"So he doesn't want me here."
"I think he wants what's best for Valdoria.He just has a very specific definition of what that looks like."She paused."And that definition may not include an American princess who asks the kitchen staff for cooking tips."
Great.So I had a powerful enemy who thought I was unsuitable, a schedule designed to break me, and four days to become magically competent at centuries of royal activities.
No pressure.
"Is there any way to get the riding lesson back on the schedule?"I asked, trying not to sound too desperate."It's the one thing I'm actually making progress on."
Petra's expression softened with understanding."I can try to speak with the Grand Duchess.She overrules the Lord Chancellor on matters concerning your welfare."
"Would you?I know it seems silly, but..."I trailed off, not sure how to explain that Peter's lessons were the only time I felt like a person instead of a project.
"It's not silly," Petra said."Everyone needs something that makes them feel capable.Even princesses.Especially princesses who are trying to learn a lifetime of rules and regulations in less than a week."
After she left, I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling again.Four days until the wedding.Four days until I married Prince Archibald Falcieri of Solmarina, a man I'd never actually met.A man who might be kind or cruel, patient or demanding, compatible or completely wrong for me.
And here I was, more interested in seeing Peter tomorrow than in meeting my future husband.
What kind of terrible person did that make me?
I thought about what Peter had said about Prince Archibald.That he wasn't what I expected.That he cared about authenticity over perfection.That any man would be lucky to marry me.
The way he'd said it, with such certainty, like he actually knew...
My phone sat on the nightstand, and I stared at it for a long moment.It would be so easy.Just type in "Prince Archibald Falcieri of Solmarina" and see what came up.Find out what my future husband looked like, what the tabloids said about him, what kind of person I was supposedly marrying in four days.
My hand was halfway to the phone when I stopped myself.
No.I wasn't going to do this.
If I looked him up, he'd become real.He'd have a face and a history and opinions that people had written about, and I'd have to start thinking of him as an actual person I was going to marry instead of an abstract concept I was trying very hard not to think about.
Right now, Prince Archibald Falcieri existed in a box in my mind labeled "Deal With Later."As long as he stayed in that box, I could focus on surviving my lessons and enjoying my riding lessons and pretending that my life wasn't about to change in ways I couldn't control.
Besides, the marriage was only for six months.Half a year of diplomatic smiling and separate bedrooms, and then I'd be back in Oregon pretending none of this had ever happened.Did I really need to know what he looked like for that?We'd probably barely see each other.He'd be off doing princely things, I'd be hiding in whatever corner of the palace they stuck me in, and we'd interact only when cameras required it.
Out of sight, out of mind.That was the plan.
If I started researching him now, I'd start having expectations.And expectations led to disappointment, and disappointment led to caring, and caring led to getting hurt when the whole thing inevitably fell apart.
Better to stay in the dark.Better to meet him at the wedding like a stranger and keep him a stranger for the duration of our arrangement.Emotional distance was my friend here.
I pulled my hand back from the phone and shoved it under my pillow for good measure.
Peter's voice echoed in my head: He'd rather have someone authentic than someone perfect.
Well, Prince Archibald could have someone authentic from a safe emotional distance.That was the best I could offer.
I rolled over and tried not to think about the fact that I was more interested in seeing Peter tomorrow than in learning anything about the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
The temporary rest of my life, I corrected myself.Six months.That's all.
If I repeated it enough times, maybe I'd start believing it.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING STARTEDwith breakfast etiquette.
