“No’ in the least. I shall ne’er be without a story to tell again,” he chuckled.
“No,” said a red-haired girl who had found her voice and was advancing from the corner. “The prince’s pizza pie will be on me! I insist.”
As the argument ensued the prince backed away. When he reached the door, he said, “Thank you for your kindness. Allow me to invite you all to dinner in the Stirlin’ room. Monday night at eight.” He counted in the air. “Seven. How many would like to plus one?” Every one raised a hand. He smiled. “Very well. Fourteen it is. I’ll be leavin’ word at the front door.”
Duff raced upstairs. The smell was driving him crazy. Truthfully he’d never had a bite of pizza before in his entire life, but it was a day for new possibilities and celebrating the beauty of common things. He relocked every door on his way back to his room, opened a beer, and bit into a pepperoni, Italian sausage, mushroom, black olive and green pepper pizza. He hadn’t known what to order so he’d asked the girl who took the order for a suggestion. He groaned out loud. He had eaten in most Relaix Fontaineau restaurants in the world and couldn’t remember groaning out loud.
He was glad he’d ordered a large pizza and was already planning on getting another for dinner. He stuffed some currency into his pocket while he was thinking about it.
Sometime later he realized he wasn’t hearing rain anymore. He glanced at the windows and then at the clock. He’d gotten so lost in the mechanics of planning a future that he’d gone past his target time. No matter. Later was probably better.
The where had come to him with the simple random action of the turn of a globe on the way past. Canada was the world’s second largest country. If he and Song wore caps or wore their hair over their ears, with their coloring, in most places they could blend in.
Canadians spoke a version of the same language. It was cold. True. But they were both from the same latitude as the southern half of Canada so weather wasn’t the issue that it might be for some. Lots of beautiful, sparsely populated land. It might not be heaven, but close enough. Be it ruinous or fortuitous, he would let their future ride on the casual spin of the globe.
Duff had met the Canadian Prime Minister at a state dinner a few months before and, in all modesty, she had seemed taken with him. She’d made a point of remarking that, seeing him in person, she certainly understood why he’d been named World’s Sexiest Bachelor.
He knew her response to his request for sanctuary would depend on a variety of factors. The granting of political sanctuary would draw worldwide attention and Canada was not known for being at the center of mediating international affairs. It could cement the office on her behalf until she died or decided to resign. Or it could shorten her political career and become the entire character of her legacy. Much would depend on her mood and personal ambition, both of which could only be known by the Prime Minister herself.
He hoped his voice wouldn’t shake. It wouldn’t normally have occurred to him except that, when he lifted the phone, he noticed his hand was shaking a little. He had a lot riding on that one phone call.
After talking with three levels of bureaucrats, Duff was put through. “Madame Prime Minister.”
“Your Highness. To what do I owe the honor?”
“My mate and I want to be citizens of your beautiful country. We are formally requestin’ political asylum. We will no’ be a drain on public resources. We have the means to support ourselves.”
Fifteen minutes later, Duff had spelled out the issues and the need for asylum.
“If you can get here unaided, you’ll be granted asylum.”
She promised that their conversation would not be leaked until after Song and Duff were safe on Canadian soil. He said that he would confirm with her the exact date and place when they would arrive.
Step Two. Pick a GO DATE.
Materials needed: calendar.
There will never be a perfect time. Looking for a perfect time equals procrastination. Procrastination is the first step toward failure. Best chance of success. Pick a self-imposed, hard deadline.
He looked at the calendar. It was March third. His eyes drifted downward. March fifteenth caught his eye. His mouth twitched. No surprise why. March fifteen marked the end of boar season in Germany. It was one of his favorite things in the world. An area of the Black Forest was maintained as a nature preserve. Every spring they allowed a few dignitaries, on application, to hunt without modern weapons, during the very short season, to keep the population manageable.
Duff hadn’t been in two years. He looked up and laughed out loud. Perfect.
He grabbed his phone, ran through his contacts and tapped the screen. It rang.
“Here.”
“’Tis the crown callin’ for back taxes.”
“Duffy! You sod! Your old man’s bleedin’ me dry, I tell ye. So you can no’ be too poor to hire cute lassies to dun poor citizens out of their rightful earnin’s?”
“Cute lassies, you say? Have you seen Grieve?”
“’Tis damn hard to be you.”
“Aye. I’ve always said as much. Strange that ‘twould take a tax collection call to make you see.” The reply was good-natured laughter. “So would you happen to know what month ‘tis?”
“’Tis pig stickin’ month.”