Page 33 of Royal Secret

COURTNEY

There’s more to see in the museum — rooms upon rooms. But there’s only one topic that interests me now.

My grandmother’s story. My family’s story.

My gaze drifts across the gilded frames, each one a frozen moment in time, capturing smiles and grandeur now long faded. A black-and-white photograph catches my attention, its edges worn but the faces within it unmistakable. There’s my grandmother, Anna, a young girl with eyes full of mischief, playing tag with a boy about her age.

I recognize her right away, thanks to her photos back home. While she didn’t bring a lot to America, there were a few photos of her from childhood in her small collection.

“Your grandmother had quite the childhood, didn’t she?” Jakob’s voice is gentle beside me, but I barely register it.

“Is that…?” My words trail off as I lean closer, studying the image. Beneath the photo, a caption reads:Anna Jäger and Prince Rolph enjoying summer days at the Royal Palace.

“Prince Rolph?” I ask.

“My grandfather. He lives outside the city, at his own house. He never had much of an interest in royal life, and retired young. I suspect he would choose to have not been born noble, given the option.”

I nod, unsure of what to say. I’m still dazed by everything I’ve found out, and I suspect there’s more around the corner.

I turn to Jakob, noticing the hopeful glint in his eyes — he wants this to be the answer to all my questions, the key that unlocks my family’s past. But the heavy velvet ropes separating us from the displays feel like barriers around my heart. I thought I was prepared to uncover secrets — but this?

“Are you all right?” Jakob’s brow furrows with concern.

I muster a half-smile, feeling disconnected. “It’s just a lot to process. I knew she kept secrets, but… a noble?”

The word feels foreign on my tongue, an ill-fitting title for the woman who taught me to make apple pies and bandaged my scraped knees. A woman who worked as a maid and then a teacher before spending her retirement in a tiny ranch house. A woman who volunteered weekends at her tiny Texas food pantry.

“Let’s take a break, shall we?” Jakob suggests.

“Sure,” I agree, my heart heavy with a sadness I can’t quite explain. It’s as if with every new discovery, the grandmother I knew slips further away, replaced by this stranger in sepia tones.

As we walk through the corridors, passing by other families immortalized in oil paints and marble, I wonder what it would have been like to grow up in Bergovia, surrounded by thissplendor. Would I have been happy? Or would I always have felt the burden of social responsibilities I never asked to take on?

We thank the tour guide for her time, and Jakob leads me out of the museum and into the warm afternoon. “Fancy a walk?” he asks.

I nod. “That sounds good.” I don’t want to go back to my hotel just yet. Don’t want to sit alone in that room with all of this information swirling around me, making me seasick.

“Here,” he says, guiding me into a bookstore that has a café in the back of it. Its windows are adorned with hanging plants, and the soft strumming of a guitar flows from the speakers. It’s nearly empty, save for an elderly couple sipping tea by the window and a young man lost in the pages of a book.

We slip behind a curtain into a secluded corner. The world outside fades away, and it’s just Jakob and me in this quiet sanctuary.

“Are you hungry?” Jakob asks, his voice gentle.

I shake my head, trying to smile. “No, thank you. Just some tea would be lovely.”

He orders from a passing waiter, then turns his attention back to me, his blue eyes searching mine. “Courtney, about your family…”

I brace myself, wrapping my arms around my torso as if holding myself together.

“Your grandmother’s parents… they were quite influential and vocal in their beliefs,” he begins, his tone careful. “They stood against the royal family on a critical political matter. It wasabout the future of Bergovia, the direction the country should take.”

My hands clench into fists beneath the table. I can almost picture them — my great-grandparents — standing tall and proud, unafraid to voice their convictions. I know next to nothing about them, but if they were anything like my grandmother, they did not back down easily when they believed in something.

The waiter sets down a pot of tea and, perhaps noticing the tension between me and Jakob, scurries away.

“They didn’t cave, even when things got heated.” Jakob pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Eventually, the conflict reached boiling point, and, for their safety and the stability of the nation, they had to leave Bergovia. Your grandmother Anna was only fourteen at the time.”

Fourteen. The same age I was when I started high school, fretting over friendships and algebra tests, not exile and political strife.

---