The Royal Pain (2 page)

I
t was like any other family event—except with royals. The Baranovs ( those who had read their schedules) were assembled in one of the many side corridors, waiting.

“I can't believe,” Princess Kathryn, fourth in line to the Alaskan throne, whispered, “there's hardly anybody here but the family.”

Prince David, first in line to the throne, grinned. He looked more relaxed than anybody could ever recall; the general consensus was that marriage and fatherhood agreed with him immensely. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a royal blue shirt and a gray tie dotted with tiny rockhopper penguins. His shoes, thanks to a tireless staff, were shined to a high gloss. David, thanks to a royal upbringing, didn't notice. “Hey, Chris insisted. No press, no big deal, no fuss, no—you know.”

“I know what she insisted on,” his sister replied. Kathryn was six months away from ridding herself of the hated braces, and was the promise of truly breathtaking beauty, with the classical Baranov coloring: sinfully dark hair, enormous, crystal blue eyes. “Like I said, I just can't believe she pulled it off.”

“Dad's fond of her.”

“Tell me. It's like having the sister I never wanted,” she added with a mock sigh.

They were standing in the left foyer of the palace chapel, where Prince Nicholas (sixth in line to the throne) quickly joined them.

“Are we ready? Is everybody here?”

“Well,” David said, “the baby's not here. And Chris isn't here. And the Alexes aren't here. And Dad—”

“Cool your jets, everybody,” the king said, stepping in through a side door, his majordomo, Edmund, right on his heels. “I said I'd be here, didn't I? Right? Right. So what the hell's the holdup? Can we get this over with, please? Now? Please?”

“How did you get him into that suit?” David asked, losing his usual smooth manners and gaping at his father.

“A crow bar,” Edmund replied smoothly. “Are we ready to begin?”

“Well, the godparents aren't here.”

“Ah.” Edmund pretended to consult his program, when everyone in the room (possibly the palace) knew he'd been the one to write it. “Prince Alexander and Princess Alexandria. And where is Her Highness, Princess Dara?”

A shrill whistle burst through the air and they all looked through the foyer door, across the front of the chapel, and into the opposite door, where Christina was holding the baby and waving madly.

“She came in through the wrong door,” Edmund sighed.

“She probably didn't read the—I mean, she probably didn't pay attention to—” Princess Kathryn blushed to her eyebrows, then added, “I mean, doesn't she look gorgeous? Purple is definitely her color.”

“Kid looks like an eggplant with arms,” the king muttered, sticking a finger under his collar and giving it the tenth wrench of the morning. When David swung around, eyebrows raised, he hastily added, “A good-looking eggplant. Jesus! Can we please get the fucking show on the road? I could be in a fishing boat right this minute.”

“Don't say ‘fucking' in church, Dad,” Nicholas corrected, running a hand through his cap of blonde curls. He was the only child of the king who looked nothing like his father. It had caused some trouble in the past; the late queen had been known to dally with men not her husband. “We're just waiting on the Alexes. You'll be on a boat by three. Suppertime, prob'ly, at the latest.”

The king wriggled in his suit coat. “I hate these things.”

“We all do, Dad.”

“Shush, Your Highness. Your Majesty, stop fidgeting or I shall defect instantly to America.”

“Ha! That's a bluff I'll damn well call!”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh, Dad!”

“Don't shush me, you little creep, you're not too big to spank.”

“I'm two inches taller than you are, Dad,” Prince David explained patiently.

“Ah, tensions are running high,” Princess Alexandria said, entering the foyer. She was wearing a shin-length, long-sleeved blue silk dress the exact color of her eyes. As it was a “casual” affair, no one was wearing their crowns or any royal insignia. “My timing is perfect. Has Edmund threatened to move to the States yet?”

“Aw, shaddup,” the king told her.

Alex peeked into the chapel, spotting several familiar faces…mostly staff and a few friends of the family. For the Baranovs, a typical low-key affair. Christina had insisted and the king had agreed: Dara had the entire rest of her life to be in the spotlight. Today was for family and friends.

Alex waved to Christina, who wiggled Dara's hand back, making it look like the baby was waving. Ugh. New parents were so weird. “She came in the wrong door,” she muttered to Edmund.

“Jenny couldn't get her to pay much attention to the program,” Edmund muttered back. “Your Highness, if I may make so bold, are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine, Edmund.”

“You look tired.”

Alex guiltily felt the dark circles under her eyes and repeated, “I'm fine.”

“What the
hell
is the hold-up now?” the king bitched. “The baby's here, the parents are here, the goddamn family shrink is here”—as one, they all peeked through the foyer and waved to Dr. Pohl, seated proudly in the third row—“the godmother's here. Can we please get this damned thing started?”

