My stomach twists as I trail off. Callum’s shoulders slump as he realizes what I didn’t say—we don’t know how long our father has left, and our time with him may be shorter than any of us want to admit. Once I am crowned king, searching for a wife will be a task I simply won’t have time for. It must be now.
All of Elsinore knows father’s health has worsened over the past nine months. We’ve tried to keep the news of his liver failure quiet, but it seems we have someone leaking information from the palace to the gossip mags. It’s someone with enough access to have more information than most of the palace staff, but not enough access to know that the doctors have said a transplant isn’t an option.
I’ve attempted to discover who, but so far to no avail. Maybe I can convince Claudius to help. He’d likely bring me a name within a week, though I doubt he’ll want to be apart from Viore or his fiancée, Kat, longer than necessary. I’m grateful he agreed to come help with this.
“I understand the urgency,” Callum says quietly. “But you can’t treat a relationship like one of your computer programs. Plugging in the right line of code isn’t going to spit out the perfect woman.”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“It sure sounds like it is,” Callum says.
Claudius pushes his glasses up his nose before speaking. “I believe this match has a high potential for success.”
I cling to those words. High potential for success. Coming from the advisor whose opinion I value more than anyone in the world, this means something.
But is Callum right? Am I treating the prospect of choosing a wife like fixing a glitch in one of my computer programs? That isn’t what I intend.
There’s a sharp knock, and my office door opens. A stern-faced royal guard dips his head and steps out of the way as my mother glides into my office.
“Mum,” I say, rising from my chair.
Claudius does the same, smoothing a hand over his dark hair as he bows. My mother looks like she’s been up for hours, her mint green suit perfectly pressed and not a single hair out of place. And her eyes, ever watchful, take in the room with intense precision.
The folder!
So subtly I’d have missed it if I weren’t looking, Callum slides the folder under his thighs and shoots me a wink. I’m so grateful, I won’t even be angry about the sweat marks he’s going to leave on the folder.
“Good to see you back in Elsinore for once,” she says to Claudius, an icy chill in her voice. My mother still hasn’t gotten over the former Elsinorian advisor leaving to work for Queen Serafina. “Do sit.”
“It’s always a pleasure, your majesty,” Claudius says, running a hand over his dark hair as he returns to his seat.
Callum leans back so he’s looking at our mother upside-down. “Morning, Mum!”
Giving a shake of her head like he’s an adorable but troublesome puppy, Mum roughs up his hair. “Good to see you awake at this hour,” she says pointedly.
Callum only shrugs. I wait to see if she notices the edge of the folder sticking out from beneath Callum’s bare thighs. She doesn’t.
She turns her assessing gaze to me. “Is now a good time to discuss the ball?”
It’s never going to be a good time to discuss the ball in question. I manage a polite smile. “Of course.”
As she steps closer, I notice little things I didn’t when Mum walked in. She’s fidgeting with her wedding band, and what I’m sure is an expensive concealer doesn’t quite hide the circles beneath her eyes.
The last year has taken a toll on her. To those who know her well, the weariness and worry in her eyes are always visible. She’s thinner than she used to be, probably thinner than she needs to be. The only positive change is that she gave up alcohol, which had become something of a coping mechanism as Father’s illness progressed. I know she thought the change was for his sake—liver failure and all that—but she needed it for herself too.
Without drinking, however, she needed something else to distract herself from Father’s health.
Namely: meddling.
Specifically: in my life.
“We’ve finalized the guest list. Robert will make an official announcement very soon,” Mum says.
If her communications secretary is already planning an announcement, this isn’t going to be as easy to get out of as I’d hoped.
Mum adds in a dark grumble, “Hopefully our announcement will get out before word of this reaches the press.”
I squeeze my fists underneath my desk. “Could we wait? A few more months, at least.” That will give me time to complete the plan Claudius and I have made. To get to know the woman I hope to be my bride and make sure this isn’t, as Callum has been suggesting, a terrible idea.
She shakes her head. “No. The date is set. First the ball, and then in August, the wedding.”
My head is spinning at the mention of a wedding. And August—that’s barely a few months away.
“I know that might seem soon, but I’ve been working behind the scenes on some of the details. It’s the month your father and I got married, and it will be good luck. It will mean a lot to him.”
Using Father is like a kind of trump card these days. I can’t exactly argue any time she mentions something he would like.
So I focus on the ball instead. “Don’t you think the idea is a little … trite?”
I have a lot of stronger words I’d use for what is my parents’ last-ditch effort to force me into a match of their choosing. And though I’m sure her invitations won’t read Ball in Which Prince Phillip Will Choose a Bride, we’ll be lucky if her intent doesn’t reach our leak.
“We’re throwing a ball to help him find a bride?” Callum asks.
I glare.
“We are,” Mum says definitively.
“I think it’s romantic. Like a fairy tale,” Callum says in a falsely sweet voice. Whose side is he on, anyway?
Hosting a ball for the sole purpose of me choosing a wife is not romantic. It sounds more like a livestock auction.
And though the idea for a ball is ripped straight from a fairy tale, the original story also had Cinderella’s sisters chopping off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper. By either count, this is not something we should emulate. No matter how set on it my mother seems to be.
“Your father and I have been more than lenient with the time we’ve given you. And you’ve had plenty of opportunities to take an interest in one of the lovely young ladies we’ve suggested.”
Mum picks up the paperweight, frowning at the broken mast. She sets it back down before turning the full weight of her gaze on Callum, who has just opened his mouth, likely to make a smart remark.
“Don’t get me started on you, Cal. Your time will come.”
Callum’s eyes widen and he looks to me for help. I will happily offer exactly none. Whenever his time does come, I’ll plan a ball—or whatever terrible idea Mum has—myself.
“It’s settled. I’ll make the announcement this week. The ball will be in two months, and you’ll choose a suitable wife from one of the women in attendance. We’ll plan for a summer wedding.” Mum pauses, as though for dramatic effect. She’s got it. With a smile, she says, “Have a lovely day.”