Chapter 5 #2
“Edric and I enjoyed that film.” Kate leaned toward her daughter. “You’re good for us, Scottie. Good for me. I feel the medicine of your presence already. You’ll be a smash at the Garden Party—cheered far more than booed.”
Scottie set her wine aside. “Who’s going to boo me? The press?”
“Perhaps, but so far, they seem favorable to you. I was thinking more of the political faction—the Renaissance Coalition—intent on dismantling the monarchy altogether. MP Hamish Fickle has been vocal lately. He and his supporters see us as relics of another age, a burden to the people. They overlook, of course, how tirelessly we serve and how deeply we care for our nation and citizens. But the RECO party doesn’t speak for everyone.
They’re a noisy few, led by a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, love.”
“It’s okay, but—why do they want to boo me again?” Scottie was used to criticism, which ran rampant in the fashion world. But booing a daughter simply wanting to know her family felt petty.
“Because they’re small-minded,” Kate said, her tone calm but growing weary. “And envious. Mostly because you’re my daughter—and American. Some feel we’ve enough of those in the palace already.”
“I’ve no intention of living in the palace. I’m here for you, Kate.” After the Rose Ball, she’d return home in time for the O’Shay board meeting and approval of the winter line. “I’ll be gone before the RECO crowd have time to pucker up and boo.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Kate said, her smile faint. “You’ve far more important places to be. Just promise you’ll always come back.” She started to reach for Scottie, but her arm dropped to the table. Slowly she slipped from her chair to the floor, the color draining from her face.
“Kate—hey, Kate, what’s wrong? Kate!” Scottie caught her before her head struck the floor, cradling her trembling body against her legs. “Cranston! Hilda! Miles—help!”
* * *
Michael
Everything was too quiet, save for the North Sea wind carving at the castle’s ancient stone. Lately he’d begun to hate the quiet. It left far too much room for thinking.
Technically, he was off duty. Lennox and Schueler—both former members of Her Majesty’s Special Forces and now part of her security detail—manned the castle’s Operations Room.
He had the evening free. In four days, his schedule would be packed with the Lady Royal’s diary and helping her navigate the royal world.
He took a sip of port and moved to the window. He preferred a pint from the pub down by the quay—the Belly of the Beast—to sweet, fortified wine, but Cranston had brought the port round, so he felt obliged to try it.
From the entryway clock of his flat on the third floor of the castle, a bell chimed.
Michael checked his watch as if to verify: nine o’clock.
By the lingering light and the short shadows of a north Lauchtenland evening, the days were lengthening.
The castle grounds were starting to bloom with their famous purple flora, which meant the Garden Party should be stunning.
A recent email put the expected attendance at three thousand.
He’d scheduled a review of castle security protocols with the team for tomorrow. But for now…
Michael loosened his tie and slipped off his jacket.
He’d packed very little from his Port Fressa flat for his duration in Dalholm: five white shirts, four pairs of black slacks, two jackets, two ties, two pairs of jeans, and three pairs of shoes.
He preferred tactical gear to suits, but escorting the queen’s daughter called for more formal attire.
Along with clothes and toiletries, he’d brought a couple of books, though he didn’t feel like reading.
He could change into workout togs and head up to the fourth-floor gym, but—
Sudden movement across the grounds and through the gathering shadows caught his eye. He darted to the next window, squinting through the fading light, barely making out heels and elbows as a runner disappeared into the north woods.
It was unlikely a staff member would race across the grounds and vanish by the woods. How would they get past the security gate? Only members of HMSD knew the code.
An intruder? Michael stiffened with the recall of the attempt on Prince John. If he allowed a second attack on a member of the House of Blue, he’d resign his post. Then his mother would win—which she did not deserve—because what other position could he take to serve the Crown?
He snatched up his phone and dialed Operations. “Did I see a runner on the north side?”
“We’re checking video now, sir,” came Lennox’s voice. He trusted her—sharp, reliable, his backup for the Lady Royal.
“Check with Cranston and Somba about the staff. Maybe it was one of them.”
Ending the call, he scanned the grounds again, then changed into jeans, trainers, a Cross PF Youth Club football jersey, and a hoodie. He might as well check the grounds himself. But first he’d pop into the Operations Room.
As he headed for the servants’ stairs, his phone pinged. Mum. Dare he read it?
