AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I press my lips together to stifle a smile, and most definitely don’t look down my nose at her, royal or otherwise. “You’ll be pleased to know that The Games do not involve rugby.”
“What are they then?”
“Traditional games, such as archery, steeple chase, and log throwing, but also less usual sports such as cheese rolling and wife racing.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Did you really just say ‘wife racing’? That cannot be a thing.”
“It most certainly is a thing.”
“Tell me it’s not men telling their wives to race against one another, because that would be a seriously sexist throwback to…to old-ee world-ee times.”
My lips curve into a smile. “Old-ee world-ee times?”
She frowns. “You know that I mean. Old fashioned. From a long time ago.”
“When we all lived in caves and hadn’t even heard of the wheel?”
I’m teasing her to lighten the mood, and by the quirk of her lips, it looks like it may be working, but then she shakes her head as though she’s annoyed with me for doing just that. “You know what I mean.”
“It's a lot of fun, actually. Men carry their wives in a running race. The first to cross the line, wins.”
She blinks at me in disbelief. “That’s insane, you know that?”
“It's actually a traditional game played in northern countries, such as Finland, adopted here many centuries ago when a Finnish prince married into the royal family. Don't tell me you don’t want to see your grandfather carrying your grandmother over his shoulder, firefighter style?”
Despite her best efforts not to laugh, she lets out a giggle and it ends in a snort. Her hand flies to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle it, her eyes wide.
God forbid she allow herself to laugh at one of my jokes.
“I thought so,” I reply with satisfaction.
“Won't they get a break for being super old or something?”
“You'll have to wait and see.”
“Did they compete last year?”
“They did not.”
“So, they won’t this year, either.”
“If you say so.”
We climb the incline of the Grand Walk under the dappled shade of the trees lining each edge.
“Does your family compete in the wife race?” she asks.
“My father is adept at carrying my mother, who I can’t say loves the sport.”
“Who can blame her? It’s not exactly dignified for the wives.”
“It’s just a bit of fun, although my father does get rather competitive at these events. I only just managed to beat him in the cheese rolling last year, and he was not happy.”
The way in which he glared at me, red faced as I briefly celebrated my win has stuck in my mind. Father is not adept at losing—particularly to his son and heir it would seem.
“You'll have to tell me what cheese rolling is now, Alexander.”
The fact she's actually used my name is a giant leap forward.
