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“Fine.”
“I hope your hand has recovered.”
I snap my attention to him. “It’s fine, thanks. How’s your…you know?” I inspect Alexander’s face. The swelling and redness in his nose from last night has lessened.
Is it terrible that I think it’s a shame?
Probably, but I’m not going to dwell on it.
“You can say it, you know, and it’s perfectly fine, no thanks to that waiter’s tray.”
So, he’s sticking with the story. I squirm, uncomfortable. “I’m sure the tray didn't mean it.”
“Is that so?”
“I imagine it did it in self-defense, as misguided as it turned out to be.”
“That sounds like an apology, Texas,” he replies.
He’s calling me Texas again?
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.
What is this guy playing at?
“If you’re ready, your Royal Highnesses, we'll enter the wooded area for the Princess’s formal introduction to our most treasured national bird,” Ralph announces, and I’m relieved for the change of topic. “We often see them on the lawns, but they appear to be a little elusive today.”
“I'm ready,” I tell him eagerly, stepping away from the increasingly confusing Alexander.
I don’t like thinking that he might actually have some nice traits, like not sharing what really happened in that closet, and dressing up as Santa for the kids. Although I’m still deeply suspicious he actually did that.
I sidle up to Ralph and together we make our way into the woods. We’re trailed by Alexander and Vlad and another guy in a black suit named Paulo, who's probably Alexander's long-suffering bodyguard.
The stories he could tell.
Not that I'd be interested in knowing.
I look around the lush lowland forest. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting a dappled glow across the floor.
“I wonder where the peacocks are?” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
“At this time of year, I imagine the females will be nesting,” Alexander replies, and incredulous, I turn to see him beside me once more.
What is this guy, superglue?
I give him the side eye. “You know a lot about peacocks?”
“I know enough.”
I bet he does, thanks to being a poor imitation of one himself.
I bite back a smile at the image of Alexander wearing a peacock plume, strutting around the forest floor.
“And it’s peafowl, Texas. Peacocks are male,” he adds and I shoot him a withering look.
“We have a long tradition of the monarchy caring for peafowl, much as the British royal family is responsible for the country’s swan population. The royal family, yourself included, ma’am, is responsible for their habitat, to check them periodically for injuries, and to conserve them,” Ralph explains.
“Who exactly in the royal family?” I ask.
