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She nudges me. “We've all been trying on dresses with the royal dressmaker. You know how much I love doing that.”
“One thing I've always admired about you is that you have always been and always will be a thoroughly committed tomboy.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“You’re very welcome. What’s this dress for?”
“It’s in case we get invited to a ball to welcome the new Princess of Malveaux. Father said it was likely and we should all be prepared. Isn’t that brilliant? We’ll get to meet her!”
Ledonia and Malveaux have a long history, and not always an amicable one. In fact, many a war has been waged between our two countries due to some small slight or underhanded land grab. Less so in the last couple of centuries or so, when both of our small countries have worked out that, in a sea of democratic European states, we are both monarchist outliers, both small, and both reliant on tourism and trade to keep afloat. We’ve become reliant on one another, although still harboring some unspoken resentment, too.
When the royal family of Malveaux does something, we’re invited, and vice versa. Not that we’ve had to resort to dragging an American, kicking and screaming across the Atlantic, to be the new heir to the throne because the actual heir has decided to scarper.
Not that I know whether this new American princess did actually kick and scream, but I do rather like the idea.
“Brilliant isn’t the word I’d use,” I say as I picture the photo of the bewildered looking woman on the airplane steps that was splashed across the news this morning. Deer in headlights have nothing on this one. She was wearing a pair of jeans, grubby sneakers, and a sweatshirt that said “I prefer my boyfriends in a book.”
I made my mind up about her in less than two seconds.
“I’m sure Madeline is just lovely. She wears sneakers, too, you know.”
“You already have so much in common,” I deadpan. “I'm sure you'll be firm friends by the time the evening's done.”
Her features lift. “Do you think?”
I bark out a laugh. “No. I’m certain she’s an opportunist and that Malveaux is making a massive mistake. That’s what the media’s suggesting, anyway.”
She punches my arm. “You’re so cynical, Alex. I resoundingly disagree.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Resoundingly?’
“She looks like a perfectly nice person to me. Not an opportunist. A little scared, maybe.”
“What’s there to be scared of? She’s totally landed on her feet, which, by the way, were clad in extremely grubby trainers.”
Amelia smirks. “I adore her already.”
“You would.”
“Haven't you just been to America, telling them all about how fabulous we are here and how they must visit immediately and spend all their big fat American dollars? I recall seeing photos of you with at least a couple of pretty girls. Was it a terrible, terrible hardship for you?”
“Oh, don't get me wrong. I love the place, and the women are…well, they are pretty.”
“And?”
“And I had a nice time.”
She crinkles her brow. “What does that mean?”
I push the memory of how Freya was only interested in me because I’m a prince from my mind.
“You know, Sofia would like America, too, if she tried hard enough to extract that carrot from out of her bum.”
Deflection is such a useful tool.
My little sister giggles and it ends in a snort. “That poor carrot.”
Sofia’s ears must be burning. She rounds on us. “I do not have a carrot up my bum, thank you very much,” she quips.
