Page 1 of Royal Rising

Prologue

Sixteen years ago...

Once upon a time,a prince attempted to learn to drive.

This would be a strange sort of fairy tale because, in all the stories of far-off kingdoms, brave knights defeating dragons and fair maidens locked in towers, no Prince Charming had ever failed a driving test.

Twice.

And even though he finally managed to get his license, Prince Kalle Llewellyn Anton George, firstborn and heir apparent of King Magnus of Laandia, is still having trouble driving.

“Clutch, now gas,” I instruct, pedalling with my hands to show Kalle how to work his feet. “You’ve got it.”

Two days ago, Kalle finally passed his driver’s exam; but instead of setting out in the beat-up pick-up the king had assigned for his use, Kalle decided he also needed to learn to drive on a standard transmission. I don’t know if it was because of FOMO, some girl, or his little brother Gunnar’s new fascination with everything with a motor, but the prince is determined to master the stick shift.

And since the only standard vehicle at the castle belongs to my father, Royal Groundskeeper and Man of the Lawn—that’s whatmy sisters and I call him, not any official title—Dad was tasked to teach Kalle how to drive with a clutch.

Apparently, that one lesson was more successful than his four months of in-car lessons by the king’s security team because, after only a day, Dad gives Kalle the keys to practice on the quieter roads around the castle.

And he sends me with him.

Kalle and I are three weeks, and four days apart in age—I’m older. We’re acquaintances, but I wouldn’t call us friends, mainly because Kalle rarely spends his energy on anything that isn’t related to sports. I enjoy watching sports on occasion but anything ball-puck-or-racquet-related is not my friend.

I like numbers. And books.

My childhood bookshelves were full of fairy tales. As I got older, these were replaced by retellings of fairy tales, with an emphasis on the more PG-plus versions. I read romance novels, royal romances being a personal favourite, which is ironic since the chances of me having a royal romance are slim to none. Even with me hanging out at the castle, the home of the royal family of Laandia.

Every summer since I was nine, I spent my days helping my father in the gardens at the castle. That doesn’t mean I hung out with Kalle, his brothers and his little sister, though; I may have a first-hand view of the comings and goings of a real royal family but Dad put me to work. I learned about annuals and perennials, how to spot a weed, what weeds are not our friends, and the best time to prune.

I was a good pruner. I still am, finding quiet satisfaction in clipping each branch at just the right spot.

My mother has high hopes for a royal romance. She has four daughters; there are four princes. You don't need to be a numbers person to do the math. Unfortunately—for my mother—the closest any of the England girls have got to a royal romance was when Bo asked my sister Enid to dance at last year’s Christmas party in Battle Harbour. That kept Mom going for weeks.

I’ve long ago taken myself out of her dreams for a prince to fall for an England girl. I stopped being impressed by the brothers after I had the misfortune of seeing Prince Bo and Prince Gunnar light a fire with their flatulence.

And now this.

Kalle lets off the clutch, jamming his foot on the gas, which is not how I showed him, but at least my father’s truck jerks forward without stalling. He picks up speed but the gears screech as he shifts into second.

I can’t hide my grimace at the sound.

“Wasn’t that bad,” Kalle grunts, shifting into third a little too fast.

“Wasn’t that good either.” I’ve been shifting gears since I was twelve, and driving around the country roads surrounding my family’s farm with my older sister since I was fourteen.

That’s what you do in Battle Harbour when you’re not born into the royal family. For us, it's just a small fishing village on the edge of Laandia, which is a tiny country smack dab between the provinces of Quebec and Newfoundland in Canada, and the Atlantic Ocean.

“Think you can do better?” Kalle asks, hitting eighty so he can shift into fourth.

“I know I’m better, and you shouldn’t go so fast on this road. They just redid the shoulders and you’ll spin out on the gravel if you hit it.” He gives me a look—half grumpy, half confused. “I live out here,” I tell him.

“I knew that.”

“You have no idea where I live,” I shoot back. Growing up in such close proximity, yet with such an insurmountable distance from the royal family, wipes out most of the reverence one might feel around them. I have respect for the monarchy, I like King Magnus, admire Queen Selene, but despite sitting in front of Kalle in every class we’ve been in—Edie England, Kalle Erickson— and the fervent hopes of my mother, we’ve never been close.

To my mother’s dismay, I have to add.

“I know where you live.” Kalle has an insolent arrogance that comes more from being the type of male who excels at every sport rather than being born a prince.

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