I take a breath, my lips taut. “If I were to consider this arranged marriage, I would want it to be on my terms.”
If he’s surprised, he hides it well. “What terms would they be?”
“First, Astrid must know this is a business arrangement between our two families for mutual benefit.”
His lips quirk. “How romantic. I’m sure she’ll leap at the opportunity.”
“Father,” I warn.
“Continue.”
“We each have achievable goals. Ours is to revive whatever the public thinks we’re missing, even though Francesca is practically a miniature version of Princess Astrid.”
“Francesca’s behavior is challenging at times. Princess Astrid, being older, may be less… unpredictable,” Father says.
“Do you call spontaneously dancing in front of children predictable?”
“I would call it charming. But please continue.”
“Our goal is to avoid a referendum. Theirs is financial stability. I assume we’ll offer some financialcompensation?”
“A trade deal. We need their wool and they need our money.”
“I don't want the country to know that this is arranged. I want it clear that this ismydecision, mine and Astrid’s. Not something we were pushed into.”
“Understandable. But son, you do realize that means appearing as though you’re marrying for love.”
I tighten my jaw. “I do. But I don’t want to play-act. We’ll appear as we naturally are. I’ll be me, she’ll be her, and we’ll make it work. No pretence.”
“No pretence,” he repeats. “Very well, son.” He rises to his feet and we shake hands. “You know, your mother and I didn’t know one another well when we were married.”
“Yes, but you share values. You work.”
“We love each other,” he says simply. “But that took time. You may well fall in love with Princess Astrid.”
I harrumph at the very thought. Me? Love Princess Astrid? That could never happen. We’re too different.
But I can’t ignore the twinge in my chest at the thought.
“Never say never, eh, son?” Father says as he claps his hand on my back.
But I know. This is a business arrangement, nothing more, and that’s the way it will remain.
Chapter Two
Astrid
Cradlingthe clucking chicken in my arms, I stroke its soft feathers as she looks up at me with her little chicken eyes. “Technically, I don’t think you’re meant to name palace chickens after historical figures,” I begin, as the group of eight-year-olds watch me in wonder. “But I do think this particular chicken has earned it today. What do you think?”
The children agree, some of them giggling as the chicken’sbock-bockingin the coop around usescalates.
“So, who are we going to name this adorable chicken after?” I ask, holding the chicken aloft and peering into her eyes, as though she might give me naming inspiration.
“What about King Theodore after the King?” suggests Eric, a boy with blond, bowl-cut hair and the greenest eyes I’ve seen all day.
“That’s a fine idea to name the chicken after my father, Eric, but the problem is this chicken is a female. Maybe we should call herTheodora. That’s the female version of Theodore, you see.”
Several of the children nod their agreement.
