Page 22 of Royal Rising

Bob England kept the grounds at the castle immaculate for almost fifty years, taking over as a young man after his father passed. Under my father’s care, the lawns were always lush and green and free from crabgrass and skunks digging for grubs, the gravel drive and paths raked and clear of weeds. But it was the gardens that were his crowning glory, and where I have so many happy memories learning about the plants. I had lessons in what can handle the shade and what does best in the sun. He taught me how to deal with pests, possums and persistent weeds but would never let me touch the roses for pruning, because he wouldn’t trust anyone else with the Queen’s favourite flowers.

He instilled a love of plants, and I would like to have my own garden, but I need a house for that. And while Kalle does pay me enough, living right beside the bar is too convenient to make a change.

Dad had to retire two years ago because of the disease that has corroded his lungs. I think telling the king he could no longer do the work he loved did more damage to my father than the scar tissue slowly filling his lungs.

Still, he’s kept his cheerful good nature and does his best to keep busy puttering in the gardens at home, but the storm would drive him indoors and under my mother’s feet, and so he’s here instead.

Dad taps the newspaper folded on the bar. “I figured I’d help Dillon with his crossword.”

A fun fact about the king of Laandia—each morning, he has a plane fly into St Johns to pick up the New York, Washington, Toronto, and Ottawa newspapers, as well as a large Double Double coffee from Tim Horton’s. Technology has advanced enoughso King Magnus can read the news from a tablet instead of actual newspapers, but he’s not ready to give up his favourite coffee. Battle Harbour doesn’t do franchises, the one thing in recent times the king has argued for.

“The plane got through the storm this morning?” I ask Dillon, but he shakes his head.

“It’s a bad one out there, worst I’ve seen since I got this gig. This is yesterday’s paper.”

“You know there’s apps and online sites where you can do crosswords and sudoku and your puzzles, right?” I ask him.

“I like being old school.”

“There’s something to be said about putting pencil to paper,” Dad says. “Coronary. Eight down.” He taps the page and Dillon prints the answer.

“Wordle in three,” Dillon tells me as I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot behind the bar. I’d rather have a large latte from Coffee for the Sole but I’m not committed enough to brave the rain to get it.

“Did you help him?” I ask Dad. The way he keeps his head down gives me my answer. I laugh as I take the pot around to the tables, greeting the regulars and topping up cups.

It’s a far cry from what I walked into last night. The broken chair is gone but that’s the only evidence of the fight, save a few guilty expressions and muttered apologies. And Ken McKibbon asks me under his breath not to say anything to his wife.

Managing The King’s Hat means I do a bit of everything, from ordering kegs and scheduling shifts to waitressing and keeping the peace. Both Kalle and I share the office jobs, taking turns in thecramped space beside the kitchen because there isn’t enough room for both of us in there at once.

We work well together.

Chase is missing, so I suspect Kalle went back upstairs but I don’t ask about where he is because…

It feels strange to say his name this morning. I don’t know why.

“How was your date last night?” Dad asks when I return to the bar. When I raise my eyebrows in a wordless question, he smiles sheepishly. “Your sister told me.”

Thanks, Ella. “I wondered because I don’t remember saying anything to you or Mom about it.”

If I told my mother Mathias had asked me to dinner, she would have been excited, to say the least. Coronary—that was eight down in the crossword puzzle. My mother might have had a coronary. She might be the biggest royal supporter in all of Battle Harbour.

She named my sisters Ella, Enid and Eloise, and me Edwina, because she thought double E’s would look great for a queen’s initials. She’s been planning our weddings to the princes since we were born, and every time one of my sisters gets married—Enid and Eloise both found their happily ever after with non-royals—she cries with disappointment.

I didn’t want to tell her until there was something to talk about and I’m not the type to discuss goodnight kisses with either of my parents.

“How was it?” Dad repeats, and just from those few words, I know he’s not as excited about Mathias as my mother probably is.

“It was dinner,” I say noncommittally. “I had the pesto penne and some nice wine.”

“Prince Mathias.”

“Would you like to know what he had?” Dad shakes his head. “You don’t like that I went out with him?”

“Sorry, pet, just finding it hard to wrap my head around it,” he admits.

“You don’t think your girl deserves a prince?” Dillon looks up from the crossword. He’s spent many hours with my father at the bar, and I would say they’re friends.

“My girl—all my girls—deserve the king of the world. But I worked for that king for years, and while he’s a good man, it’s difficult to see my girl with one of his sons.”

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