Page 9 of The Harvest Homecoming

“And as for the comment about knowing how women are, it reeked of misogyny and old-fashioned thinking. Women are quite capable of hearing unpleasant things. Take your overreaction to a tiny joke made after a rather humiliating experience. I, for one, think Harold showed great aplomb, given his chin was coated with sheep dung. Furthermore, if you speak about my sex again with such disregard, I will not only bar you from sitting beside me at breakfast, I will bar you from your monthly visit to my bedchamber.”

My mouth fell open slightly as did Frode’s. Papa gaped. Mama rose from her seat, picked up her glasses, and strode off with her head held high.

“What is taking over this family?” Papa asked of no one before stamping off to sulk.

I glanced over at Frode. “Well, let it never be said that our mother is a pushover.”

“We’ve known that for years,” he replied and started cracking open his coddled egg. “Seems Papa has forgotten again.”

As they say, the king moves one square, but the queen holds the power.

Chapter Seven

Over the next week, my social media was filled with quaint.

Shots of me doing all manner of homespun Östermonian things with the good folk of our island nation. I’d learned how to make noodles at a small factory on the eastern coast. The day after, I spent it on a fishing boat being tossed about like a penny in a dryer as we netted cod, sole, and some lovely flounder, which was fed to me that night in a small pub on the coast. Dance lessons with small children who were impressed that I knew the steps to many folk dances. We worked with a goat herder to milk goats, split logs, and on a sunny Friday afternoon, we helped make apple cider. We meaning myself, Houghton, Vetra, and Rani.

The lady Alva was not doing well of late. We all suspected she might be in the family way, as her upsets were always at breakfast, but by dinner she was fine. None said a word, though, as she and Ivar had lost one pregnancy a year ago, so we were all quiet as church mice but incredibly hopeful. They’d make fine parents, and so badly wished for a little one.

Rani had managed to maintain a respectable distance and demeanor while out on these pre-festival outings. It drove me mad. Sometimes he would seem to soften just a bit like when we were all dancing Björntramp, a folk dance about stomping like a bear, with Swedish children from a pretty Church of Sweden hub on the outskirts of the capital. We’d stomped and growled, kicked up our heels, and laughed wildly. His dark eyes had been filled with mirth for a short time. Even when he’d taken my hand for a spin or two, he’d grace me with a smile. Then the dance ended, and so did his openness.

Still, I’d seen glimmers. Now I just needed to get the man alone for ten damn minutes to make a heartfelt apology and enquire if I had a chance to win him back. That was proving to be nigh impossible, as he and Vetra were always hustling me along or pushing me in front of a camera or phone to be filmed or photographed.

Today was a crisp fall day. A Saturday that was to be spent on a farm—surprising not really—that bred and raised draught horses and pumpkins. The horses would be coming to the festival to pull wagons out of town to make a long circular trip into the farmlands and then back. The pumpkins were also coming to town, along with all the goods and animals we’d been meeting, to be judged at the weeklong fair that would wrap up the fall festival.

The excursion today was to pick pumpkins with the press and load them into a wagon pulled by a massive brown horse with flaxen tails and manes. Belgian Draughts, to be precise, the breeder had informed us on our tour of his horse barn. Massive beasts they were, easily eighteen hands high and weighing in at over a ton. Far cries from the sleek and speedy Argentine Polo Ponies I rode when I played the game on occasion.

Thankfully, the Belgians were gentle giants. They stood placidly in their harnesses while we trudged through a vast pumpkin patch and listened to a farmer explain what pumpkin varieties he raised and which made for the best carvers. The Halloween traditions were relatively new to Östermon but had caught on quickly, especially for the children and teenagers. During the pumpkin talk, the farmer got a call from his wife, which pulled him back to the house.

“Okay, let’s take a break,” Vetra announced to the meager press that had come out for this meet and greet. The number of media had dwindled over the week. Probably because I’d not been drunk, naked, or crashing race cars into fountains. It was fine with me. The less people the better, as the crush of being filmed doing the most mundane things was getting to me. “I’m heading back to the SUV to change my shoes and see if I can pick up a better signal. Rani, can you hang back and get a few shots of him admiring the biggest pumpkin out in the field? Oh, and see if you can get something from him about what he plans to dress up as this Halloween? Members of the press, come with me!” They followed along like lost ducks in search of a stronger signal to send their images and notes.

“He is standing right here,” I reminded her as she picked her way through a field of vines and bright orange squash. Was a pumpkin a squash? I’d have to look that up.

Houghton lingered at the front of the wagon, petting the horses as he admired anything that stood taller than he did. Not many things did. I glanced over to see Rani holding a little white pumpkin while wearing a look of complete loss.

“Are you taking that one home?” I asked to make conversation before hoisting myself up to sit on the back of the wagon holding about twenty huge pumpkins as well as a dozen smaller ghost pumpkins. “Or are you trying to hide from me behind it? If so, you need a bigger pumpkin.” The confusion left his face, only to be replaced with irritation. Just for a moment, then it melted into that blasé expression I’d seen all week. The one that irked me terribly. I heaved a sigh. “You are allowed to be mad at me, Rani. You fully deserve to be. I treated you miserably when we were together.”

“I have to see a man about a horse,” Houghton said, even though he stood next to two horses. “Just over there by the fence.”

He moved off about a hundred feet, leaned on a stout wooden post, and crossed his arms as I began to swing my feet back and forth. Close but far enough away to give us some privacy. Rani stamped over with his tiny pumpkin to get into my face, something I welcomed as it showed some emotion. The automaton man act was beyond old.

“Why did you say that so loudly in front of Houghton?! No one was supposed to know we were in a relationship. I could be fired for sleeping with you!”

He looked like he wanted to bean me with his pumpkin. “No one is going to get fired because we were lovers before you were even on the staff. And let’s be honest, I’m sure there are royals sleeping with members of their staff every day on this planet. The only one who would raise an eyebrow would be my father.”

“The king! Your father is the king.”

“I’m aware of his title.” His nostrils flared. It was very sexy. “Rani, we’re not living in the fourteenth century. You’re not going to be pilloried for sucking my dick. Nor would you be fired if anyone found out we were involved then or if we decided to rekindle.”

“Rekindle?! Are you daft?!”

“I do love how you’re picking up so much of Great Britain. It’s very appealing.”

“If you weren’t a prince—” He gave his pumpkin a squeeze.

“No, see, that is what I don’t want you to do. Stop acting like I’m a prince and start acting like I’m a man who tucked his tail and ran when you told him you loved him. Be angry, be furious. Rage, yell, chuck a pumpkin, tell me what you feel about me and my behavior. We’ll never get past that shitty mistake if we don’t discuss it.”

He rolled his lips over his teeth and exhaled loudly. “Who wants to get past it?”