“Only that the Crown confiscated the Midlands by claiming treason and sedition, utilizing the courts in their favor, and within fifty years, the Fickles were impoverished outcasts.Hamish has no idea he’s a descendent from the House of Blue, nor that the Midlands were a ducal given to his ancestor, nor that he is Lord Midlands.Their records were lost in a fire.”
“I need to speak with the king consort and the prime minister.”The furrows on Kate’s brow deepened as she raised her teacup.“I’ll be candid.I do not want Hamish Fickle in the House of Blue.He’s a menace.Not that we’ve been devoid of our own menaces in the past, but one cannot kick out a son or daughter.But inviting into the Family a man like the MP and his Renaissance Coalition—” She brushed her finger under her eye.“Who stirred up a mob that nearly killed my daughter?It would be the end of the House of Blue.Which I will not tolerate on my rein.”
“Maybe, but Kate, what if learning he’s a Blue will bring him to our side?”Scottie said.
“Or what if he uses it as fuel to further his cause?No, I cannot see it.World wars have been fought between royal relatives.I’ll not have war in my own land, in my own house.”Kate reached for her sweater and started for her room.“I’m exhausted and with this news.We’ll have to return to Port Fressa tomorrow or the day after.I’ll have to meet with the prime minister and the privy council.Please, pardon me.”
Scottie stood as the Queen of Lauchtenland left the room.“Michael, we wore her out.”
“She’ll be fine, Scottie.Let her rest and process.”
“What do you do when you find out your political enemy has the same blood in their veins as you?I didn’t think she’d have to return to Perrigwynn.”
“She can return the way she came—by Helo One.The flight is forty minutes.As for when your political enemy is your cousin?Well, I don’t recommend starting a war,” he said.
She smiled.“Speaking of…how was lunch with your mom?”
“Things went…well,” he said with single nod.“I took a page from your book.”
“What page would that be?”
“Forgiveness.We chose love over war.Anger, hate, resentment, all of that is so exhausting.”
Scottie zipped up her rucksack, leaving the painting of Wenthelen with Kate.“Do you think we did the right thing in telling her?”
“Why second-guess?We’ve told her.What’s done is done.”
* * *
Michael
Perrigwynn Palace
Port Fressa
Four days later, he gathered in the Audience Room of Her Majesty’s private apartment with an esteemed company of leaders.There was Prime Minister Elias Goodwill, Lord Andrew True, senior lord for the House of Lords, MP Julian Dalgaard, leader for the Commons, Antone Cross, senior member in the Cross family—known as Dad to Michael—Edric, king consort, Prince John, crown prince, various members of the privy council, the Solicitor General, the chiefs of the Lauchtenland Investigative Services and the Crown Investigation Bureau, Lady Royal and Her Majesty, and least of all, Michael Cross.
Yet he was in the thick of things.Not tucked in the corner, disappearing among the tapestries in his dark suit and tie, hearing but not listening.
After his initial delivery of the news to Her Majesty with Scottie, he returned to Wenthelen Chapel to blow the dust from the books on the highest shelves.It’d been a long two days, trekking up and down the mountain, renting a cottage by the outfitters—nothing like the day he’d been there with Scottie.
Without her, the chapel cellar was moody and dusty, and the flickering lamps were hot and devoid of any romance.The research was shoulder-aching work.
More than anything, there was no Emmanuel.No sense of wonder or purpose.Even the bread those days had been stale and the wine goblet nearly empty.
Now, the leaders of Lauchtenland had heard the story of the Fickles and were inspecting the proof.
“So these pamphlets were from the last Lord Midlands?”The queen, wearing a white glove, lifted the pages of the collected pamphlets, leaflets, and circulars produced by the duke asserting the rights of Lauchtens as citizens, not as subjects.She shifted her attention to Michael.
“Correct, ma’am.Beginning from 1770 until 1821.But we see in these letters”—he pointed to a collection of twine-bound woven paper with fragile and aged edges—“between Bane Fickle, King Louis the Fourth, and the Cross advisor about the royal rights of the Fickles.However, in these letters between the king and Isaiah Cross, His Majesty merely believed Bane was inspired by the American and French Revolutions.Or somehow inspired by the antics of Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.In the end, the king determined to wait him out.Giving in would be, in his words, ‘a chink in the royal Blue armor.’”
“You’ve read all the letters?”
“I have, ma’am.”More than once, mulling over every word, thinking through all possible conclusions.He’d been up late going over the details, unwilling to let anyone catch him out for missing something.
“So did the Lord Midlands from 17”—she glanced at an open pamphlet—“1770 want to dethrone the Blues or join them?”Her Majesty released a spiked sigh, her skin pale, her eyes tired.
Michael exchanged a knowing glance with Scottie.She’d warned him the queen had a rough go of it lately.Only this time, GBS was not the source of her trouble.Their visual glance lingered for an extra moment.Then she broke away, being interested in what his dad, Antone, was saying.
