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What was he thinking?
Why would he do these things?
I don’t know the answers, and right now, I can’t imagine him saying anything that would satisfy me. Make me feel safe again.
So, here I am. On my way to New Haven.
Yale.
We reach Yale after a few hours and only two (two!) more stops.
The campus is lined with trees, and inside, the buildings look like they are straight out of a gothic fairytale, with their bricks and their spears, but I barely have time to appreciate the beauty and the raw, intimidating architectural genius of it all. I am looking for a specific student, but this one, unlike Marco, I know exactly where to find. I have been given his full schedule by the palace, as well as his dorm location ‘in case I need anything’, because Connecticut is closer to UVM than Asteria is.
I check his schedule on my phone, and I walk to his class. Marco stays behind, giving me space. He’s still looking too pale, but we drove up the rest of the way without incident. And without speaking. Oh well. The sooner we get this over with, the better.
I wait outside the classroom the schedule says, and finally students start coming out. Thenhecomes out.
The guy I came here for.
Tall, dark, lean. ‘Devastatingly handsome,’ if you follow any young royals of Europe accounts on Instagram. Insanely clever, if you have grown up with him, like I have. Somehow, he looks even taller, if possible—I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the summer—and even though I don’t particularly like him, even I have to admit that he looks hot with that Yale sweater sculpted to his long, lean body, its color a stark contrast to his alabaster skin. That flop of hair.
That Greek nose, those piercing eyes.
A shudder runs through me.
Please, God, if You’re there, don’t let this be horrible.
It probably will be, though.
He catches my eye and stops in his tracks. His eyes bulge out, as if he’s seeing a nightmare. That’s me, I’m the nightmare.
Yep, horrible it is.
“What are—wh—” he stutters, ducking his head low, as if he’s scared his friends are going to see him talking to me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses.
Well, this is what I am doing here: I am asking questions.
“Is it you?” I ask him. “Are you my brother?”
/we the rotten royals/
The hate against King Mihail did not start from us.
We do not hate him.
We do not hate.
He is our father, after all, has the world missed the small detail?
What we hate is the lying. The hypocrisy. We, the Rotten Royals, being a product of these two things, happen to think that lies and hypocrisy are what is wrong with the world right now. In every shape, way or form.
And we, the Rotten Royals, are its form.
That is why we are fighting.
P.S. The king has yet to speak on the scandal or acknowledge our existence. Or apologize. Or accept responsibility for our mothers. How very royal of him. Just saying.
eight
