I hold my phone aloft. "Okay if I film?"
"Be my guest."
I pan the camera around, capturing both the room and his bored expression. "What can you tell me about this room?"
He manages a smile for the camera. "This is where the king and queen knight people and hand out honors."
"And who is that?" I ask, looking up at an oil painting of a woman in elaborate period dress.
I expect him to at least name his ancestor, maybe eventhrow in an interesting tidbit. Instead, he simply shrugs. "No idea."
I almost drop my phone. "You don't know which of your ancestors this woman is?"
Without glancing at the painting again, he replies, "Queen Bertha. Shall we move on?"
"You just made that up, didn't you? There's no Queen Bertha."
His dark brown eyes sparkle with mirth. "Queen Bertha happens to be my favorite of all the Ledonian queens," he deadpans, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Now that you mention it, I do remember a Queen Bertha. 1574 to 1599, if I'm not mistaken. She forged the first friendly relationship with Malveaux."
Yep, I'm making it up.
Sue me.
He narrows those sparkling eyes at me before he harrumphs, dismissing my fabricated story without bothering with actual words.
“Shall we move on to the Blue Drawing Room?” Without waiting for my reply, he strides away toward another set of double doors, and once again, I trail after him. He pulls the double doors open, and we step into another resplendent room, this one living up to its moniker of the Blue Drawing Room. It’s decorated entirely in a deep, royal blue, which of course is thoroughly fitting, considering its name. The rugs on the floor are silk Persians, the wallpaper is blue with gold detailing. Just as the throne room had large windows overlooking the gardens, so too does this room, each window framed by—you guessed it—blue drapes.
“When was this room last decorated?” I ask, my phone trained on him.
“I believe it was sometime in the late 19th century.”
“Do you know that, or does it come from your vault where you keep facts on Queen Bertha?” My smile is all teeth and zero warmth, more of a challenge than anything genuine.
A muscle leaps in his jaw.
This is fun. Dangerous, but fun.
I’m meant to be showing deference to this man simply because of his birth, but he’s so irritating, it’s hard not to want to get one up on him. And really, the look on his face of being one-upped by a lowly journalist is one I’m sure will keep me warm as I fall asleep on my plush royal bed tonight.
Of course, I don't mention that I remember this room. I remember hiding behind that very sofa during a formal reception. I watched the adults in their finery while my nanny searched frantically for me, probably wondering how one small child could vanish.
But Fabiana Fontaine is seeing it for the very first time, so I ask, “What happens in this room?”
“It's another reception room used for official visits and functions. I've been thoroughly bored in this room on many occasions. When I was a child, that is.”
“Fascinating,” I reply. I pan to the incredible ceiling molding, remembering how I hid behind that sofa and gazed up at it, getting lost in the story it told. “The ceiling molding is absolutely exquisite.”
Max looks up. “Yes, it's very...molding-y.”
I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. “Molding-y. Is that the technical term?”
He shrugs, looking as bored as he claimed he once was as a child in this room. “How would I know? I’m not an architect.”
The prince glances at his watch with all the subtlety of a person trapped in an elevator with someone they despise.I suppose this is our equivalent. We’re trapped in a monstrously large palace together with nothing but our sarcasm and mutual dislike to keep us warm.
We move through the state dining room, with its impressively long dining table that seats sixty, and I take some more video and photos, even managing to capture Max smiling.
