“I agree we should remain vigilant,” Father says. “But while we wait for the oracle’s next vision, we can still pray that Antoine is right, can’t we?”
“Of course, we can,” the PM concurs with a gentle smile.
The conversation shifts to lighter topics over the dessert, which consists of delicate pastries and bowls of velvety ice cream paired with fresh fruit.
The prime minister brushes crumbs from his hands. “A splendid meal!” He stands and bows to my parents. “Agathe, Thibault, thank you! As always, your hospitality is beyond compare!”
My parents thank him for the pleasure of his company.
After he’s gone, Mother turns to Marie-Louise and Celeste. “Would you care to see my newest variety of rose on the east side of the château? It’s quite a sight!”
“We would love to,” Marie-Louise replies.
Celeste hesitates briefly, her eyes flicking to me. I pretend not to notice. She joins my mother and hers. Father asks for more coffee, settles deeper into his chair and unfolds his newspaper.
I head inside, starved for a moment alone.
CHAPTER FORTY
ANTOINE
Iclose the door to my office and walk to my desk, where a stack of unopened letters awaits me. My laptop hums faintly. I put the letters aside and scroll through my unanswered emails. But concentration eludes me. My gaze wanders to the framed map of Mount Evor hanging on the wall. It’s been in that exact spot since the late eighteenth century. The ornate design pulls me in, as it often does.
Business can wait a minute.
I get up and walk over to the map. Without touching the glass, I trace the borders of my tiny country which could cease to exist in less than six months. The towns and villages would remain, of course. The counties would disappear. Our laws, our traditions, our way of life would go, along with security and prosperity.
Our royal family would join the ranks of other deposed sovereigns. There’s a bunch of them in the world, overthrown by more or less bloody revolutions, be they religious or communist. The House of Valois-Montevor could be brought down after a thousand years of uninterrupted and irreproachable rule.
And by what?By the ire and greed of a single man aided by a ring of shady acolytes.
That ring has corrupted nearly every royal family in the world, breaking the ancient covenant between the aristocracy and the common people—dominion for protection. Perverted by Kurt’s cabal, the rulers have thrown their subjects to the wolves.
How many nations still have peers driven by a sense of duty?
How many still remember that we must re-earn our privilege, hereditary though it may be, with each new generation?
Hmm…I think I can count them on the fingers… of a single hand.
As I stare at the map behind the glass, my gaze shifts to my own reflection, staring back at me.
What was it Mother said?Same thing as always—the perfect son, responsible, considerate, not a moment’s trouble…
Unflattering, but true.
Funnily enough, if there’s one point where Laura and I intersect, it’s this. She’s lived her whole life weighed down by her family’s expectations. And yet, in her low-key, nonassertive way, she’s fought back. She dates bohemian men. She designs and makes costume jewelry in her spare time. Hell, she even married a total stranger on reality TV!
One could argue that most of her cures are worse than the disease. She could certainly push back in a smarter way. But, at least she’s resisting.
What have I done to carve out a little freedom for myself?
What are my needs and wants that don’t align with those of my family or my country?
With shock, I realize I’d never considered I might have them.
I step away from the map, and my eyes fall on the delicate porcelain vase that stands on the Louis XV side table. Both are family heirlooms, but the vase is especially precious. We used to have two—a matched pair—until the day we didn’t. Theseventeenth-century masterpieces were given to my ancestors by a reigning prince. Grandmother Mathilde took great pride in them.
My chest tightens as a memory resurfaces, unbidden but vivid. I’m nine years old, back in the grand salon of our château, with its gilded mirrors and heavy velvet drapes. Henri’s five. His laughter echoes around the room, high-pitched and wild, as he darts among the antique furniture. I do my best to calm him down, to steer him away from the priceless objects crowding the space. But it’s like trying to control a tornado.
