Page 1 of Prince Charmless
1
Taylor
It feels like I’m forgetting something.
Not that it matters, of course. I pay lots of people lots of money to remember things for me. Still, I get the premonition that something has fallen through the bureaucratic cracks.
I scan my kitchen for answers, but find nothing out of the ordinary. Next to me sits a steamy cup of coffee, on the counter stands my prized La Marzocco espresso machine, and by my feet lies Vinnie, the ancient basset hound I’ve been forced into taking care of. It’s been a year since I’ve seen his owner, the longest I’ve gone since university without having my brother at arm’s length. He should be back any minute.
Just when I give up on remembering what I’ve forgotten, Tom barges through my kitchen door with his arms wide, marking the end of my career in dog-sitting. His hair is shorter now, and he looks different in military fatigues. And by different, I mean buffer. It’s a bit disheartening knowing your little brother could take you in a fight.
“You’re back,” I say through the howling. Vinnie must’ve figured he was dead.
Tom lifts the dog off the ground with a grunt to cradle him. “I missed you too, bud.”
Vinnie returns the sentiment with a lick to the face.
“How was the Air Force?” I ask. “Play with any guns?”
“I know how to fly a plane,” he says. “Do you know how to fly a plane?”
I don’t answer because he knows the answer is no. Much to everyone’s disappointment, I never followed in the family’sfootsteps of enlisting. Tom’s a pushover and will do whatever Dad tells him, but I draw the line at war. While I’ll be the first king to not have served, I will be the first to have a degree.
Tom rummages around my cabinets like he hasn’t eaten in months. “You didn’t have to plan a whole party. I didn’t think you cared about me that much.”
He’s right. Idon’tcare about him that much. I don’t think I care about anyone enough to throw a party for them.
“What are you talking about?”
“The party downstairs. There’s like, tables and chairs and people everywhere.” He flings a piece of deli meat he’s foraged for Vinnie to catch in his mouth.
“People everywhere? Inthishouse?” I point to the ground as if Tom doesn’t know what house I’m talking about.
He fists a hungry hand into a cereal box. “Did I ruin the surprise?”
I search my brother’s face for any smirk he’s trying to hide but come up empty. He looks as naive as he always does. As Tom shovels cornflakes into his mouth, the part of my brain that’s in charge of critical thinking concludes that something isn’t right. I set my barely drunk coffee back on the counter. Tom’s “Where are you going?” calls to me in the distance, but I’ve already left the kitchen.
On the rare occasion, I walk down these dark corridors to get to places neither Tom nor I use. It always feels like I’m living in a waste of space. Clément Manor is objectively beautiful, with its grand fireplaces and mahogany furniture, but sometimes I forget this part of the house exists. As I hurry down the Italian marble stairs, I pass by a man cleaning a three-story window I might only look out of once a year. This place is probably itching to be put to use. Maybe it would like having a party. But an authorized one, obviously.
I pull open the foyer’s double doors to find strangers moving shit into my house. String lights infest my walls like overgrown vines. Gold chairs and tables with silver cutlery scatter my stone floors. It’s not a party, but thirty intruders are setting up for one, including the tall woman carrying a pink binder walking in front of me.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask her.
She jumps like a spider when I barely put the back of my hand on her shoulder. I recoil like I’ve touched a hot stove. I don’t know why she’s surprised to see me. Last time I checked, I’m the one that lives here, not her.
She stares at me with wide eyes. Maybe she doesn’t understand. This is a bilingual country, so I ask a more polite question in French.
“Sorry,” she says in English. “You scared me. I’m putting place cards on tables.” The woman glances at her binder. “Look at that, here’s yours.” She half smiles and holds up a small card withPrince Taylorwritten on it in intricate calligraphy.
“For what?”
She furrows her brow like this should be obvious to me. “For the wedding?”
The wedding.I can’t tell if she’s asking or telling me. Hopefully, it’s not my wedding. I wouldn’t put it past my father to strap me down and finally force me to marry some insufferable viscountess.
The familiar rasp of Julien’s laugh echoing around the foyer reminds me of what wedding she’s talking about.
“Shit, is that today?” I ask. How could I forget? Actually, I forget a lot of things. I don’t know why I get so surprised every time I do.
