.”
“How tall are you, exactly?”
“6’4”. My brother’s taller.”
“Goodness.”
He takes a seat on the wooden stool in his changing room. I lean in and run my pencil below his lash line. As I do, he looks up at me and I notice the blue of his eyes is like swimming in a moonlit ocean, with tiny bits of gold scattered around his pupils.
Coupled with his square jaw, it strikes me how handsome he is. I've seen this level of physical perfection before. At state dinners with visiting dignitaries’ handsome sons who are paraded in front of me, all groomed since birth to be the perfect escort.
But there's something so much more authentic about Maverick, a lack of practiced charm that's refreshing.
I pull back and inspect my handiwork. With the eyeliner, his eyes are accentuated, lending him an almost haunted look, transforming him from the American tourist who walked into the shop to a convincing goth.
With his eyes still trained on mine, he says, “Thank you, Amy,” in a soft tone that feels almost intimate.
Which is crazy. We’ve only just met.
“All part of the Malveauxian service,” I reply lightly, pulling my gaze from his.
“I think you both look splendid. Just enough goth to fit the bill,” René pronounces.
Satisfied with our looks, we both pay for the costumes, and despite me telling him he looks better without the wig, I notice Maverick paying for that, too.
“You're not changing out of your costume either?” I ask as he slides his regular clothes into a paper bag, just as I did myself.
“Nor you, by the looks of things,” he replies.
“I like the look so much I want to wear it before my party.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
We thank René and leave the shop, blinking in the bright afternoon light.
“Well, I suppose this is it,” I say, turning to him. “It was lovely to meet you, Mav. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here in Malveaux and enjoy your party tonight.”
“Thanks. You, too. You … err … make a gorgeous goth. If that's a thing.”
Did he just tell me I’m gorgeous? I think he did, and he’s not trying to slither his way into my affections because I’m a princess, either.
“Thanks. You do, too,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks.
We stand in awkward silence for a moment. Somewhat inexplicably, I find I don't want to say goodbye to this American stranger with whom I've spent an enjoyable hour not being Princess Amelia. I'm not clear if it's because I've enjoyed his company or simply enjoyed not being the real me.
“So,” I say to break this odd silence.
“Yeah. So.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I turn and walk down the street, knowing I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. He's interesting. He’s the kind of person who would make a good diplomatic ally at one of those interminable palace functions where you need someone real to talk to.
But I have Greg waiting for me, and he’s where my focus needs to be.