Not that I own any.
“Don’t worry about that!” Max waves off my concern. “I’m sure the maids have prepared a few gownsfor you. If you don’t like them, you can borrow one from my sister, Gigi. She’s about your size.”
As we approach an intricate cast-iron gate, a group of men in furry black hats and red uniforms marches out.
“Changing of the royal guard,” Max explains, following my gaze.
“Cute,” I say.
I know it’s not the appropriate word, but I don’t have a better one. My manners are likely just as unfit. Let’s face it, I’m not an appropriate person for this world. Yet Max brought me here.
Why, I wonder?
As a reward for helping him find the key? A delayed teenage rebellion against his folks? Or because he likes me well enough to want me to meet them?
Forget that last hypothesis right away, Lucie!Stick with the rebellion theory. It’s much more plausible.
And safer for your heart.
24
LUCIE
While Max works, I admire him. I mean, I admire the vintage Bugatti that Max and his team are restoring. They treat it with the kind of care and tenderness one would reserve for one’s lover. I’m not exaggerating. They’re in love with that car. It’s quite sweet.
To me, cars have always been just a means of transportation, nothing more. But I must admit that this black-and-cream two-seater breaks the rule. It truly is a thing of beauty.
“Let me show you something,” Max says. He wipes his hands, pulls out his phone, and finds a picture to show me. The old car in it looks like it could be the same make as the one in front of us, but surely?—
“Yep,” he says, beaming with pride. “That’s the state she was in when I bought her.”
“The previous owner was a negligent, illiterate moron to treat her the way he did.” Hans, a Bugatti enthusiast on Max’s team, shakes his head. “Unbelievable!”
“Ettore Bugatti, if he were still alive, would’ve neversold a car of his to a man like that,” says Paolo, another teammate of Max’s.
I cock my head. “Are you saying he cherry-picked his customers?”
“He certainly did.” Max grins. “He loved selling his cars to royalty. He was rather snobbish that way.”
Paolo chimes in, “When a customer complained that his Type 55 was a capricious starter in cold weather, Bugatti said to him, ‘Monsieur, surely, if you could afford this car, you can also afford a heated garage.’”
The men laugh.
I roll my eyes.
“Hey,” Max says. “This anecdote is more about how much Bugatti loved the cars he made than about how arrogant he could be. Which he was, too, there’s no denying that.”
I give his comment some thought. “Mom feels that way about the fans she makes. If she could afford to select her customers based on how well they’d take care of her creations, I’m sure she would.”
“See?”
I hang around the garage for a little longer, before waving goodbye to everyone and retreating into the palace.
It’s been a week since I got here. In the course of that week, I’ve met most of the royals. Gigi and I hit it off right away. Max’s ducal cousins have been a little more distant but friendly, nonetheless. The parental generation has been even more distant but benevolent, especially the uptight Princess Felicia, Max’s mom. I’ve heard people call her “the oracle,” and I’m assuming it’s her nickname within the royal family.
The reason why the royals and other Evorians I met call me “Key to the Key” is still unclear to me. The code name sounds like I was predestined to help them retrievethe key that Gran found in the fan handle. It’s the first one in a set of nine, all lost over the centuries. From what I gather, those keys will somehow help them save Mount Evor. I’m not sure from what.
That’s all I’m allowed to know on the subject with my level of clearance.
