Page 13 of Stay Close
“What are you up to tomorrow?” she asks.
Saturday was supposed to be simple—staying on palace grounds and catching up on reports—but I’ve been shuttling her back and forth to the negotiations each day, staying on high alert even though most of the meetings are boring. I’m going stir-crazy.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve made some calls to the head librarian of Arnhuis University.”
“You’re looking for more things to read?” I chuckle, but the image of Edie shifting and repositioning herself all over the sofa in her suite as she adds notes and tabs to the briefing material has been burned into my retinas. I’ve watched her all week, and she’s totally absorbed in the task at hand, completely ignoring her personal protection officer who is trying and failing to keep his eyes on his own work.
She wanders back to the table, and I miss the pressure on my shoulders.
“These,” she says, hefting the twin binders containing two accounts from two countries about the same plot of land, “are fiction. Vorburg will say Sove was ceded to them in the Treaty of Podense, Sondmark will claim it as the ancestral territory of the Doses people, whose tribal territory stretched along the northeast coastline.”
“And the truth is?”
“Somewhere in the muddy middle. I made an appointment with Professor Zwist tomorrow to get a fuller picture. It’s about an hour’s drive.”
“No can do. I’m going to need a three-day lead time,” I tell her, watching with stupid delight when her brow furrows. “Kidding.” My cheek tucks. “I’ll check it out tonight and email you logistics.”
She whacks my arm. I like the contact more than I want to admit. “Time to go,” I say, allowing my manner to shift. “Stay close.”
In an attempt to sharpen the blurring professional lines between me and my client, I have dinner in the palace cafeteria, a hall paneled in so much timber, it’s a wonder Sondmark has any ancient forests left. Though the high, vaulted ceiling draped with a variety of flags and the smooth stone floor suggest formality, the fire in the massive hearth and soft lights make this a comfortable space to hang out in.
Clusters of housekeepers and footmen are strung out along trestle tables. Caroline Tiele is by herself at the end of one, working at her laptop. Good. I’m not about to break some sacred, unspoken law. I set aside the dish of pickled cabbage and take out my laptop, filling myself with bites of hearty beef stew and berry tart as I navigate a 3D tour of the Arnhuis University library—an ancient structure with stained-glass windows and rows of dusty books.
An email from the university’s administrative office answers my security questions in clear, direct language. They attach a pamphlet containing an aerial map of the university and blueprint of the library marked with helpful numbers: 1. Parking area; 2. Primary bathrooms; 3. Nursing mother’s room; 4. Staff exit.
I scribble a note on my pad. “Take a left past the botany section.” The internet has made my job easier, but I never forget that those who wish my client harm have the same access to tours and floor plans as I do. I close my eyes to visualize the route, imprinting it in my brain.
“Mr. Castillo.”
My eyes snap open to find Caroline, her laptop stowed away, her phone at her side.
She’s not the queen, but she’s giving off the same royal energy. I wipe my lips on the napkin and stand, resisting the temptation to bow. “Good evening.”
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Sondmark. We don’t see much of you.”
“Ms. Spencer is spending all her time trying to hammer out a deal. There’s more to it than I expected.”
Caroline is supposed to say something back about how nice it was to see me or offer best wishes on the talks. Instead, her lips purse.
“It will be what it will be. I can’t affect the decision either way”—she gives a brief smile—“but Ms. Spencer’s safety and comfort concern me. Please don’t hesitate to let me know ifproblems crop up. If I’m able to act as a private citizen, I will. There won’t be aquid pro quo.”
Her phone vibrates, and she flashes it a glance. I catch the name of the sender: Her Majesty. “Excuse me,” she says, excusing herself and swiping the screen.
I gather up my things, wondering how much to trust a woman who has a direct line to the queen. At Edie’s door, I knock and hear her low call, taking a deep breath before I turn the handle. It’s common, now, to spend a couple of hours together each evening. She’s American. I’m American. We’re working on the same project. I tell myself it’s easier than texting.
“It’s more comfortable to work here, isn’t it?” she told me when this all started. The truth is that it isn’t. I don’t know what she imagines, but my dorm is perfectly fine. My needs are simple. I could just as easily work there rather than here in a low-slung antique chair, trying not to breathe weird. I’m here because of her.
What started off as simple and straightforward has changed over these last days into something with other layers. I ask myself how much deeper we can go, expecting to come to the bottom of it. I’ll push myself back to the surface.
Tonight, I settle into a chair and navigate through several online forums, monitoring hostile activity. It’s slow-going because I have to stop and translate each comment, but the emojis help me out. Fish, daisies, globes, devil horns, blood-soaked knives, flames. The Sondish Fishing Front likes to use a tridentand net emoji when they’re being particularly hot-headed. The Free Peoples of the Gaia Sea Collective use dolphins.
“Why dolphins?” I mutter. The friendly animal is often paired with the most vicious comments.
“What why dolphins?” Edie asks, glancing up from her work.
I turn my laptop around. “When this group is doing death threats, they never do knife emojis. It’s always dolphins.”
