“We are honored to have you in our little town, Your Royal Highness,” the woman says, dipping into a curtsy.
“I knew I should have worn the sunglasses,” I murmur to Fabiana, and she shakes her head, smiling.
I rise to my feet and shake hands with them both. “It's a pleasure to meet you. You have a fine café here, and we’re very hungry.”
“You’re in the right place, sir. I’m Domenico, and this is my wife, Margaux. She does the cooking,” the man says, and his wife beams proudly.
“It would be an honor to prepare food for you, sir. Whatever you want,” she says. Her eyes slide to Fabiana.
“This is my friend, Fabiana,” I say, and as my eyes alight on hers, something passes between us.
“Hello,” she says as she raises her hand in a wave.
“Any friend of the prince is a friend of ours,” Margaux replies, and her husband nods his agreement. She gestures at my sweater. “Is this a new trend in Villadorata?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
“What can I get you both?” she asks.
We place our order, and Domenico and Margaux leave.
“I’m your friend, am I?” she says, toying with a paper napkin.
“I had thought of introducing you as my former arch-nemesis, but that might have caused an uprising in my honor. I thought it safest to go with ‘friend’.”
She lets out a laugh. “It would have made a great story, though. ‘Small town rises up in the name of prince’.”
“Are you always thinking of your next story?”
She shrugs. “A girl’s gotta eat. It’s my job to find stories.”
The knitter from the table at the back approaches us and gives a stiff curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to have you in our small town, Your Royal Highness.”
“That’s kind of you,” I reply, once again rising to my feet to shake her hand. Soon, the men join us, and I make small talk with all of them, complimenting them on their town and bemoaning the fact it’s not a clear day for us to be able to take in all its beauty.
This is not my first rodeo.
As they leave and I sit back down at the table, Fabiana says, “You’re good with people, and it’s clear they like you.”
“Does that come as a surprise to you?”
“It makes me wonder whether I should make a run for it before they work out I’m the one who’s written those stories about you. My life may well be at risk here.”
I shift in myseat, the question I’ve wondered the answer to many times on my mind. “How do you learn about what I get up to? It’s not like you’re there, recording it all, and if you are, I need to learn your disguise skills to up my game.”
“A good journalist never shares their sources,” she replies without actually answering my question.
I may have held myself back from pressing her on her past, but this part of her life concerns me personally. “Seriously. How do you get your stories? Although I haven’t loved what you’ve had to say about me, you’re always factually right, even if you’re sometimes missing the nuance.”
She leans her elbows on the table. “Tell me, Max, what was the nuance I missed when you slid down the slide into that pond, dislodging a school of fish?”
She’s teasing me, but it’s as though she’s purposefully deflecting.
Domenico arrives with our food and coffee, interrupting our conversation, placing a bowl of bacon on the floor for Toffee, who instantly chomps it all down, looking for more.
Fabiana and I devour our food like we’re competing in an eating competition.
“Oh, my. This issogood,” Fabiana says as she takes the final bite of her croissant, crumbs clinging to her lips.
