“Don’t look at me, I’ve not been here since I was a girl. Well, to ski but we were at the lodge.” She pointed to her foot. “Broke my ankle the last time.”
“Yeah, I don’t ski either.” Hemstead sighed and glanced out the window. “I’ve been to six places in New Hamlet, but no one had seen him. Do you think he’d stay in the old part? Don’t see the appeal there.”
“Maybe.”
With a harrumph, Hemstead said good night, his heavy exit echoing in the foyer.
Closing the left side door, Daffy faced the ancient, hand-carved chair. “Beautiful.”
Her intrigue over this artifact was an unexplainable curiosity. The wedding gowns and other textiles made sense, but an old chair? Once she joined the Royal Trust, heard the older members wax on about the first time they’d seen the former royal throne—made by the first king of Lauchtenland, Titus, after conquering the Normans—she knew she was somehow destined to be a part of its historic preservation. She’d be a part of the team that made sure it survived for the next generation.
She knelt to inspect the thick, square legs that held up the broad seat with intricate carvings. The arms were flat and wide. The ends were smooth and round where royal hands had rested for centuries. The tall back flared at the top like wings, and a carved crown was attached to the top. The trees the king cut to fashion the structure had been extinct for three hundred years. And the upholstery fabric was a rich purple that experts in the RT could not duplicate.
“You’re still working?”
The unexpected question caused Daffy to rise up. Prince Gus stood just at the threshold.
“I saw a light from the library and came down to see theTitus.” She tucked her tablet under her arm. “Hemstead was looking for you.”
Gus closed the other door, finger to his lips. “Shhh. I’ve been to the pub.”
Indeed, he had.
“Apparently not the ones where he looked.”
“It’s my secret place. TheBelly of the Beast.” He wobbled from side to side. “But don’t tell.”
“How many pints did you down?”
“One.” He raised his chin and breathed deep. Brushed back his wavy locks.
“One? Plus…”
He held up one hand, fingers spread. Then two fingers, no three, on the other. “I think. Ernst kept talking while his sneaky little waitress filled my glass. One pint I said. Never thought they’d refill it seven”—he hiccupped—“eight times.”
“You should go to bed.”
“How mad was he?” The prince jammed his hands in his pockets as if to anchor himself. “Hemstead?”
“Six on a scale of ten.”
“I’ve been warned.” Gus saluted, then stepped toward the chair. “Hello, old Titus.”
“Have you seen it before, then?”
“Once. As a kid. I tried to sit in it. Mum came flying across the room, almost knocked over the American Ambassador, just as my trousers touched the seat. ‘Don’t sit down, Augustus. Don’t sit down.’” He swayed from side to side. “I’m talking too loud?”
“No, but you should sit down before you fall.”
Despite his current state, he was extraordinarily appealing, the look in his almond-shaped eyes a soft blue instead of the usual piercing hue. And he sported a fixed, saucy grin.
“Should I sit here?” Before she could answer, Gus plopped down in theTitusand slapped his hands on the broad arms. “Long live the House of Blue.” He sat back, crossing his legs, rubbing his hand over his beard as if he was about to make a royal decree when a soft crack snapped through the air.
“What was that?” Daffy said, stooping to see the leg joints.
“I’m not sure.” Gus wiggled in the chair side to side. “Do you still hear it?”
Daffy gasped, and for a moment, blacked out. Not really, but a crack in theTitus? Never was there a worthier blackout moment.
