The Royal Pain (3 page)

“I
guess I'm confused,” Princess Christina said.

“Then it must be Wednesday,” Alex replied, not looking up from her travel itinerary.

“Ha, ha, Princess Sarcasto. Look, don't get me wrong, I think a change of scenery is just the thing. Just exactly the right thing. God knows it always cheered
me
up.”

“Do you miss working for the cruise line?”

“No,” Christina replied shortly. “And don't change the subject. You're not a marine biologist. You're not even—I mean, your specialty is—okay, this is kind of embarrassing, I'm trying to remember, I'm sure I read about this a couple of years ago—what
did
you do in college?”

“I have a degree in Nursing.”

“Oh. Right. Well, good for you. But you're not going to a new hospital, right? I guess I'm saying, what's the point of you going along on this little joyride?”

“Other than your sinister plan to remove me from the palace so you can further destroy royal protocol?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“Working on Alaskan/American relations.”

“But America and Alaska get along.”

“Yes. And it's like any relationship. It needs constant tending. Such tending is part of our job—your job, too, I might add. So I'll go along and smile big and answer questions and oversee funds and smash champagne bottles on things. It's a fluff trip. This looks fine, Jenny.” Alex scribbled her initials on the bottom of the pages and handed it back to the protocol officer.

“I'll finalize the preps at once, Your Highness.”

“Jenny, my God! Are those
slacks?
” Christina, frozen in the act of popping a grape into her mouth, gaped.

The protocol officer, a woman Alex privately thought was an astonishingly efficient sloe-eyed beauty, blushed to her eyebrows. “I was taking Your Highness's advice, but if Your Highness feels I am dressed inappropriately for palace duty—”

“Which one of us Highnesses are you talking to? And calm down, I was only teasing. Grape? Look, it's okay. I'm sorry I even said anything,
please
relax.” Christina bullied the smaller brunette into a chair. “Breathe, okay? Hey, you look great. Doesn't she look great, Alex?”

“You look great, Jenny,” she repeated obediently, using all of her poker experience not to smile. Jenny really
did
look a little stressed…but then, she always did. Palace life was not without anxiety, no matter what the job or title. “I
like
the pants.”

“Thank you, Highness.”

“You should wear green all the time,” Christina commented. The moment she released the other woman's elbow, Jenny sprang back to her feet. “It makes your eyes look even bigger and darker. And you should take tranquilizers. All the time.”

“If you'd leave her alone, she wouldn't need the tranks,” Alex commented, picking up
The Palace Poop,
the in-house newsletter advising everyone from the reigning king down to the groundskeepers of birthdays, anniversaries, scheduled softball games, and royal comings and goings. The newsletter had been Christina's idea. “Dad
told
you to quit needling the officers.”

“What, ‘needling'? I'm just trying to get everyone to lighten up around here. Which is not very damned easy, by the way. I mean, look at you. All stiff and starched and dressed to the nines to eat pudding. And not even chocolate pudding. Tapioca. It's eleven thirty in the morning on a Tuesday, and Jenny's all dressed up—it's still a suit, even if it's slacks—to hand you some papers. Also, we're totally pretending that you didn't conk out at the christening this weekend. Lame.”

“Protocol,” Jenny corrected.

“And what's that stuff on the speaker, Jenn?”

“Beethoven's Fifth,” she answered, as both women knew she would—Jenny was a fiend for classical music.

“You call that lunchtime music?”

“How could you not recognize it?” Alex asked. “It's one of the most famous pieces of music in the world.”

“It sucks. Put on some Stones.”

“Not even if you threatened to cut off my hands,” Jenny said, showing some backbone for a change.

“That's more like it,” Christina said approvingly. “Everybody's gotta relax around here. That's all I'm saying.”

Alex wanted to say something bitchy yet cutting like “the Alaskan royal family got along fine before you got here” but, of course, that wasn't exactly true. Instead, she held up her empty dessert plate. Instantly, a footman—footwoman, rather—took it from her. What was her name? Something that rhymed with Harry. Mary? Terry? No…it was so hard to remember the new ones…

“Thank you, Carrie.”

