“Can’t you tell?” Astrid replies, holding the thing up for all to see. “It’s a donkey who forgot she was a donkey and is now a rabbit with no ears.”
The children dissolve into laughter, and even I feel a reluctant smile tug at my lips.
We both try to perfect the art, but with minor success. Astrid manages something that looks more like a dog than anything else, but the children decide it resembles a caterpillar with big legs, which, frankly, is a fair assessment.
By the end of the balloon-animal-making exercise, I’ve relaxed at least a couple of notches, and I’m actually beginning to enjoy myself. That isn’t something I do very often on official visits, but with Astrid at my side, I feel lighter somehow, as though, for once, I’m not here as a prince, but simply as a person.
If that makes any sense at all.
I’ve barely noticed photographers clicking their cameras, capturing images of the two of us with the children, until a flash startles me. Instinctively, I stiffen, snapping immediately back into the formal pose I’ve perfected over the years.
But Astrid remains completely unaffected. She continues to parade her avant-garde balloon creations around the room, pretending they’re part of some kind of surrealist farm. The children are utterly engaged.
The rest of the hospital visit goes smoothly. I do my usual small talk with the people I meet, always aware thatAstrid is two steps above me on the humanity ladder, offering warm clasps of hands, even hugs when she senses someone needs one. People respond to her the way they respond to the Princess of Wales: with genuine warmth, pleasure, and delight.
All I can do is only watch her in awe, this beautiful woman who will be mine. This beautiful woman for whom I’ve begun to feel so much more than simple attraction.
There’s something about her that draws me in and holds me there—a kind of warmth that feels… well, it feels likehome. But not a home I’ve ever known before. A new kind of home, one in which I don’t have to perform. One in which I can simplybe.
In the car afterwards, we sit side by side in what feels like a less fraught, less charged atmosphere.
“You did very well in there,” I say, wishing I were capable of being more effusive.
“Thank you. I absolutely love visiting children. I love making them smile and giving them something bright in their days. They have so much to face, and they're all so young. It means something to me to give them even just an hour or two of my time."
“I could tell that you're very natural with them.”
She presses her lips together. “Is natural good in your books?”
“In this instance, it’s very good.”
Her features lift in surprise. “Is that a compliment?”
“It's an observation.”
An observation?Why do I have to be so uptight? Why can’t I simply tell her the truth: that she’s amazing, that I loved watching her with the children, that she had the effect on me of making me want to be more like her?
The car pulls into the hotel, a grand old buildingoverlooking the Mediterranean, and we're whisked to a suite on the top floor.
The concierge opens the door with a flourish. “Your suite, Your Royal Highnesses.”
“Thank you,” I say. I turn to Astrid. “I’ll see you for dinner?”
“Unless—” she trails off.
My breath hitches. “Unless what?”
She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it again. “Nothing.”
The porter looks between us with an odd expression. “These are both of your rooms, sir, ma’am.”
The hotel has us booked in the same suite?
Mild panic courses through me. “I understood we had separate rooms. We are not yet married, you understand.”
I sound as old-fashioned as my grandfather. He was a very traditional man with a thick moustache he liked to twirl while finding fault with my posture, my haircut, or whatever else offended him that day. He scared me, even if he was occasionally kind.
“In your suite there are two bedrooms, sir, and a common area,” the porter replies.
