“Who’s on the board?”
“The president of the French Republic, the presidentof the senate, the minister of the interior, and the curator of the Louvre.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Not the minister of culture?”
“They used to, but not anymore.”
“Why?”
“By the time it took to complete their initiation, they were usually fired or resigned.”
“And the Grimaldis of Monaco?”
“They aren’t on the board, but they know about Mount Evor. All royal families, heads of state, and top diplomats do.”
“That’s a lot of people.” I scratch the back of my head. “How can one possibly keep a country hidden with so many people aware of its existence?”
“With lots of sticks and carrots, dissuasion, and incentives. It’s worked fine so far.”
“And the key that we retrieved? What’s it for?”
He gives me an enigmatic smile like a Cheshire cat. “That, my dear, you’ll find out later, from a more official source and in more official circumstances.”
“Who’s more official than a prince?”
“Uncle Rich.”
“Huh?”
“The monarch,” he says. “The reigning prince of Mount Evor, Richard IX.”
I form a silent, but very deferential, O with my lips.
“Look, over there!” he exclaims.
I gaze in the direction he’s pointing. A tip of a castle grows bigger with every coil of the spiraling road. As we approach, more of it comes into view.
“Meet Château des Neiges,” Max says.
The château is enormous, and very medieval. Its multiple towers with cone-shaped slate roofs jutting into the blue of skies are a hymn to virility. Its walls look manymeters thick. It’s rougher, more forbidding than its fairy-tale name would suggest.
The fortress has pillars, turrets and tall, narrow windows. The stones are gray and of varying size and irregular shape. There’s an ancient-looking moat between us and the castle, its water stroking the grassy banks on one side and the stone walls on the other.
We cross a drawbridge and enter an odd little town where old stones and baroque fountains are interspersed with top-notch futuristic skyscrapers. I’ve never seen so many cool cars in one place. Not even in Deauville.
Then again, Deauville may claim to be France’s most chic town, but it isn’t a royal seat.
“Welcome to Pombrio!” Anders says, grinning in the rearview mirror.
He drives through a lively shopping area until we reach a stately plaza, which he circles slowly.
Max describes various buildings flanking it. “Over there are the royal stables… That’s the keep… The north tower is where you go for the best views over Pombrio and the surrounding area… Across from it is the royal chapel.”
Anders points out a tailed blue-and-white flag flying over one of the towers. “Prince Richard is in residence.”
“We’ll go to my apartments in the South Wing first, so we can rest, get some refreshments, and change,” Max says. “The dinner will be served at eight in the Da Vinci Salon. But before, around seven, we’ll head to the Gold Salon, so you can meet my family in a more relaxed atmosphere, over an aperitif.”
I nod, smiling feebly, a little dazed by the sudden formality of it all. “I haven’t packed any gowns…”
