Page 51 of The Prince and the Puck
Add to that the obsequious guy bowing to me on the tarmac, and I remembered immediately why I didn’t come home more often. I did not want to be a prince. I did not want to be royalty. I did not want to be here.
All the same, I slid into the back of the sleek limousine my father had sent for me. I had a duty, whether I liked it or not. And that duty did not involve pads, pucks, or flying across the ice like I had no cares in the world other than pounding the opposing team’s center into the boards.
It was a short ride to the palace. It was a short ride everywhere in Murdan; the island nation was only a hundred square miles in total. Palm trees swayed on either side of the car, and the low cottages that made up most of the island’s neighborhoods spread out around us, punctuated here and there by colorful shops and even more colorfully dressed people. Murdan had a casual vibe, which I appreciated. But as soon as you stepped into the palace, the difference was clear. We hadonce been a British colony, and the royals still upheld many of the traditions handed to us by our colonizing forefathers.
The car pulled to a stop inside the palace gates. I wondered if Lizzy would be joining us. Eliza, I meant. I didn’t want to miss her. I didn’t want to think about her. But, of course, I did.
It wasn’t her fault I was here. It wasn’t her fault that I had left when we were children and that she’d gone on to live her life in service of the crown. I couldn’t be mad that she had built a life for herself. It wasn’t my place to say what choices were right or wrong for her.
As angry as I was—about how things had turned out, about how she had deceived me into this outcome—I didn’t blame her. Not really. In fact, I probably owed her an apology.
“Your Highness.” The man who had greeted me at the airfield pulled the door open and then waved for me to step out. I did, spotting my mother and father standing on the steps to the palace.
The building behind them, which we called the palace, did not look like Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. It was the royal estate, but it was more sprawling resort than towering castle. There were no spires or turrets to be found—just miles and miles of long, low terracotta buildings, filled with treasures and luxuries befitting a king.
It was a place where, as a kid, there had been many rooms off-limits to me. A place filled with endless twisting hallways, where it was easy to lose oneself in a game of hide and seek.
“My son.” The king stepped gingerly down the stairs toward me, his arms wide open. I stepped into them, wishing I hadn’t noticed how thin his limbs felt as they encircled me. My mother was just behind him, a tear rolling down her face as she joined our hug.
Even though we were monarchs, even though our lives were lived in duty to our kingdom, we were still a family. And I loved them more than anything else.
Despite all the complications, it was good to be home.
After a few moments, my mother stepped back, and my father took my arm, walking me up the steps and into the palace.
Everything was just as it had been five years earlier, when I last visited—understated opulence at every turn, the occasional unexplained vase on a pedestal, or a helmet displayed inside a lighted glass cabinet in the hallway. I had never understood this detritus of royals gone by. It all seemed a bit cinematic to me. Maybe that was part of why I’d had to leave.
I was not cut out for royal life.
“There’s much for us to discuss,” the king said, still holding my arm and walking like a man with many years ahead of him. Not a frail leader, about to abdicate the throne.
We entered the royal residence, which was a house within the house—the place I had grown up, where my parents had raised Lambert and me.
“Where is Lambert?” I asked, looking around, as if he might materialize from the parlor or step out of the hallway leading to the bedroom wing.
“I expect he’s at his own apartment,” my mother said. “Lowell, could you?—?”
The man who had discreetly followed us inside nodded and left, off to find my brother.
We sat on the casual couches surrounding the low table in our living room. My mother sat close to my father on the couch across from me, taking his hand and resting her head on his shoulder. I sighed, taking them in.
They both looked older, I thought. Less resilient. I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to think of them always as the healthy,sturdy people who had raised me. But that was the inevitable turn of the world, wasn’t it? People aged. Parents died.
“Why am I here?”
Mom’s face immediately fell, and I knew my words had hurt her.
“I mean, I’m here because I love you, and I understand that things aren’t good. But why the urgency? What’s changed?”
“I have cancer, son,” my dad said, delivering the news I had known was coming.
“What kind?” I asked. I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want any of this to be true.
“Lymphoma.”
I looked between my mother and father, who were gazing at each other tenderly. “How long have you known?”
“They detected it a month ago,” my mom said. “We’re waiting on some test results. We’ll know more soon.” She delivered this as if it was good news, but it didn’t change the truth of it. My father was dying.
