“’Allo, Johnny.”
I start at my name, that she remembers it.
“Did I get it wrong? You are Johnny, non? Ze boy who watches me?”
“I don’t . . .”
“It is nothing to be ashamed. Everyone watches. But I have to sneak to watch zem.”
“Sneak?” So she was there, all those times I thought I saw her. But why?
“Sit.” She gestures at a chair.
I do, tripping over my own feet as I go, almost falling into her lap. “Sorry.”
“It is all right.” She stares ahead, saying nothing, like she’s waiting.
“The shoe, it’s okay?” I have no idea why I’m here.
“Shoe?”
“The one I repaired? I should have asked you for the other one, so I could polish both, so they’d be perfect. I could still.” I’m babbling. I’m babbling. Make me stop.
She glances at me, then her shoes, and finally, it seems to dawn on her what I’m talking about. “Oh, oui. Ze shoe is lovely.” She lowers her voice. “Ze shoe, it was—’ow you say—a ruse.”
“A ruse?” I whisper.
“Oui. A ruse. I broke ze strap in order to speak wiz you, and I pretend to be drunk so ze guards would not suspect my duplicity.”
“You pretended to be drunk? But you reeked of mojito.”
“I had one, and I kept ze mint in my pocket to chew.”
“But you were stumbling and acting, um . . .”
“Crazy?” She rises and stumbles across the room in perfect imitation of a drunk. When she comes back around, she slumps against my chair. “Zis, I do all ze time.”
“But why?”
“Many reasons. For ze press, mostly, so zey will see me as harmless, someone to be ridiculed and never suspect ze turmoil in my country, ze turmoil”—she touches her chest—“in here.”
“Wow.” Meg will freak when she hears this. “So . . . ?”
“I needed to speak wiz you about a matter of ze utmost importance. I wished to see you”—she glances at the door—“alone.”
She places finger to lips, then tiptoes to the door and pulls it open. A guard falls into the room. Victoriana barks several sentences to him in French. The guard retreats, and this time, Victoriana stands by the door until she’s sure he’s far away before pulling it shut.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“Zat if I catch him eavesdropping again, it would mean not only his job, but also his children would be kicked from ze Alorian soccer training team.”
“Harsh.”
“A princess needs her privacy.” She walks to the French doors. “Let us go out.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I picture sharpshooters, waiting on the beach, or the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination we saw in history. “Couldn’t someone . . . ?” I mime a gun.
Victoriana shakes her head. “Non. Sadly, ze person who is ze greatest danger to me wants me very much alive.”
I follow her out. The ocean roars, and seagulls’ cries surround us. Victoriana closes the balcony door. When she turns around, there are tears in her aquamarine eyes.
“Please,” she whispers. “You must help me.”
Chapter 7
The frog told her he had been enchanted by a wicked witch.
—“The Frog Prince”
“You want me to help you?”
“Oui.”
“Me?”
“Oui.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You must stop saying zis.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you’re a princess, and I’m . . . nobody.”
She looks down at the shoe I’ve repaired, turning her foot to study it, her eyes shining. Below, the beachgoers are starting to come out. I’ve never seen them from so high. Their towels make the beach look like the patchwork quilt on Mom’s bed. When I look back, Victoriana’s still touching her shoe.
“Your Majesty?” When she doesn’t look up, I say, “Princess?”
“Victoriana. I have something important to say, so you must call me my name. And non.”
“Non?”
“No. You are not nobody. You are a hard worker, a good boy. I see you, always working. Zat is why I watch you, to see zat you are ze right boy to help me.” She sniffs.
“Of course, I’ll help you. But how?” If she wasn’t a princess, I’d put my arm around her, do something to comfort her. But I don’t. Is it lonely to be so great that no one will touch you?
She answers my unspoken question by grabbing my hand in both of hers and squeezing as if she’s falling and I’m her lifeline. Then she sobs, “It is my bruzzer, my dearest, sweetest bruzzer, he is disappeared. You must find him!”
“Where is he?”
“If I knew zat, I would not need your help.”
I feel my face get hot, so hot even my ears start to sweat a little.
Seeing my discomfort, she says, “Pardonnez-moi. I know you do not mean to humiliate yourself, but I am desperate. My bruzzer, heir to ze Alorian throne, he is lost.”
“Lost?” What does she want me to do about it? I mean, not that I wouldn’t walk across coals for the girl, but what can I do that a staff of security guards can’t?
“Oui. He disappeared after being placed under a witch’s curse.”
Oh. Of course. The hot ones are always crazy. Nice house, too bad no one’s home.
“You have . . . witches in your country?”
She rolls her eyes in a very un-princess-like way. “Ze witches, zey are everywhere. It is only zat most people, zey do not see.”
I nod, like it makes sense, but I must not do it convincingly enough because she says, “Ze waitress downstairs who has all ze biggest-tipping customers, ze bellman who seems to get ze lightest suitcases. Zis is what witches do. Zey make zere lives easier. I am sure you can think of other examples, something closer to you, perhaps.”
I try to think who she could mean. Then I remember: There are no witches. I nod.
“But ze witches in Zalkenbourg, zey are not so harmless. And my poor bruzzer, he is too foolish to know zat ze village girl he liked was really Sieglinde, ze powerful Zalkenbourgian witch in disguise. He went in her cottage—and poof!”
“Poof?”
“She turns him into a frog.”
I scratch my ear. “Did you say a frog?”
“Oui.”
I look at her a long time, with her fake frown and her fake tears, and I think she’s not as pretty as I thought she was. She obviously thinks I’m a big jerk. I bow, so she can’t say I was disrespectful, and say, “Your Highness, I thank you for bringing me your repair. I hope it’s met with your approval. I need to get back to work now.”
“You do not believe me?”
“I think you’re making fun of me. I know I’m just a peasant. Maybe you got bored with clubs.” I turn away, but it’s difficult.
“Non. No. I do not make fun of you. Please. You must see.”
She reaches for a French romance novel, resting on the table beside her. From its pages, she pulls a stack of photographs and papers. “Look.”