“Please don't refer to my daughter's christening as a damned thing,” David said mildly, hands in his pockets.

“Prince Alex is running a bit late,” Edmund admitted. “In fact, I expected him ten minutes ago. Perhaps he—”

“He's missing? Alex is gone?”

“Your Highness, I'm sure it's a simple mix-up—”

“Has anyone called him? Have you called his assistant? Did anyone look for him?” Alex could hear her voice rising with hysteria, but it was like she was outside herself, watching. Unable to stop. “When was the last time someone saw him?”

The king was staring at her. Everyone was staring at her. “Whoa, kid, simmer down.”

“Simmer down?” she nearly shrieked. “One of us is
gone
and I'm supposed to lie back and take it easy? What if he's been kidnapped? What if the bad guys are taking him away right now?
Why isn't anyone doing something?”

From the other side of the chapel, Christina thrust the baby into her startled assistant's arms, and darted across, passing the altar and the masses of red and yellow tulips decorating the sanctuary. “What's the matter? What's wrong?”

“Alex is gone! Nobody can find him! He's—”

“He's right over there with me! He came in the wrong door, too, just about half a minute ago. See?” Christina yanked the princess over to the door and bellowed, “Alex!”

After a second, the princess saw her younger brother, fourth in line to the throne, wave, and hurry across, waving again to the patiently seated onlookers.

“Don't have a cow, man,

I might have overslept some

But everything's fine.”

“How long do we have to suffer the haikus,” Kathryn demanded, “because he lost a bet?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to cut…that…shit…out…” Odd. Everyone was tipping away from her, and now she could see Christina's face, an oval of concern directly above her, but it was receding, pulling back, and why, why, why was it so dark in here?

 

“I
'm tired,” Alex said automatically, before even opening her eyes. “I just need a nap.”

“Ha!” the king said. She opened her eyes and nearly yelled; all the Baranovs were crowded around her. Dr. Pohl—the royal psychiatrist, physician, and all-around EMT—kept elbowing them back. The stethoscope had ruined the older woman's hairstyle. “You need a trank, among other things. And if you think that got you out of the ceremony, think again, missy.”

“Where am I?”

“East parlor,” Edmund replied. “First floor, east wing. It was the closest couch we could find, Your Highness.”

Alex started to prop herself up on her elbows, only to feel Dr. Pohl grab an elbow and pull her back down. “How long since you've had a full night's sleep?”

“Last night.”

“Liar,” Christina said. She was cradling the baby and looking down at Alex just as anxiously as the others. Only Dara seemed unmoved; she had nodded off on her mother's shoulder, a tiny thumb corked in her mouth. “It's been months.”

“It hasn't been
that
long,” Alex protested. “Will someone let me up, please?”

“After the doc gets done. And Jenny's bringing a tray. Maybe you can get up after you eat every bite.”

“She was worried sick,” Prince Alex bragged, slicking back his already-slicked back hair with both hands. “Fainted like a teeny girl. What a big loser.”

“I was not! I was just wondering where you were.”

“You really did faint like a—well, a princess, I guess. If you read the fairy tales,” Kathryn added.

“I did not faint! I lost my footing for a second and the rest of you overreacted.”

“You passed out,” Dr. Pohl corrected, putting away her stethoscope, “due to a combination of fatigue, stress, and malnutrition. In fact, I'd say you're at least ten pounds under your ideal weight. Why haven't you been eating?”

“For the last time, I'm
fine
. Now
take your hands off me.”

Dr. Pohl let go of her like she was hot.

“Girly-o,” her father said, his eyes slits of blue and the usual smirk nowhere to be seen on his face, “sick or not, you'd better apologize or you'll be unconscious again.”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Pohl,” she muttered.

“It's fine, Your Highness. I'm used to being screeched at by royalty. Oh, the things I could tell you if not for doctor-patient privilege.”

“Hey!” Christina yelped.

“Besides, we can discuss that and—other things—at your appointment.”

“What?” Alex cried, and nearly fell off the couch.

“E
verything is really fine,” Alexandria said, looking Dr. Pohl straight in the eye with as open and honest a gaze as had ever been on a face.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, you're full of shit.”

“You sounded exactly like Princess Christina when you said that,” she commented. “I must protest. How about a little respect for a member of the royal family?”

“How about a little respect for me?” Dr. Pohl replied quietly. She was an attractive, pale woman in her early sixties, with the curly white hair of a cherub and the piercing intellect of a Nobel Prize winner. Which she was. “It's quite obvious you aren't sleeping well. It was obvious before yesterday's incident.”

“At least we got the ceremony done. Thank God the press wasn't there anymore.”

