“Besides, you couldn’t divorce him,” Dieter said, trying to use logic because she thought terrible things about him. “You’re Catholic now.”
“Yeah,” Flicka said, rolling her crystal-green eyes. “Sure, I’m Catholic.”
Dieter glanced down at the papers strewn over the table. “You converted to marry Pierre. It was all over the place.”
“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
“You were married at the Basilica Sacre-Coeur. It’s a Catholic church. They’re funny about that.”
“Were you raised Catholic?” she asked him, her head tilted.
“I’m not much of anything.” Dieter knew he had not answered the question she had asked.
Flicka fidgeted in her chair, pulling her laptop out of her big bag beside her chair. “Well, before the wedding, there was much finagling between our lawyers and Pierre’s lawyers and the Vatican. Eventually, the lawyers and priests decided that a little baptizing would be fine, just in case the baptism I had before didn’t take. You know, the one when I was a few weeks old, the one where my parents, godparents, and the bishop of the Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Hannover signed the baptismal certificate and then stood for pictures? Yes, just in case that one was less than satisfactory. After the Pope poured a little holy water on the back of my neck, I was able to take their communion and marry the Catholic prince.”
“That’s lucky,” Dieter said.
“Pierre loves me.” Flicka frowned with her eyes staring at the ceiling, almost like she was trying to convince herself. “He wanted to marry me. He and the Monegasque lawyers put a hell of a lot of pressure on the Pope and the Vatican. He’s pretty much the last anointed Catholic monarch. They have to negotiate with him, at least.”
Dieter said, “It was a good thing for Pierre that the Pope was so accommodating.”
Flicka winced. “I think, if the Pope hadn’t come up with this neat little solution, that Pierre would have wanted to get married anyway, even if it meant giving up his place in the line of succession to the throne. He was so adamant about marrying me despite the Vatican’s objections. He was practically rabid at one of the later meetings, demanding a solution. He understood that I didn’t want to go through the formal conversion process because I feel properly Christian and the Hannover church is very important in our family. It’s one of the fonts of power, you know. The Hannover church anointed the Hannover kings and princes in Germany. There’s a theory that, if I stopped being Lutheran, I would stop being a princess of Hannover, and Pierre would never want that to happen.”
Dieter nodded. “Wulf told me about the bishop flying in and the church you found. He was happy about it. Even relieved.”
“Pierre thought it would be too much of a spectacle if I converted. He likes publicity for Monaco but not spectacles. He never confuses fame with notoriety. He’s perfect in that regard.”
Dieter looked over the ocean outside the porthole window, choosing his words carefully because Pierre Grimaldi was incredibly notorious for many things. “That’s an admirable quality.”
“So, I get to feel like I’m still Lutheran, and the Lutheran church thinks I’m still a von Hannover, but Monaco gets to think that I’m Catholic enough to marry their prince. It all worked out.”
“It’s great that it all worked out.”
“Yes, I think so, too.” She opened her computer as a cabin steward pulled the door closed. They sat at the rear table for most of the flight, working quietly and occasionally telling each other important details about the location or security.
Dieter knew exactly why she had explained these details of her wedding and marriage to him, to remind him that she was married and wanted nothing else to do with him.
He understood. He respected that.
Dieter would behave with utmost decorum while they worked together on the wedding.
Even if his heart ached the whole time because he had walked away from the love of his life.
When Gretchen had walked away from Dieter, he had been upset for Alina and their plans, but it was different. He knew it was different.
Calling Georgie
Flicka von Hannover
It was a silly thing to say,
but sometimes,
princesses can be passive-aggressive.
Flicka sat in the back seat of an SUV being driven by Luca Wyss, one of Wulf’sWelfenlegionsecurity people,through the tidy streets of Montreux, Switzerland.
The comforting Swiss sun glowed through the car window, glaring off her phone screen and dazzling her eyes, but it felt so much better than that nuclear bomb in the Southwestern US sky. For the first few miles outside of Geneva, she’d rolled down the window and let the summer air wash over her, blowing back her hair, and inhaled the cool breeze from the lake that smelled like water and home.
