Page 5 of Royal Secret

COURTNEY

“You sure you want to do this?” Ginny pauses before turning on the light in my grandma’s room.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I can’t sit around doing nothing.”

It’s only the day after my grandmother’s funeral, but with my time off from work, there’s little for me to do. Our friends have already cleaned the house from top to bottom, and the fridge is full of enough meals to last for weeks. I’ve tried sitting around, watching movies; tried going for walks. There’s always this empty ache in my chest, though, and the best way I can think of getting rid of it is by getting busy.

So here we are, about to go through my grandmother’s stuff. A part of me wants to never touch this room again, to just leave it exactly as it is until the house falls down around it. That’s not realistic, though, and at least I can take her clothes and donate them to the shelter.

Ginny turns the light on, and we step into the immaculate room. It’s still shocking to me that the woman who lived in this barebedroom had a huge sapphire necklace squirreled away. What’s more, how come she never told me about it?

“Where do you want to start?” Ginny asks.

“Her bedside tables.”

I pick up a well-worn paperback novel from the nightstand, its spine creased from countless reads, and place it gently into one of the cardboard boxes we brought along.

“Are you sure this is all she had?” Ginny asks, her voice echoing slightly in the nearly bare room.

I nod, dusting off my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, Grandma Anna was always a minimalist. Said she never needed much to be happy.”

Ginny lifts a delicate porcelain figurine from the dresser, examining it before wrapping it carefully in bubble wrap. “She had good taste, though. Everything feels so… curated.”

As we move methodically around the room, the task feels less like a chore and more like a final act of love — a way to honor the memories held within these walls. Ginny pauses by the closet, pulling out a few hangers with clothes that smell faintly of lavender and nostalgia.

“Did she leave you anything special?” Ginny’s eyes meet mine, curious and sympathetic.

I hesitate for a moment, the void of loss still so painful in my chest. “Actually, yes.”

I walk over to the bed and reach under the pillow, retrieving the object that’s been on my mind all day. I kept it in here last nightbecause it felt strange to have it in my own room. Keeping it in here felt like a kind of homage to my grandma.

I can feel Ginny’s gaze on me as I unwrap the cloth to reveal the necklace inside. The sapphire pendant catches the light, sending tiny blue reflections dancing across the walls.

“Wow, that’s stunning,” she breathes, leaning closer.

“I didn’t even know she had it,” I say, the cool gemstone slipping between my fingers. “I don’t know anything about it, but… there’s a story behind it.”

“A story?” Ginny’s interest is piqued, her love for a good mystery written all over her face.

“Grandma never talked much about her past, but she left me this, so it had to be special for her, you know? But what does it… could it have to do with her old home…?” My words trail off as I look at the sapphire, wondering about the untold tales it might hold.

“Old home? You mean Bergovia?”

“Yeah, that’s the place. But she never elaborated. And now…” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Now I guess I’ll never know.”

“Or maybe you will,” Ginny says softly, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

I allow myself a small smile, finding comfort in her optimism.

Putting the necklace away, I reach for a battered shoebox tucked in the corner of the closet, dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight as I pull it into my lap. Ginny sits cross-legged on the carpet beside me, her eyes curious and attentive.

“Let’s see what’s in here,” I murmur, as I ease the lid off the box.

Inside, the past spills out in a cascade of black and white — a collection of photographs, edges softened by time. My fingers stumble upon a picture of my grandma, her youthful face radiant with a smile that mirrors my own. She’s a young teen, standing in front of a quaint stone building, clad in clothing that seems borrowed from another era.

“Look at this,” I say, holding the photo out to Ginny. The image trembles slightly in my grasp. “This is… it’s Bergovia. It must have been not long before she moved to Texas.”

“Wow, she looks so young. And happy.”

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