Mum: I found this on my phone. Thought you might like it.
Michael stared at a picture of Purnell—the sun in her hair, laughter in her brown eyes, a secret behind her smile.
Michael: I took that picture and sent it to you. Why would I want another one?
Mum: Didn’t you delete all your photos?
Michael: So you send me this in case I changed my mind?
Not that it was her business, but he hadn’t deleted every photo of Purnell. Most, yes. He’d saved a few. This was one of them.
Mum: I thought it might be nice to see her bright, smiling face. She loved you. She’d want you to love again.
Mum was incorrigible. First, she nagged him about his career, now his love life, which, by the by, he’d never discussed with her.
Michael: If you’re hinting at setting me up, move off, Mum. I’m happy enough as I am. Good night.
Mum: I don’t believe you’re happy, but if you insist, what can I do? Denial is a lonely place, Mick.
Michael: Good night, Mum.
Mum: How’s it going with the American? I don’t see any news on her yet.
Michael: How did you know about the American?
Mum: Your father told me. Do you like her?
Dad? Since when did he talk to Mum about life?
Michael: She’s fine. Liking her is not my job, is it?
Mum: Are you coming to Dad and Mum’s anniversary party?
Michael: I’m on duty for the next two months.
Mum: You’re allowed a personal life, surely. It’s your grandparents, Mick. Talk to the queen. Surely she’ll excuse you for Odessa Pratt’s sixty-fifth.
Michael: Good night, Mum.
Ask the queen? Was Mum off her trolley? Surely the chief executive of an international printing company understood chain of command. Gunner Ferguson was his boss, not the Queen of Lauchtenland.
He started toward the Operations Room, but a single glance at his phone stopped him mid-stride. Purnell’s face filled the screen. She was so lovely. In every way. He’d thought himself the luckiest chap alive when she’d agreed to a date.
They’d gone to Pub Clemency, talked without hesitation, laughed easily.
He’d snapped this photo—the one Mum sent—the day they signed the lease on their newlywed flat.
Oh, how in love he’d been. That afternoon they’d shopped for furniture and tested a hundred sofas.
How had he not seen the secret she harbored?
When he finally learned, it was too late.
He exhaled and pressed his fingers against his temple. Sometimes he wanted to believe Mum was right—he could love again. But it was easier to remember what he’d lost than to imagine what he might gain.
What was the Dalholm saying? Something about how the sea had a song and love bloomed like the flora and fauna—touching lives in mysterious ways. Like the stories of Emmanuel, it was all legends, fables drifting down from the Highcrest Mountains.
To be frank, Michael didn’t know anyone who fell in love in Lauchtenland more than anywhere else.
One thing he knew for certain—Michael Cross would not fall in love while in Dalholm.
Do your worst, song of the sea. He’d be too focused on the American royal to think of anything else.
Scottie O’Shay was nothing like the soft-spoken artist Purnell, who once wept over dying flower petals.
Shaking off the emotional sidetrack—thank you, Mum—he tucked his phone into his pocket and entered the Operations Room.
“We can’t locate the Lady Royal,” Lennox said, eyes fixed on the CCTV bank. “I think she was the runner across the grounds.”
“Why isn’t she with Her Majesty?”
“Her Majesty collapsed during dinner. The medical team is with her. We’ve checked all the cameras. We can’t figure how she left the palace—if she left at all.”
“Did she crawl out a second-story window?” He was half joking. The windows in Hadsby Castle’s high rough walls, with rows of arrow-slits, were thirty feet off the ground.
“Not unless she has Rapunzel hair. There’s nothing on any of the castle cameras at the time of the runner. The staff are accounted for. I thought I’d search—”
“No, let me.” He was already moving. “She’s my main charge.” He refused a repeat of the Brighton Kingdom incident. “Keep watch for her return. Notify me immediately.”
What was she thinking, going out alone? The queen had been right. Blasted independent American.
Hadsby sat between the Old and New Hamlet where, a thousand years ago, the castle provided shelter for the locals.
Farmers. Merchants. Tradesmen. The people had pledged loyalty to the House of Blue for generations, and in turn, the royal family pledged its loyalty to them.
Centuries on, that mindset still lay at the heart of Lauchtenland’s devotion to the royal family, especially in County Northton.
Yet if Scottie were recognized among them, Michael had no idea what might happen.