The Royal Treatment. MaryJanice Davidson
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“Her eyes are kinda more blue than green, but everything else is spot-on.”
“And is she as obnoxious in person as she appears over this phone?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Very well, escort her to the west gate and I will meet her there.”
“Right away, sir.”
Edmund clicked off and reholstered his phone.
“Who was that?” David asked. He forgot to let go of the smelt and one of the kings pecked him. He barely felt it.
“Oh, just someone your father met today,” Edmund said airily. “It’s of no concern to you, Highness.”
“Fine, be that way. You’d better get moving. It’ll take you at least twenty minutes to walk to the west gate from here.”
“Sir, I have told you a billion times not to exaggerate. It will take no more than twelve.” Edmund bowed slightly. “If I have your leave, Your Highness…?”
“Like you need it,” David grumbled, and waved him off.
Christina Krabbe, he thought after Edmund left. Weird name.
Nice voice, though.
Chapter 4
From The Queen of the Edge of the World, by Edmund Dante III, © 2089, Harper Zebra and Schuster Publications.
To my grandfather, Edmund Dante I, fell the task of teaching the future queen manners, deportment, and all areas of appropriate behavior for a royal. Subsequently, Dante would have known of the king’s enthusiasm and would have known, in fact, before Queen Christina herself, the role she was destined to play. So it’s likely the entire tone of their relationship was set by their first meeting.
Unfortunately, there are no historical records of such a meeting, so we are forced to speculate what these two strong-willed individuals made of each other….
The sergeant—who’d become perfectly nice once she’d gotten the okay from what’s-his-face, screeched to a halt in front of a truly gargantuan door. She climbed out of the golf cart and turned to thank Kenner for the ride, only to see him check his watch, nod, and zoom off.
Well. Sink or swim around here. That was just fine by her.
She raised her fist—she figured if she stood on tiptoe she could almost reach the middle of the door—when it suddenly swung open and she was eyeball-to-collarbone with one of the tallest, thinnest men she’d ever seen.
He had jet-black hair, a widow’s peak, and eyes so dark she couldn’t tell where his pupils began. He was dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, black tie, and was deeply tanned. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five.
“Gaaaaaahhhh!”
“Green,” the incredibly scary-looking man said, looking her over. “Not blue.”
She put a hand on her chest to slow her now-galloping pulse. “Wh—what?”
“Good evening, ma’am. Edmund Dante.”
She shook his hand. His grip was firm and dry. It was like shaking hands with a plank of wood. “Is every guy in this country over six feet tall?”
“Yes, ma’am, every single one of us. If you’ll follow me?”
“Where are we going?”
“Your quarters, ma’am.”
“Oh. Super. And it’s Christina, not ma’am.”
After six hallways, an elevator ride, and four doors, she was standing in a small suite of rooms.
“Oh…man!”
“I trust these will be acceptable?”
“Day-amn!”
“Very well, then.”
She flung herself toward the bed, twisted in midair, and disappeared in a billow of down comforters. “Oh, I could get used to this!”
What’s-his-name’s face appeared above her. This was slightly less startling than the first time. “If you have need of anything,” he told her, “just pick up the phone. Tomorrow’s luncheon is at one.”
“Gotta sing for my supper, huh? Well, fair’s fair.”
“Would you like to meet Prince David before then?”
“Why?”
“Oh, perfect.”
“What?”
“Nothing, ma’am. It’s the dry air in here.” He hack-hacked into a closed fist. “It makes me hoarse. I’ll attend to it immediately. Good evening.”
“’Bye.”
He left, moving like a tall, tanned ghost, and she climbed out of the downy bed—took a while!—and prowled the suite.
Cream walls with gold trim. A zillion windows. A bathroom, a room just for hanging out in, a bedroom. Big windows—bigger than her!—that looked out to an emerald green lawn roughly the size of New York’s Central Park. Four phones!
She picked up a receiver, just for the fun of it, and instead of a dial tone heard a cheerful female voice say, “Yes, Miss Krabbe?”
“It’s ‘Krabbe’,” she said, startled. “The ‘e’ is silent. And, uh, nothing. ’Bye.”
She hung up and kicked off her shoes, then flung herself onto the amazingly plush bed again.
Gotta find the catch. There’s gotta be one.
Before she could figure it out, she fell asleep.
“Did you see her?” the king demanded.
“Fine, Your Majesty, and you?”
“Cut that out, Edmund, you harpy. What did you think?”
“A most…” He chose his words carefully. “…charismatic young lady.”
“D’you think David will like her?”
“I—”
“She’s just what he needs. She’s tough, she’s cuter than hell, and she’s a no-nonsense kind of gal. She yelled at me when she found out who I was. Usually people just sort of…” King Alexander made a vague gesture.
“Scuttle out of the reach of your mighty wrath?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Your Majesty, since you did ask my opinion—and as your servant I am most grateful for this rare opportunity to air my views—”
“Spit it out, Edmund.”
“—can the prince not choose his own wife?”
“Well, what the hell’s he waiting for?” The king jumped up from his seat by the fireplace and paced the room in his agitation. “He’s going to be thirty this year and he’s not even looking. Hell, he’s not even dating. That Yank magazine—People, is it? He’s made their Most Eligible Bachelor issue since he was drinking age, so don’t tell me he couldn’t get a date if he wanted to. And you’ve heard him, all this ‘as long as she’s healthy and wants kids’ bullshit—”
“But that’s understandable. Does His Majesty not wish the succession to—”
The king waved that away. “No, no, no.”
“No?” Edmund teased.
“Jeez, I’ve got five kids—one of ’em’s bound to get knocked up, or knock someone up. If David doesn’t have kids, Alex’s kids can run the country, or the other Alex’s, or Kathryn’s, or—”
“I