“Yes, that's exactly the thing we should be worrying about right now. You're a beautiful woman, Princess Alexandria, but you've got bags under your eyes the size of tea cups.”

“Partying,” she suggested. “The wild royal lifestyle.”

“Nice try, but you weren't anywhere in that issue of
People
.”

Alex shrugged and looked around the large office. “It's not a problem for me. It's just…how things are now.”

“I disagree.”

“There
is
something I've been meaning to discuss with you.”

Dr. Pohl raised white eyebrows.

“It might seem personal.”

“Try me, Your Highness.”

“I've been trying to figure out how to bring it up for months.”

Dr. Pohl leaned forward. “You're safe here, Princess. You can discuss anything with me.”

“What's with all the ducks?” There were pictures of mallards on the wall, wood duck statues, antique painted duck decoys, pinheads, spoonbills, and mergansers.
Two
framed duck prints from America. “I'm having waterfowl overload. Is it a special thing with you? Were you raised by mallards?”

Dr. Pohl settled back, admirably masking her sigh. She ran a hand through her white curls, adjusted her glasses, and put her pencil down. “You're changing the subject, Your Highness. Not surprising, given what happened yesterday, but not helpful, either.”

“Well, I can if I want. I can talk about anything in here I want. I'm
safe,
remember?”

“You say that like you don't believe it.”

She looked away. “Like I said, I can change the subject to whatever I want.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, striving not to sound like a spoiled palace brat, and failing. “Current events. Waterfowl. The state of the Union. Prince William's upcoming marriage, which my dad actually thinks he'll be invited to. My niece. She's brilliant, you know.”

“So you've said. Your Highness—”

“She's already talking and she's only one.”

“Yes, Your—”

“She's practically toilet training herself and she's only one. Isn't that amazing? Don't you think that's amazing?”

“Fortunately, she won't ever have to worry about Devon.”

Alex felt herself tighten. “That's a little obvious for a supposedly subtle analyst, isn't it?”

“I suppose.”

“And there's always a Devon,” she said bitterly. “Always.”

“So your niece isn't safe? Your brother? Your father? If someone turns up late, they've been kidnapped?”

“Look, I overreacted yesterday, okay? Let's move on.”

“You're not,” Dr. Pohl said quietly, “or we would.”

“B-besides, when has safety ever been a guarantee? For anyone, never mind someone in the public eye? Even for the good guys? My family didn't take this country from Russia by being nice. I'm sure felony assault was involved.”

“So this is how it's
supposed
to be? You're a closed-off wreck who can't sleep because people aren't nice?”

“But my family's okay for now. If that's the trade-off, I'll take it.”

“Princess Alexandria, it wasn't a deal.” Dr. Pohl was leaning forward, her gaze so compassionate Alex had to look away again. “In fact, it's
not
a trade-off. Why shouldn't your family be alive and well—all respect to your late mother, the queen—and why shouldn't you have a happy and fulfilling life?”

“Well, for one thing, if I did, you'd be out of business.”

“Hardly,” she muttered. “Your sister-in-law keeps me on my toes.” Then, louder, “How is the medication working for you?”

“Fine.”

“It's amazing,” Dr. Pohl said, amused. “You look like a perfect angel when you lie.”

“Thanks.”

“But I think we should try to make some kind of progress.”

“Why?”

“Your Highness.”

“What?”

“Your Highness.”

“None of this is
my
idea.” Alex crossed her arms over her chest and jiggled a foot up and down. “Have you seen my schedule? I've got other things to do. Like I said, this wasn't my idea. Blame my father, the big hen.”

“I think it's safe to say I have never heard the king referred to as a chicken. Your Highness, in all seriousness, I can't help you if you won't let me.”

“Then it sounds like we're done,” she said, cheering up.

“Sit back down, Your Nice Tryness.”

Glaring at the duck pencil sharpener, she did. She wondered if Congress would give her the power to have Dr. Pohl beheaded. Or at least suspended.

“Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?”

“No.” This was another lie. Some nights, it was all she thought about. But ultimately…“It'd be like running away.”

“I disagree, Your Highness.”

“Of course you do. By the way, you should return that blouse. Babyshit tan is not a good color for you.”

“Your transparent attempt to pick a fight about my admittedly eclectic wardrobe so we get off the subject won't work.”

“Whatever you say, cotton ball.”

“There's nothing wrong with trying something new, getting a little perspective. You'll be doing good work and at the same time, if you got out of the country for a while, it could do you a world of good. And since your brother can't go, it seems almost…fortuitous.”

“Everything I need is right here.”

“You don't have to stay to keep an eye on them, Alexandria.”

And Alexandria, whose mother had been taken from her when she was still a child, and whose father had recently escaped death, put her head in her hands and wept.