Page 34 of Guarding the Princess
My favorite blue scarf, the one too thick and heavy to be useful in balmy Los Angeles, goes around my neck. A thick wool hat hides my long hair when I braid the strands and tuck it under. As far as I know, the public haven’t found out I’m back in Regora, nor have they seen me in recent years, so I should be able to walk around downtown without being noticed.
I slip out one of the entrances in the back of the palace, a sad smile stealing across my face. My brother and I used to slip out this same door in the evenings when our parents were at dinner functions. The freedom to run around the grounds unsupervised was a decadent treat for two royal children with every hour of their day accounted for.
Tonight, the moon is shining bright, lighting up the path to the royal garage. I steal inside and flick the switch. Overhead florescent lights flicker on and illuminate a row of gorgeous vehicles my family drives at various times. In the far corner is the covered vintage Vespa I begged my parents to buy when I turned sixteen. After promising to always wear a helmet and to only use it within five miles of the palace, they’d gotten it for me. They probably thought the fascination would wear off, but if anything, it got stronger.
I pull the dust cover off and see her sparkling just like I left her. The palace mechanic and I had worked on her to restore her to her original glory. She’s all mint green and shiny chrome, practically begging me to take her out and let her engine roar. Well, as much as a little Vespa can roar.
Once my helmet snaps into place over my fuzzy hat, I climb on and turn the key. She fires up immediately and I know the mechanic has been keeping her going in my absence. I zoom out of the garage and down the driveway without a backward glance. If I go quickly, no one will stop me and ask where I’m going or send a security detail with me. I’m sure once Mother learns Ryker is gone, she’ll assign new bodyguards to trail my every move.
The icy wind stings my cheeks, even as I smile like a crazy woman. I suck in huge lungfuls of crisp air and revel in my freedom. The snow trapped in the tall trees reminds me of Christmases in years past, when I looked forward to growing up. When wrapped boxes containing the latest toy distracted me from the fact I was a trapped bird in a gilded cage.
Christmas this year just makes me yearn for a different time, or a different place. Maybe a different life altogether.
Little homes start whizzing by as I get closer to town. Then I’m slowing down to take turns safely, going down tiny streets until I get to the heart of the downtown area. The street market is in full swing, late night revelers enjoying the holiday festivities. A band plays on one end of the street and I park as close as I can. The little compartment behind my seat holds my helmet.
The guitar and drums pulse in my chest, distracting me from the ache that started up the moment I found out Ryker left. Couples and children dance in the street, oblivious to a member of the royal family in their midst. I feel a little like I’m back in Los Angeles, where no one knows or cares who I am.
I weave through the crowd, intent on seeing all that I can see, no destination in mind. An older man, wrapped in more scarves than is decent, swings around with a glass of beer in hand, almost dousing me with it.
“Careful there,tös!” He does a jig around me and I can’t help but smile at his happy antics.
I move further down the street, checking out the canopies with all the food and trinkets for sale. One table holds gold cuff links that catch my eye.
“You see any you like?” the old lady behind the table asks me in Swedish.
I smile at her, looking back down at the table quickly, hoping she won’t recognize me. A set of cuff links catches my eye. They have a steel blue background the exact color of Ryker’s eyes. In the middle of each is a tiny gold crown.
“How much for these?” I point to them, asking without letting myself think about why I’m buying them.
She names a ridiculously low amount. I’ve gotten used to overinflated Los Angeles prices, forgetting that so many items in Regora are handmade with love. They may not be brand names, but I’m willing to bet they’re made so much better. I hand her money and slip the cuff links into my pocket.
They feel like they’ll burn a hole right through the denim. I shouldn’t be buying gifts for Ryker when he’s not here and may well never be again. He hurt me and here I am buying cuff links the color of his eyes.
Tears blur my vision. Happy couples holding hands surround me, making me yearn for what I can’t have. I press on, wanting to see the whole street fair before returning back to the palace. The band is getting quieter now, the further I wander.
Flickering bright lights ahead draw me in until I push through the crowd enough to see a semicircle of young girls in white dresses, each holding a candle. Their voices join together, so sweet, so innocent.
Ah, St Lucia. The song is a traditional one sung by young girls every year before Christmas. I remember several years where I got to be in the town choir, singing this exact song, holding my candle proudly. I was so excited to sing in front of everyone I practiced my song through the palace halls for months on end in preparation.
Something loosens inside me. Softens.
My eyes well up again, but this time, it’s not about heartbreak. It’s about tradition. My country. My people. I’ve lost sight of what it means to serve. I’ve been so concerned about losing control of my own life, I’ve forgotten that my people deserve a queen who will think aboutthem. And what they need. And what they wish for out of life.
I want my own daughter to hold that candle one day and sing about the young girl who snuck food to those who hid from persecution back in the days of Rome. I want to make sure our traditions are carried forward into tomorrow, while working to make laws that fit our people of today.
I can’t do all that if I’m focused on running away, or letting a man steal my heart when I need it for my country, or worrying about an annoying cousin who hates me.
The girls finish their song and we all clap enthusiastically. I glance around and see others with glassy eyes and wistful smiles. A sense of belonging rushes through me.
“Have some glogg!” A smiling woman carries a tray around to the revelers, extending one of the cups toward me and then moving through the crowd.
I hold the plastic cup and take a whiff. My eyes tear up again, this time because of the sweet mulled wine. It’s clearly gotten stronger over the years, or maybe the later into the night the stronger it gets. I take a tentative sip and nearly choke.
“Are you drinking that nasty stuff?”
I look down and see a little girl looking up at me, her nose wrinkled adorably.
I pat my chest and give her a lopsided smile. “I’m trying to, but it’s a little stronger than I thought.”
