I let out a sigh. “I’m grateful.”
As we entered the apartments, my gaze went to the book on the table near the fireplace, the one Lady Buckingham had recently given to me. New tears clogged my throat and filled my chest with sorrow. My hand went to my midsection.
“What if he…?” I began my question aloud, turning to Lady Buckingham.
Her voice was resolute. “The prince will survive. It’s what we were told.”
Will he?
If he doesn’t, will the monarchy allow him to pass away, or will he be replaced?
“What will I do?”
Lady Buckingham’s posture straightened. “You, Princess, will reign, a queen regent for your child.”
“I don’t know anything about matters of state.”
“King Theodore will teach you.” She looked down at my stomach and back to my orbs. “You are carrying an heir. Prince Roman will survive. However, if he doesn’t, one day, you will be the queen regent. Your duty is to keep Molave intact for the day your son or daughter can take the throne.”
Son.
Daughter.
By myself.
“Mary, I can’t.”
“Yes, Lucille. You can and you must. The people love you.”
“The king,” I said. “I need to call him.”
“It’s against protocol for you to initiate the call.”
If I were expected to take a position of authority, protocol would need to change.
I looked at my mistress. “Everything is against protocol. Have Lady Larsen connect the call. I must speak to the king.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you insist.” Her expression softened. “You must rest.”
I shook my head. “Not until I see my husband.”
As the fire crackled and snapped, my thoughts wandered back in time.
The first time my eyes met Roman’s and the way the restaurant around us disappeared. His proposal atop the Empire State Building. The butterflies flapping their wings as I saw the same dark stare at the end of the aisle in the cathedral. Our courtship. Soaring through the air in his glider.
Glider.
Francis too was a pilot.
Did they fly to a meeting with Inessa?
As I was about to hurry to Isabella’s apartment, Lady Buckingham appeared. “Your Highness, King Theodore is on the phone.” Hitting the unmute button, she handed me my phone.
“Your Majesty.”
“Papa.”
“Papa,” I corrected as my voice cracked with emotion.
“Lucille.”
I didn’t want to be soothed by his booming tone, but I was. Holding the phone in a vise grip, I went back to the chair before the fire, fending off the cold chill I couldn’t shake.
“Please tell me about Roman.”
“I’d like to discuss you first, Princess.”
Roman
High above the mountains, the helicopter flew in and out of icy clouds. The loud whirl of the helicopter’s blades muted discussion. Nevertheless, for my own survival, I needed to stay aware.
From my seat, I stared over at the Duke of Wilmington. Francis’s face was swollen, making him look as though he’d gone multiple rounds in a boxing match. The royal medic at his side stitched lacerations and applied a mask. From what I could gather, the mask had coolant to aid in inhibiting future swelling. I’d heard talk of a broken jaw.
For only a moment during our transfer, my brother-in-law had awakened. His words were mere muffled mumbles yet his ice-cold blue stare, the one coming from within purple contusions, was cognizant, accusing, and even threatening. His injuries weren’t limited to his face. Fingers on his right hand were broken, that hand currently wrapped with ice packs.
I fought the memories of me inflicting his wounds.
A fighter wasn’t who I claimed to be, not me Oliver, nor me Roman. In the moments that seemed to last forever on the cold ground near a pond prepared for my grave, I could look back and assess that I wasn’t thinking rationally.
Survival mode was what I had come to call it.
All my life, I’d excelled in the arts.
Fighting in fiction was a choreographed dance. My thoughts briefly went to a musical written over half a century ago, West Side Story. When I auditioned for the University of Chicago, I’d performed “The Rumble,” dancing the part of Riff. The music was intense, the dance demanding. I’d worked for months to hit every mark.
I didn’t want to think about the finale to the performance—Riff’s death. It was emotional and sudden, the notes whirling to a crescendo. Performing the dance solo challenged me to create a scene so realistic the audience saw Bernardo as he plunged the knife into my gut.
Today’s experience was nothing like that audition.
It was real, unchoreographed, and without rehearsal.
A part of me, a feral part that refused to die, rose up within me. I would need to convince King Theodore that the qualities I’d displayed were what was required in his son. A prince should fight for his life, his throne, his country, and those he loved.
The one bullet I’d shot hit my target. It wasn’t Francis’s heart I’d aimed for, but his knee, knowing such a wound would take him down. Currently, his leg was bandaged, and the bleeding stopped. Once we arrived in Molave City, I’d heard the medics say he would be headed to surgery.
Never in my life had I been as determined as I was at this moment.
The UDARVIS universe was exciting and challenging.
Broadway was exhausting and invigorating.
My career had ups and downs, highs and lows, peaks and valleys—name your metaphor. Each role mattered. From George Gibbs in the high school drama Our Town, to the infamous warlord, I surrendered myself to each performance.
Not one of those acts mattered the way my current role did.
As the helicopter continued our trek south, I knew that unlike the unconscious man resembling me, I wanted to stay Roman Godfrey. I needed to keep this role, not only for myself, but for Lucille. In my heart of hearts, I knew that neither of those reasons would convince King Theodore. I had to make him realize that keeping me as Roman was best for Molave and above all, best for him.
What will I say?
To what will I admit?
Every once in a while, my attention went beyond the glass windows. This was my first ride aboard a helicopter. That was an interesting fact for a prince with Royal Air Force commendations. Perhaps it was the pain medicine flowing through my circulation, but I had the uncanny sensation of floating above the fray. Yet soon, I’d be back on earth and facing the consequences of what occurred.
When the royal helicopter arrived to Forthwith, it was prepared with three stretchers.
Only two were currently being utilized.
I was seated, not prone.
While the adrenaline within me waned, my injuries were mostly self-inflicted. My right hand ached, the flesh cut, and twice its normal size. The lacerations had been stitched and treated the best they could in its swollen condition.
It was difficult to assess without x-rays, but the royal medic believed I’d broken bones. As for my left arm, it had been disinfected and bandaged. More medical imagery would be necessary, but I was told the bullet entered and exited tendons and muscles, missing bone and major blood supplies. Physical therapy would be in my future but no serious damage.