“Some people blame my family for everything,” I agree. “But anyone with sense knows we’re not capable of inflicting further damage at this point. When Rinderland transitioned to democracy, the state seized all the royal family’s assets and property aside from the country estate here in Rue. A few years ago, Parliament offered to restore our castle in exchange for opening it up to visitors, but we didn’t even try to talk my parents into taking the deal. My father can barely stomach Sabrina’s campers on the hillside. If tourists tromped through the ground floor all day long, he’d have a nervous breakdown. And my mother wouldn’t have tolerated the loss of privacy, not when she was certain I’d be sending home money soon…” I sigh, folding my arms over my chest as a cool breeze rushes in from off the lake.
At the intersection, I stop, glancing both ways, and see nothing that looks like a tea shop. On the right sprawl more squat cottages with sunken roofs, and to the left there’s a tiny boy on a faded blue tricycle wheeling in circles in the middle of the dead-end street.
He appears to be all alone, with no one watching over him as he circles round and round, chattering softly to himself.
I shiver, fighting the urge to shout for the boy to be careful. He’s probably perfectly safe. And, even if he’s not, a shouted warning from a stranger would only frighten him. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“If Sabrina and Andrew marry, I’m sure Sabrina will send money home,” Jeffrey says, ignoring my question. “That was always understood in our family. That your family would need financial assistance to rebuild and maintain your estate.”
I frown up at him. “I know. It always made me wonder why your family agreed to the betrothal in the first place. Not to be crass, but…what’s in it for you?”
“Your grandfather saved my grandfather’s life.”
“My grandfather probably put it in danger in the first place. He was always taking his boat out when it wasn’t safe to sail. That’s how he became king.”
“What?” he asks with a soft laugh. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “He was on holiday in Capri, and Grandfather insisted on going fishing during a storm. His older brother was swept overboard.” I cross my arms tighter at my chest. “His body washed up on shore a few days later.”
Jeffrey’s brow furrows. “That’s not the historical version of events.”
“It’s a family secret. My great grandfather paid off the Campanian authorities to say his older son drowned in a swimming accident. He didn’t want a criminal investigation or for Grandfather’s name to be dragged through the mud. He was positive it was an accident. The brothers were so close, and my grandfather was devastated. He’d never wanted to be king, especially not enough to murder his brother. He was only nineteen and way more interested in fishing and girls than ruling a country.”
“Nineteen,” Jeffrey murmurs. “How old was the brother?”
“Twenty-six.” I watch Jeffrey’s eyes flicker as he makes the connection. “They were on holiday to celebrate his birthday. Something similar happened to my great-grandfather. He and his older brother were spending the summer in Rome when the brother fell down a flight of stairs after drinking too much wine. Also twenty-six. And there are so many others.”
“Really?” Jeffrey frowns harder.
“Yes, really.” I smooth a frustrated hand over the top of my wig. “I told you to take a look at my family tree, Jeffrey. I can’t help but think that would have been a better use of your time on the web last night instead of…whatever this is.”
A bird croaks behind me. I turn to see three giant crows watching us from their perch on the roof of the home closest to the boy.
The boy who is no longer pedaling in circles.
Now, he’s parked in the street, staring at us with eyes nearly as dark as the crows’. But he doesn’t look afraid.
I’m the only one who’s afraid, and I’m starting to realize why.
15
Jeffrey
When Elizabeth turns back to me, her face is so pale I’m afraid she’s going to faint. I step closer, but she backs away with a shake of her head, suspicion bright in her gaze.
“I know what you’re doing,” she whispers. “There’s no tea shop.”
“There is.” I nod toward the boy watching us with an unnerving steadiness. “At the end of the lane, inside a center for traditional Romani medicine and cultural preservation.”
Elizabeth’s eyes go wide. “What on earth were you thinking, bringing me here?”
“We have to start somewhere, and communities like these tend to be close-knit. If we describe the woman who took you, we might—”
“We might get beaten to within an inch of our lives and thrown out into the street,” she cuts in with an outraged laugh. “And rightly so. Do you know how long these people have been painted as thieves and criminals? How many governments have used those prejudices as an excuse to hurt them, persecute them?”