Page 9 of Royal Secret

She has to get to work, so she hustles out the door with a wave. My pastry is gone, my coffee cold, and eagerness to see what else this city holds is gnawing at my belly, so I head out as well.

This part of town is so charming, I actually consider staying here and not exploring the rest of Bergovia. Of course, I know I’ll feel different by tomorrow. Right now, though, I bask in what feels like a fairy-tale village come to life, with its potted flowers hanging in front of doorways and a sparkling water fountain on every corner.

The hotel emerges at the end of a winding alley, its façade a charming tapestry of ivy and stone. A brass plate engraved with elegant letters confirms I’m at the right place: “Hotel Bergrose.”

Inside, the lobby exudes an air of understated elegance, and I approach the reception desk, where a man with a kindly face looks up from his papers.

“Welcome to Hotel Bergrose,” he greets me. “You must be Courtney. Mimi called ahead to ensure we had your room ready.”

“Thank you,” I reply, taken aback by the unexpected consideration.

“Anything you need, just ask,” he assures me, handing me a vintage brass key with a tassel.

“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt,” I say.

“Tobias,” he corrects. “Mimi is an old family friend, so a friend of hers is a friend of mine. Your room is on the second floor, the last one at the end of the hallway.”

I head upstairs, my footsteps cushioned by the thick carpet, and find my room, which overlooks a serene garden blooming withthe promise of spring. Dropping my bags by the bed, I open the windows to let in some fresh air. The streets are full of laughter and people calling to each other, the traffic in this area light due to some streets being closed to automobiles. I’m already halfway to moving here permanently.

Leaving the tranquility of my room behind, I head out without any plan as to where I’m going or what I’ll do. This whole trip is an adventure, and I’m letting spur-of-the-moment impulses guide me. Stepping out onto the cobblestone street, I let my feet take me through the heart of Bergovia, each step an echo against the stones that have known countless stories before mine.

Trees line the streets, their branches heavy with the tender green of new leaves, and I feel a kinship with them — both of us embarking on growth in unfamiliar soil.

I meander through the town square, where yet another fountain dances under the touch of the sun’s rays, casting rainbows in its misty arc. Children laugh as they chase each other around it, their joy as infectious as the melodies of the street musicians who serenade passersby with violins and accordions. It’s as though the whole city is alive with the vibrancy of spring.

Is this what heaven is like? How is it that such a place has existed for years and yet I’ve known nothing about it until now?

Drawn by the sound of church bells, I follow their call to a park where couples lounge on benches, sharing sweet words and gelati beneath a sky so blue it seems to have been painted just for them. For a moment, I imagine my grandma here, young and carefree, her laughter carried on the breeze, a reminder that life, in all its forms, marches on.

Did she live here in the city? Or somewhere in the country? Perhaps in a small town?

The more I think about it, the crazier it is that I know nothing about her life growing up. She tucked those years away, never wanting me to discover them, I guess.

But why? Was there something in her past that she was ashamed of? Afraid of?

With a deep breath, I tear myself away from the park and continue my exploration. The architecture is a tapestry of history; Gothic spires reach towards the heavens, while Baroque façades hint at a time of opulence and grandeur. Each building tells a story, and I wish for the ability to unravel them all.

My wanderlust eventually leads me to the doors of the Bergovian National Museum. A beautiful building, I’m shocked to find that admission is free — as is admission to every museum in the country, the guard informs me. Inside, the air is cool and still, a sanctuary for the artifacts that hold secrets of an age gone by.

The museum unfolds before me like a treasure chest. Cases of intricately crafted jewelry glint under soft lights, and I find myself lingering by a display of sapphire pieces that rival the beauty of the one back in my hotel room. Armor and weapons speak of battles fought and won, tales of heroism and sacrifice etched into every dent and scratch.

I trace my fingers over glass that protects ancient manuscripts, marveling at the delicate script, the ink still bold after centuries. There are tapestries that color the walls with scenes of harvests and hunts, of stories about unicorns and dragons.

Here, amongst these relics of the past, I sense my grandmother’s spirit walking beside me, guiding me through the annals of ourlineage. And for the first time since her passing, I don’t feel quite so adrift. In the silent company of history, I am home.

I round a corner and the air shifts subtly, as if charged with a new energy. Amidst the rows of ancient vases, my gaze snags on something — or rather someone — unexpected. There’s a man across the room, partially hidden in the shadow cast by a towering suit of armor. He stands with casual ease, but the intensity of his focus lands solely on me.

He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, and sunglasses obscure his eyes, yet there’s an unmistakable draw to him. I can’t deny it; he’s attractive in a way that stirs something long dormant within me.

My heart skips a beat, and I wonder when was the last time I felt this flutter of excitement at the mere sight of someone. I’ve dated, had a few casual boyfriends, but over the years my focus has turned away from that. At this point, I’ve stopped dating altogether, assuming that if I’m meant to find my happily ever after, it will happen naturally.

I allow myself a small smile, turning back to the exhibit before me. The handsome stranger remains in my peripheral vision, a silent observer. It’s strange, this feeling of being seen, truly seen, after spending so many days lost in grief. Bergovia, with its fresh air and spring blooms, has begun to lift the weight from my shoulders, and now this unexpected encounter adds another layer of warmth to my newfound comfort.

His presence is a hint of possibility, a sign that maybe, just maybe, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. My grandma always believed in signs, in the serendipitous moments that guide us where we need to go.

“Enjoying the artifacts?” His voice finally breaks the silence, smooth and inviting.

Turning towards him fully, I muster up a response. “Yes, they’re incredible. It’s like walking through history.”

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