“You mean forty-four?” Rome states.
I gasp. “Rome Reginald Madsen!” He chuckles at my use of his full name.
“What? It’s true! Granny is good at what she does, so I don’t see the issue,” Rome says.
“The issue is I’m pretty sure Granny lost her Viking marbles in the last decade, son,” I say through another laugh and step out into the sunny courtyard. After days of gloomy overcast weather, it’s nice to have a few days of unfiltered sunshine. It’s funny how Mads comes home and the sun comes out with him.
I consider my words carefully for my next question. “Rome, have you completely forgiven him? Your father, that is. Like, really forgiven him for embroiling us in controversy and shame?”
I hear Rome suck in a breath on the other line. He doesn’t reply right away as if considering his own answer, so I move toward the gardens where the weeks of rain have brought the palace gardens to full bloom. The sweet scent of lilies, roses, and honeysuckle greet me as I step through the purple wisteria laden stone arches.
“I don’t know about shame, but I think controversy keeps us on our toes,” he pauses and I hear the click of his turn signal and the sound of tires crushing gravel as he puts his car into park and begins shuffling around in his car. “Besides, there’s nothing the house of Madsen can’t handle, even the Mad King.”
I smile at that. “You are much wiser than I give you credit, son. Much wiser than I or your father was at your age and station. At least I know the crown will be in the best hands possible when I am ready to pass it on soon.”
Rome chuckles softly again. “I think you just admitted to thinking I was dumb before now, mother.”
We laugh, tell each other we love each other, and disconnect. I gaze around the garden where so many years of memories play out before me. At the center of the garden is the stone cherub fountain where Caleb and Fara would splash and giggle as the baby-sized mythical angel spewed water from its mouth. My eyes travel from there to the stone path leading into the maze, where Rome got his first scrape and Svea shared her first kiss—boy was Mads ready to skin the hind off that poor kid who “sullied” his baby girl.
I walked toward the stone path, crossing over the old paving stones that we had purchased with each new bundle of joy—and proceeded to have their hand prints at ages 2, 8, and 14 painted on as keepsakes. Each one was marked with differing levels of creative flare in addition to the tiny hands and their progressive growth over the years. Each stone held a spark of personality that effectively represented our very different children. Even the youngest were as night and day as they could get for fraternal twins.
Inhaling the sweet flora and fauna, I release my breath and relax my shoulders as the sun warms my skin and memories less appropriate for social gatherings flood my brain. Mads and I conceived more than one if not all of those little rugrats in these gardens.
That’s when it hits me—I mean, absolute certainty. Mads and I are meant to be. We always have been and we always will be. I’m done with walking this life without that infernal man by my side—no matter how crazy he may drive me before I’m old and grey. I love him and that has never changed.
My heart quickens at the thought of continuing where we left off earlier. Tonight, my king will not be sleeping in the east wing—at least, not without me.
Chapter Nine—Mads
Just wait for me, my heart. I promise I will finish what we started.
I turn the car down the long and winding driveway that leads to my mother-in-law’s cottage. It’s just outside of Copenhagen, but far enough north that her little slice of heaven is nestled in the mountains and right on a beautiful, bustling stream. I’ve always envied the old crone a bit, but more so, I’ve admired her. She has the same fire as her daughter, but a kindness that Mykaella so rarely shows the rest of the world. As I near the cottage, I slow to a creep to admire the splendor and beauty of it all. Eighteen months behind bars will do that to a man, but stick him on the outside with a backdrop like this, and it might just make him forget the sleepless nights on a cold, hard bunk with nothing but a scratchy wool blanket for company. I shake my head, not ready to face that nightmare again in this life.
My car pulls in behind my son’s. Larz, my second born, is hands down the most like me and I know it kills Mykaella to admit it. Rome has always been wrapped around her finger, as has the twins. But, Larz and Fara, all I know is if I found myself backed in a corner, those two would be my best right hands.