Chapter Nineteen
“Sinking the yacht was actually my fault,” I tell the coast guard staff at their station on Paxos. They’ve separated us for some questioning, and I’m sitting in a windowless, small office. We’re in a single-story yellow building with a terra cotta roof right on the waterfront. Which, in this back room, is a distant memory. “I accidentally bumped into the wheel and set us off course and into the reef.”
“Your fault?” a man asks me in English from across the table.
I nod decisively, my hands flat on the tabletop. “Yes. It’s not Stefanos’ fault, no matter what he says. I distracted him, and I accidentally bumped the controls. Therefore, because he was distracted by me, he didn’t see the reef in time.”
He writes down notes on a pad of paper, then peers at me again. “And you’re Prince Theodor of Denmark.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And what was your destination today?”
“Just a day trip to Paxos and back to Kerkyra. We had left Paxos and were on the way back.”
“And you avoided the reef on the way in.”
“Yes. I was, er, less distracting then.”
“And what was the distraction?” he asks archly.
My face reddens. There’s no way I’m confessing the current behind-the-scenes drama underway within the Danish monarchy, which clearly is riveting, if the sunken yacht is any proof. Obviously, it’s top-tier insider royalty information and caught Stef’s attention like nothing else. “A conversation.”
“A conversation,” he echoes, skeptical. His pen remains poised over the paper. “What was so distracting that the operator couldn’t continue with his duties?”
“It’s… complicated. It has to do with royals. I don’t think I can say more than that.” I’m not about to tell this man I’ll be the direct heir to the Danish throne once Freja officially abdicates, which could happen at any moment. Or tell him that I was about to kiss Prince Stefanos. A very closeted Prince Stefanos.
I rub my face with my hands.
“Royal secrets?” he asks.
“Yes. Very royal. Very secret.” I cough slightly.
He writes this down too. At least, that’s what I think he’s writing. After looking at the page for a long moment, he studies me hard. As if he can look inside my soul with X-ray vision to find out what truly happened. And then I wonder if they have lie detector tests in Greece and if they’re legal here and if they’ve ever done one on a prince before. Or if they’re about to start now. “And you’re taking responsibility for this situation?”
“In so much I caused the accident, yes.”
He underlines something written in bold Greek script, nods, and rises. “You are free to leave.”
“Wait. That’s it?” I look at him, startled. I was about ready for him to take me to open waters and threaten to make me walk the plank.
“For now.”
They already have my contact details and a copy of my ID from earlier. I get to my feet, too, and go to the front door to wait for Stefanos. I fidget with the zip of my borrowed anorak from him. Before long, Stefanos appears too, looking weary as we step outside the front door of the coast guard building. I force myself to keep my hands at my sides. To not reach out to smooth the worry from his face.
“We have a private charter to take us back to Kerkyra,” Stefanos tells me, downcast. “And I called my father.”
I give him a wry look. I’ve already called Miles to fill him in. “How did that go?”
“The good news is I’m not disowned. Yet.” Stefanos winces. He shakes his head. There’s a weight in him I haven’t seen before the yacht sinking. From what I know about Stef, he’s so careful and thoughtful at all times, unlike some of the rest of us. “Anyway, he’s glad we’re safe.”
We head out into the afternoon, down the promenade, where we find our charter boat. Before long, we’re underway, and Stefanos is withdrawn into himself despite a couple of attempts to engage him in conversation. In his seat, he’s huddled in the cool air, arms folded tight across his chest. The captain, a gruff man, also says little, and we listen to Greek talk radio, which is entirely lost on me.
When we reach Kerkyra, my shoulders ease as if I’m returning home. It feels like we’ve been gone for a week instead of the day. We’re both starving, since our picnic is now lost somewhere on the sea floor for future archaeologists, and aside from the tea the coast guard gave us, we haven’t had anything to eat.
We leave the marina for Stefano’s flat, and when we walk through the door, that’s when exhaustion truly takes over, and the reality of the day hits me. We could have drowned. Or been injured. Or any number of things.
Stefanos has already set to work in the kitchen, pulling food out for us like a conjurer, having made extra earlier. A man with foresight. I’m never that organized, especially not about food.
