Page 4 of The Girl Beneath the Sea

“When the time comes, my family will guide me.”

“Again, and breathe after ‘comes.’ The pause is the charm.”

“When the time comes” — I breathe — “my family will guide me.”

“Good.”

“Has it?” I ask. “Come — the time?”

“You will be told when there is something to tell, Highness.”

He picks up his overcoat, signaling that he has approved my outfit and checked I am ready. “The advance cars went to the studio at five, so the convoy runs light tonight. Havel follows you in the second car — the network has cameras ready for your arrival and they want a clean shot. You step out alone, you wave, eight seconds, you go in. Yes?”

“Yes.”

Havel touches his earpiece. “Cars are up.”

We go down in the service elevator, Havel and I, and out along a corridor, past security holding the fire door and staring at their shoes. Royalty comes in through the back of everything. The front is for the pictures.

Havel hands me into my coat at the dock door and looks me over once, top to bottom, the professional pass. “Long day, Highness. Sleep on the way back. We’re flying early tomorrow.”

The car at the dock is not our usual sedan — that went ahead with the advance team. This one is longer but it still has black, diplomatic plates.

Havel leans in and checks the interior first. Dome light, floor, seat pockets, the water bottle in the door. Then he stands aside for me. The privacy screen is up between me and the driver as it always is.

“Second car’s right behind you, Highness. Seven minutes to the studio.” He shuts my door and taps the roof twice, and we pull out into the rain.

The driver is a gray shape on the far side of the privacy screen, hands on the wheel. The interior smells of new leather.

For the first few minutes everything is what it should be. I watch the escort’s taillights ahead of us, red smears in the wet.

I see people waiting at crossings under umbrellas with their phones out — not for me; nobody knows this car. I watch a woman laugh, alone, under the awning of a flower shop, and wonder what was in her headphones. This is as close as I get to anyone.

I have brought cue cards with me, even though I have already memorized them. I don’t want to think about the consequences if I hesitate or pause at the wrong place.

I work through the cards again while the city slides past. I mouth the answers to the window.

The slopes open in November. Or so I am told.

The village on Lake Monteverra is so pretty at night. I have never seen it.

The train over the mountains has the best coffee I have ever tasted. I hope it’s good coffee. It’d be awful to be caught in a lie.

It will work though. The Americans I have met on this tour love the idea of us — a kingdom the size of a county, snow on the castles, a prince with good manners.

The rain draws lines across the glass and the lines go orange at every streetlight.

I look up from the cards because the car is slowing.

The buildings out there are low, dark and grubby. I see plywood where a storefront’s glass used to be. Next to it, a man sits in a doorway under a blanket and watches our headlights pass.

I frown. Is this right?

I turn and look through the rear window and see rain and an empty street. The second car is not there.

Ahead, past the driver’s shoulder, there is no escort either. It is just this car now, traveling at an easy, law-abiding speed.

Detours happen. In Boston they took us twenty minutes around a march.