be photographed meeting people. We’ll sleep in B&B’s.”
“So I’ll get to see the country.”
“Yes.”
Cool. This might not be so bad. Liam gave me back my camera, so I can take pictures and send them back home. Even if I never write an article about my time here, maybe he’d consent to a travel essay.
I have to use this time for something.
“Shit.”
I blanche as I scroll through my list of emails. The painful call I made to my parents this morning repeats in my head over and over. They sounded very upset, but they said they understood.
They’ll never forgive me for getting married and not inviting them.
When I get out of this, I’ll explain everything. They might not get it now, but they will.
“What’s going to happen when you take over the throne? How are we going to explain this?”
I watch the countryside roll past his head through the window. He lifts his shoulders into a shrug.
“Dunno. Maybe I’ll have a parade of strippers march through the palace. I was thinking of getting some of those little people and making some kind of show.”
I seethe at him. A little-people show? “You are a walking PR nightmare.”
“What? They did it on Game of Thrones!”
Then he smiles, and I know he’s fucking with me.
“Then he chokes to death because he’s a miserable bastard.”
“When I’m king, I won’t make the same mistakes as Joffrey.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Stealing will be punishable by ten lashes, not twenty.”
My eyes widen at the serious look on his face, until it cracks with a grin again.
The green plains roll past my window as we drive out of the bustling capital into what seems like for a Californian, miles and miles of fields and little hamlets. It’s a beautiful country. We pass a town with castle ruins from the twelfth century, and then I see a sign for Avenbaum.
“Oh!”
“What is it?”
“Nothing, it’s just, I wanted to go there. It was part of my trip.”
“Whatever the fuck for? There’s nothing there.”
“Ruins, Liam. Some people like historical-heritage sites. Other people deface them with porn.”
“I told you that my picture adds to that piece, and I will stand by that in court.”
Good luck with that, buddy.
He leans forward, rapping on the partition before opening it. “Take the exit to Avenbaum. My wife would like to see the Ruins of Mars.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Liam slams the partition shut and sits back.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
The car takes the exit, and we turn right onto a narrow road that looks wide enough for only one car. There are fields beside us with bright yellow flowers, and the sky is a muddy gray. Light rain sprinkles the glass. Somehow the dreariness of the sky doesn’t overshadow the vivid colors of the plants and flowers. There’s a sign with a drawing of the ruins, and we head in its direction. We drive up a steep hill, the tires crunching on gravel as Liam gives me long-suffering looks.
“Look, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I roll my eyes at him. Of course he would find the ruins unimpressive. He’s lived in a castle his whole life.
The driver parks the car, and Liam gets out without preamble, waving off his security. The parking lot is small, only big enough for a dozen or so cars. Only half the spaces are filled.
The chilly air blows into the car as the door opens and Liam helps me out. I would get out myself, but apparently princesses are never supposed to do anything themselves. Our security opens an umbrella and holds it over our heads. I can’t describe how incredible awkward it is to have someone else literally do everything for you, like silent but very helpful ghosts. They never talk to us unless asked a direct question, because we’re royal.
The parking lot leads to a small hill that overlooks miles and miles of Anglefell countryside. White dots that I realize are sheep move over the green landscape. Sitting on the hill is a giant tower, the only remnants of some sort of hold. There’s a line to get inside, and I fall into place behind the last person.
Liam lets out a laugh. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing? Getting in line.”
“Daisy, don’t be stupid. We can cut to the front of the queue.”
“No! I’m not going to do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s rude. If you did this anywhere else, you’d get your throat cut.”