Vattenguldia.”
Her pink tinged lips thin considerably. “That is not even remotely funny.”
For all her royal aspirations, sovereign is most definitely not one of my sister’s most cherished wishes. “Honestly, Isabelle. What do you think happened? We spoke. He was surprisingly decent, but if you’re asking if it was love at first sight, I am not sorry to disappoint. That aside, I believe I’ve found myself a new friend to wade through the week’s trenches with.”
It’s not exactly a lie, but I am relieved she does not press me for a name, or realize I am now referring to a different man. How awkward would it be to admit I’m on friendly terms with her future husband? Or, worse yet, making plans to hang out with him in the dead of night?
“I overheard Father on the phone with Mother last night. Mathieu is definitely their target for you, Elsa.”
Fantastic. “He seems as enthused by the prospect as I am.”
She says quietly, bitterness crisping the edges of each of her words, “As we all are. His Serene Highness introduced me to a virtual Neanderthal last night.”
I nearly trip on the stairs at such a description. Prince Charming was anything less than charming? Impossible. His too-ness would never allow it.
Isabelle continues, “He is quite good looking, even if he dresses like a panhandler.”
At first, I’m startled. Christian, a panhandler? But then I realize my sister has switched subjects and is once more referring to Mathieu . . . who still does not resemble what she’s insinuating. “Have you actually ever seen one? Mat is a far cry from that. If anything, he is a hipster. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is secretly a music snob.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “Also, he was wearing a tuxedo last night. How many panhandlers do you think dress in couture?”
She counters with, “It was velvet. And he was wearing tennis shoes.”
I literally clutch the pearls around my neck. “Let us take him out back and put him down before it’s too late.”
She is quiet for a long moment. “The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland plays tennis.”
I clutch the pearls tighter. “Shite, Isabelle! What is this world coming to?” And then, as her mouth turns down, “Please tell me you did not discuss sports last night.”
Or at least any that my highly opinionated sister does not approve of, which are all but those dealing with equines.
Dark, curling hair is smoothed behind her ears. “We also spoke of horses.”
I have never been more pleased to not be part of a conversation before. And it delights me to know Christian must like horses, because at least now there’s something to disapprove of. Horses smell. I am a failure of a princess to believe that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless. “Somehow you got onto tennis after talking about horses?”
Her voice drops to a disapproving whisper, soft yet grating against the staircase we descend. “He mentioned he played ice hockey. It’s as I said. That man is a Neanderthal.”
And he cooks warm milk and offers unsuspecting princesses éclairs in the dead of night. Is he trying out for Man of the Year? Bloody Prince Charming. How did she not fall prey to his charms? Neanderthal, indeed. “Why are you whispering?”
Her nostrils flare. “What if those aren’t his real teeth?”
I don’t bother informing her I initially wondered if they were capped, too.
According to the welcome packet received upon arrival, morning meals at the Castle are served buffet style in a large dining room that resembles a medieval monastery that found itself in the middle of an American ranch. A long wooden table and antique padded chairs and benches line the bulk of the richly decorated room, the seats filled with chatting royals. Music from the 1930s discreetly pipes through hidden speakers, and as I take it and all the flags lining the ornate ceiling in, I marvel at how time travel is so perfectly desirable here in this house and utterly
Her pink tinged lips thin considerably. “That is not even remotely funny.”
For all her royal aspirations, sovereign is most definitely not one of my sister’s most cherished wishes. “Honestly, Isabelle. What do you think happened? We spoke. He was surprisingly decent, but if you’re asking if it was love at first sight, I am not sorry to disappoint. That aside, I believe I’ve found myself a new friend to wade through the week’s trenches with.”
It’s not exactly a lie, but I am relieved she does not press me for a name, or realize I am now referring to a different man. How awkward would it be to admit I’m on friendly terms with her future husband? Or, worse yet, making plans to hang out with him in the dead of night?
“I overheard Father on the phone with Mother last night. Mathieu is definitely their target for you, Elsa.”
Fantastic. “He seems as enthused by the prospect as I am.”
She says quietly, bitterness crisping the edges of each of her words, “As we all are. His Serene Highness introduced me to a virtual Neanderthal last night.”
I nearly trip on the stairs at such a description. Prince Charming was anything less than charming? Impossible. His too-ness would never allow it.
Isabelle continues, “He is quite good looking, even if he dresses like a panhandler.”
At first, I’m startled. Christian, a panhandler? But then I realize my sister has switched subjects and is once more referring to Mathieu . . . who still does not resemble what she’s insinuating. “Have you actually ever seen one? Mat is a far cry from that. If anything, he is a hipster. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is secretly a music snob.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “Also, he was wearing a tuxedo last night. How many panhandlers do you think dress in couture?”
She counters with, “It was velvet. And he was wearing tennis shoes.”
I literally clutch the pearls around my neck. “Let us take him out back and put him down before it’s too late.”
She is quiet for a long moment. “The Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland plays tennis.”
I clutch the pearls tighter. “Shite, Isabelle! What is this world coming to?” And then, as her mouth turns down, “Please tell me you did not discuss sports last night.”
Or at least any that my highly opinionated sister does not approve of, which are all but those dealing with equines.
Dark, curling hair is smoothed behind her ears. “We also spoke of horses.”
I have never been more pleased to not be part of a conversation before. And it delights me to know Christian must like horses, because at least now there’s something to disapprove of. Horses smell. I am a failure of a princess to believe that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless. “Somehow you got onto tennis after talking about horses?”
Her voice drops to a disapproving whisper, soft yet grating against the staircase we descend. “He mentioned he played ice hockey. It’s as I said. That man is a Neanderthal.”
And he cooks warm milk and offers unsuspecting princesses éclairs in the dead of night. Is he trying out for Man of the Year? Bloody Prince Charming. How did she not fall prey to his charms? Neanderthal, indeed. “Why are you whispering?”
Her nostrils flare. “What if those aren’t his real teeth?”
I don’t bother informing her I initially wondered if they were capped, too.
According to the welcome packet received upon arrival, morning meals at the Castle are served buffet style in a large dining room that resembles a medieval monastery that found itself in the middle of an American ranch. A long wooden table and antique padded chairs and benches line the bulk of the richly decorated room, the seats filled with chatting royals. Music from the 1930s discreetly pipes through hidden speakers, and as I take it and all the flags lining the ornate ceiling in, I marvel at how time travel is so perfectly desirable here in this house and utterly
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