Page 7 of Royally Arranged

He stared, then his huge chest swelled as he laughed. “No doubt about it, same sharp tongue as you, too.” He thrust his hand at me. “I’m Glen Finbar, head of the royal guard. Your dad and I grew up together.”

Maverick leaned out into the hall, said something to the men, then shut us inside. “It’s good to see you, Glen.”

He faced my father, his green eyes flashing. “Damn near forty years, Mav. I didn’t know if you were dead or if you’d abandoned the throne like Hester claimed. You know how hard it was guarding over him, staring at the back of his vulnerable neck, wondering every day if he’d killed you and—”

“No,” Maverick said, cutting him off. “He never harmed a hair on my head. I won’t have his memory tarnished.”

It was a chore not to speak up. Was my father still covering for Hester, even when it no longer mattered? Glen had a doubtful squint crunching his forehead into deep grooves. He sighed, looking around at the men in the hotel suite. “We’ll need to prepare an entourage. The people closest to the former king and current queen will want to be informed that Maverick Fredricson has returned.”

“I don’t want everyone to know,” my father said. “Not yet.”

Glen lifted an eyebrow. “Fine. But those involved with the funeral will need this info. Otherwise you won’t be allowed in to see his body.”

His body.That phrase made me swallow. I saw my father tense, his fingers curling at his hips. Maverick gathered himself, standing to his full height. “How did he die?”

“Of course,” Glen mumbled, “you wouldn’t know. He grew ill around three years ago. But last year was when his health rapidly declined.”

“He was only fifty-six,” my father said solemnly.

Glen tossed a fleeting look at me. “Youth doesn’t protect us from death. Hester had bone cancer. It’s amazing he made it this long.”

“He was a fighter,” Maverick said. He lifted his chin high, his tone clean and clear, and I recognized it as his way of signaling that the subject was changed. “Give me a rundown of the country on the whole. Maurine looked busy when we arrived, how are the farther, more rural areas?”

“It’s not good,” Glen said flatly. “Hester and Austere have been bleeding Torino dry between high taxes and personal loans. The farmers are furious, food is far too expensive to grow, and almost no one can afford to purchase it.”

They talked with their heads together. If forty years had passed, it wasn’t obvious. These two conversed as comfortably as any friends. The longer they spoke intensely about Torino and the pieces of it I didn’t know, the more I sensed that I didn’t belong here. They weren’t including me because I had nothing to contribute.

“If you’re going to discuss corn and cows,” I said, backing toward the door, “I think I’ll get the CliffsNotes later.”

Glen folded his arms over his massive chest. “Not interested in the place your ancestors lived and breathed?”

My father’s scowl pulled his jaw tight. “It’s fine. Hawthorne was never one for political lessons. Or lessons of any kind, honestly.”

His dig pricked at my pride. But I’d been down this road over and over before. Dad didn’t care if I learned anything about Torino; he just wanted to make me listen to him talk. That was his way. He needed to be the voice of knowledge ... of authority. That was how we’d spent my youth: him dictating, and me enduring. As a child I’d been perfect at zipping my mouth and tuning in to his every syllable. I was convinced that if I gave him the ear he wanted, he would reward me with love.

Back then, I was too naive to know the most important lesson he’d eventually teach me.

How replaceable I was.

- CHAPTER FOUR -

HAWTHORNE

Everything smelled like clean salt.

Torino was a very beautiful coastal country. Our hotel was situated in the center of the main city, and still it didn’t take much walking before I saw the white tips of boats on the horizon. When I followed the natural slope of the streets toward the water, I turned onto an area that was open enough for me to glimpse the castle in the distance.

It spiraled up toward the clouds like it had every right to be part of the sky. The tiles were a rich blue, the stone polished and white.That’s where Dad grew up. Where I would have, too, if he’d stayed here.Picturing myself running around the city ... swimming in the sparkling ocean below the statues carved into the cliffside ... it was appealing. Who wouldn’t want to grow up in such a place?

As lovely as it all was, the people didn’t seem so happy.

Many grim faces eyed me as I walked down the streets. I was astounded by the amount of homeless people crouched in the shadows of buildings. There were whispers about whether the country would get better or worse with the king dead.

“Not like the queen will do anything,” a wrinkled man confided to another as they leaned on a stone wall I was following. “Haven’t even seen her face in a year.”

I wanted to listen more, but I couldn’t do it without being obvious.If I find a spot to sit by a busy corner, I’ll overhear things for sure.Plus I was getting hungry after exploring for so long, the day was getting away from me. And everything around here smelled amazing.

The predominant language of Torino was English; however, I caught a bit of French here and there. The first café I spotted was called Gull’s Boulangerie. This whole area was saturated by a Parisian feel. It made me like it even more.

---