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“Ah, theTimesis asking for a comment on the palace’s purchase of Frost Bay Beverages.”
I pause the fork full of eggs halfway to my mouth. “Come again?”
“It seems theTimesran a story about the purchase and another story about prince and princess’s sabbatical from royal duties.”
My fork clatters against the wall before I realize I’ve thrown it as I leap to my feet.
“What in the name of the gods are you blathering about, boy?”
Franc clears his throat. “Apologies, Your Majesty. It’s just that we need to release a statement.TheTimes,The Daily Gravenlandian— all outlets are already three stories deep on this.”
Where is my wife? “Hilda!”
Franc flinches, and I motion to him to hand over the tablet he’s holding.
The top headline on theTimeswebsite reads, “Royal couple’s statement casts doubts on the stability of their marriage.”
“What in the bloody hell?” I grit out.
Accompanying the article is yet another photo of my son and his new wife crossing the grounds of the Royal Museum, pretending to look somber as they leave the wake of someone they’re pretending to mourn for. I’ve never heard of any of those people. Etienne has no friends that I’m aware of.
It’s as if the media can’t get enough of the photos of my son all of a sudden.
The article reads: “The newly married couple released a statement overnight, hinting that perhaps their marriage is already on the rocks. Some have speculated as much due to the abrupt end to their honeymoon, and this statement gives a peek inside the life of a troubled prince and his new bride.
“The prince and princess have requested a six-month leave of their royal duties as they enter counseling together.
“Whether that be marital counseling, one can only guess. Sources close to the royal family have suggested that given the prince’s affinity for parties, the princess may have him on lockdown until he sorts himself out.
“No doubt an accomplished professional as the princess would be unwilling to tolerate a husband constantly chasing skirts, as well as chasing the bottom of a bottle. One wonders whether Ms. St. Rain’s decision to sell her family’s business to the royal family precipitated this self-quarantine or the reverse.”
Rage suffuses my being, and I toss the tablet across the room. It shatters against the stone wall.
“Otto!”
The shocked voice behind me can only be one person. My wife.
I turn toward her, expecting a row, but all I see on her face is worry, which makes me feel worse.
“Let me help,” she says, addressing Rolf, who is already cleaning up the glass. She brushes past me, lovingly patting my arm.
I’m hardly deserving of such grace.
“Your Majesty, please do not approach. I’ve got to fetch gloves and do not wish you to cut yourself. God knows what they put in these things…”
Turning back to me, I see now she’s clutching a piece of parchment. Franc looks like he wants to crawl under a rock. “Otto. Let’s not read the news about this. Let’s you and I sit down and read the statement ourselves and not put any speculation on it. Alright?”
Grudgingly, I let my wife take my arm and guide me into the throne room at the far end of the hall. The throne room is where we do our best thinking and strategizing.
She waits until I’m seated, then smooths out the sheet of parchment on her lap.
Before I hear her read the words, though, I snatch the paper away from her. “I assume you’ve already read it.”
“Yes, I was bringing it to you to read, but unfortunately, the media got to you first.”
“I’m not a baby,” I insist.
“No. Just read the statement and try to forget what you’ve read.”
