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‘Epikanas,’ she repeated.
‘Good.’ He nodded his approval and the smile that spread across his face warmed her from the inside out. ‘You pronounced that perfectly. You will have a language tutor to help you learn how to speak our language.’ He sat back in his seat and she told herself she was glad. The plane moved lower, bumping a little as it pushed through some turbulence. ‘Epikanas is the main island—my palace is there, my government centre, the main business hub, our largest city. It is where we will live, most of the time.’
She nodded distractedly, turning in her seat to face him, then wishing she hadn’t when sh
e found him watching her intently. She skidded her eyes away again, to the seat across the aisle. It had been put into full recline, forming a bed, and Leo was fast asleep, sprawled lengthways.
She watched him sleep and her heart clenched because she knew, risky though this was for her, she was doing the right thing for Leo. If there was any way she could give her son the security of a family, she was going to do it. Her eyes swept shut for a moment as the single memory she possessed of her birth mother filtered to the top of her mind. It was vague. An impression of a faded yellow armchair, sunlight streaming in through a window, curtains blowing in the slight breeze, and the sound of tapping. Her mother had lifted her, hugged her, smelling like lemons and soap.
Then the memory was gone again, like the parents who hadn’t wanted her. No matter how hard she tried to catch it, to unpick it and see more of her early childhood, there was nothing.
Determination fired through her spine.
Leo would never feel like she had; he’d never know that sting of rejection. He’d never know the burden of that loss. Unknowingly, she tilted her chin in a gesture of defiance, her eyes glinting with determination. For her son, she would make this work.
‘This,’ he said, as if following the direction of her thoughts, ‘that we are flying over now is Port Kalamathi,’ he said. ‘The island used to be an important stronghold in our naval operations. Now, it is home to the best school in Tolmirós. It is here that Leo will go, when he is old enough.’
She looked out of her window at the island that was just a swirling mix of green and turquoise. In the centre there were buildings—ancient-looking, with lots of gardens and lawns. She supposed that, so far as schools went, the location was excellent. But wasn’t it too far from the palace?
She gnawed on her lower lip and pushed that question aside. Their son was two years old: they could cross that bridge when they came to it. It would be years away. She had more immediate concerns to address.
‘What happens next?’ she asked, sitting back in her seat, clasping her hands in her lap in a gesture that she hoped made her look calm and confident.
He nodded, apparently relieved she was prepared to discuss things rationally. ‘My security has kept the press away from the airport. Usually there are photographers on hand when my plane comes in,’ he said.
‘But not now?’
‘No, not now.’ He stared into her eyes and her mouth was drier than the Arizona desert. ‘Now, there will be just my drivers and security personnel.’
‘Do you have security personnel with you often?’
‘Always,’ he agreed.
‘You didn’t that weekend.’
‘That weekend, I was still a prince.’ His look was one of self-derision. ‘I was still a boy, running from my destiny.’
She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘You said your uncle was King until you turned thirty?’
‘Not King, no.’ He shook his head. ‘Ancient rules govern the line of succession. My uncle was a prosorinós. A sort of caretaker for the throne.’
‘What if you’d died too?’ she asked, and then heat flushed her face as she realised how insensitive the question sounded.
He didn’t seem to mind though. He considered it carefully. ‘Then, yes, my uncle would have been King.’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘I’m sure I heard once that the legal guardian of an heir couldn’t assume that heir’s title—lest self-interest lead them to murderous deeds.’
He arched a brow. ‘True. And it is the same in Tolmirós. My uncle was not my legal guardian. In fact, I was prevented from seeing him more than once or twice a year during that time.’
She absorbed these words, turning them over in her mind before saying with a small frown, ‘But he was your only surviving family? No cousins? Aunt?’
‘No. He never married.’ His expression shifted.
‘And you didn’t get to see him?’
He shrugged, as though it barely mattered. ‘It is the way it had to be.’
She was inwardly appalled. ‘Then who raised you?’
