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“When?”
Should I be ashamed? She’s looking at me as if I should be sorry for speaking the truth to our son. I promised my wife I would never spill the beans to the public—after all, I have my own demons she could leak to the media. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use that fact as a bargaining chip with a non-compliant heir.
“I may have used that information to incentivize the marriage between Etienne and Kala.”
“Otto!” She looks as white as a sheet now.
“Don’t worry, dear heart. I would never tell on you to anyone but him. But to answer your question, I told him that if he wanted to stay in my good graces—if he wished the palace to continue supporting him—he’d better fall in line, settle down, and get married. He was to be the future king, after all.”
“Wasto be the future king? What on earth do you mean by that?”
“I can’t very well step down and hand the crown over to a mentally ill bastard son, now can I?”
The queen walks away from me, her hands wringing. “I have to go speak to Torben. Perhaps he can help us untangle this mess you’ve caused.”
I think about it, then nod gravely, schooling my face to be serious. “Yes. Go and speak to Torben. You’re right.”
As she scurries away, I sigh in relief. “Keep yourself occupied with your favorite son, my dear. I’ll be here plotting the next move.”
38
Etienne
The next few days are strangely quiet.
When Kala and I hear nothing from the palace, we relax.
Windewall Cottage and the grounds lie approximately five miles up the coast from Arenhammer, where the highway narrows to a winding, two-lane road hugging a craggy coastline. It’s one of several cottages owned by the palace and has been designated as our residence until I ascend to the throne.
It’s a simple, rustic place, but well protected from the prying lenses of the paparazzi, with a neglected fruit orchard and several acres of thick woods. An ancient stone wall meanders around the entire oblong circumference.
I settle into a routine with my wife. Routines and daily rituals were never my thing, but now I find the constancy soothing.
In the morning, we practice yoga in the garden. It’s laughable—I’ve never done it before, and while the poses look simple, they are deceptively challenging—and embarrassing to someone with as little body awareness as myself.
Then my wife and I quibble when she pushes fruit onto my plate at breakfast. I find it revolting at first, but by day three, I’ve accepted my fate as a husband who gets up, does yoga, and eats fruit daily. We work out a lighthearted bargain on day one: if I eat the fruit, I also get to tasteherin our post-breakfast shower. I don’t tell her that by day three, I don’t mind the fruit. However, I think she’s on to me. And anyway, judging by the noises she makes when I lick into her honeyed cunt, I’d say she’s getting the better end of the deal.
After breakfast and our morning “shower,” I meet with a therapist.
Dr. Brahms is apparently the best, and Kala refuses to tell me how much she’s paying him.
Yet another thing I have to get used to is trusting someone to know what’s best for me until I’m in a better place, mentally.
While I’m having my sessions with Dr. Brahms, Kala busies herself by working remotely—both for the Human Rights Council, reviewing grant applications, and as our full-time publicist.
I never expected us to receive so many phone calls about our situation. Calls, emails, and texts poured in immediately after we announced my treatment plan. And not just from the media here in Gravenland. Every mental health podcast and vlog on the globe is in our inbox.
For now, we’ve crafted one response to these requests: no interviews until our self-imposed isolation is over.
Once I’m finished with therapy, we lunch on the terrace with meals prepped by the chef afforded me as a member of the royals. Each night, our personal chef arrives to cook dinner, then prepares lunch for the next day. If he is dissatisfied with the whole foods that Kala prescribes, he doesn’t say a word about it.
As for me, I’m coming around to her way of thinking. I miss the pastries at the palace, but I do feel better now that I’m eating more vegetables. Staying sober seems to help as well.
Our afternoons are spent hiking along the craggy cliffs, or slipping into the woods. Kala has set up a bird-watching area in the garden, and I’ve been working on trimming back the mess in the orchard, ripping out and replanting trees, herbs, and ornamental flowers. Every corner of this dusty, damp old cottage is getting a deep cleaning, and worn-out, impractical furniture is replaced by more comfortable pieces.
Hour by hour, it seems, Windewall Cottage is transforming into a place I can call home.
“Are you sure you only want to isolate for six months?” I ask my wife one afternoon as we lounge on a blanket on the grass. My head is in her lap, and my hands rest on my belly, now full of chicken and grape salad sandwiches. “I’ve gained six pounds already. If you insist I keep eating food instead of drinking, I will be the size of Henry VIII by the time they crown me king.”