“You're welcome, Your Highness. Something else?”

“No, that's fine. Maybe a little more to drink.”

She and Chris were enjoying an early lunch; the rest of the family was out and about on various official duties. Alex knew she wouldn't get rid of Christina for a bit; her sister-in-law was deep in Concern Mode.

“Where's Dara?” she asked, changing the subject and smiling a thank-you as her glass of milk was refilled by another footman.

“With her dad in the penguin room. I guess they're keeping an eye on a nest and it's supposed to explode or hatch or whatever any second. It's hard work, getting fish guts out of a toddler's hair.”

Alex grinned. “Thankfully your problem, not mine. She slept late this morning.”

“Yeah…” Christina's hazel eyes were narrow and she was chewing on her lower lip. Her blond hair, recently cut to ear-length, was typically disheveled and she wore her usual outfit of jeans and a white work shirt, no socks, beat-up loafers. Other than the grooms, she was the most casually dressed person on palace grounds “Yeah, that's—I'm not gonna be distracted, by the way. Listen, not that I'm complaining, but don't you think this sort of—of errand or whatever—would be a better job for David?”

Her oldest brother, the Crown Prince, was also Dr. Baranov, with a doctorate in marine biology. Christina was irritating, but right. Which, of course, only made her more irritating. “Yes.”

“Well, how come the king didn't ask him to go?”

Alex almost didn't answer. Jenny, who was sitting at the other end of the table to do paperwork (Baranov family protocol was a great deal looser than, say, Windsor family protocol) instantly looked twice as absorbed. Her posture gave off
No, I'm not hearing a word, not a single word, don't give me a thought
vibrations, in the manner of skilled officials the world over.

Alex looked at the top of Jenny's dark head for a long moment, thoughtfully tapped her fruit knife on the edge of the plate, then said, “Because David has a happy, fulfilled, wonderful life and he doesn't want to leave it. Doesn't need to leave it. It was hard enough for him to agree to the Geneva thing, and that's only going to be for three days.”

Christina paused in mid-chew, gulped audibly, then forced down the strawberry. “Well, okay.” She coughed. “I mean…that's okay. Maybe this…maybe you'll like it.”

“Maybe.” Then, “Jenny, will you let Stacy know I'm going to want to talk about wardrobe issues?”

“At once, Highness. And you have a press conference in thirty minutes.”

“Very well.”

Jenny rose in a graceful rustle of silk and linen, scooped up her paperwork, bowed her head for a moment, and hurried out. She left behind the faintest scent of lilacs.

“Ick,” Chris commented, glancing down at her practical clothing. “I'm glad you're going. But I have to say, that's like death to me, the whole thing. Wardrobe meetings, protocol meetings, itinerary meetings, babbling about same to reporters, who actually
write
about it…”

Alex smoothed the lapel of her navy blue Travis Avers jacket. Christina's complaints on the subject were nothing new, though they somewhat mystified Alex. Meetings and the press and itineraries were a part of everyday life. Nothing was free…not even when your father's picture was on all the money. “That's why you're so cute.”

“Don't start,
Princess
Alex.”

She laughed. “I won't if you won't, darling plebian sister-in-law.”

“Snob.”

“Nag.”

“Egotist.”

“Busybody.”

“Stuck up.”

“I'll miss our lunches.”

“Oh, Alex.” Christina's eyes seemed to well for a second and, in an oddly tender moment, she leaned forward and kissed the top of Alex's head. “Sleep.”

“Not now, of course. There's too much work to do.”

Christina only sighed.

“R
ight, right. So, she's going off to Arizona or wherever—”

“North Dakota, Your Majesty.” Edmund, standing at attention three feet to the king's left, looked as if he had been born of starch. He was as tall as the king, but much thinner—“have a milkshake for God's sake” thin. His black hair was swept back from his face, which was noble, almost—was it possible?—kingly. Large eyes, strong nose, strong chin…many times, Edmund had been mistaken for a member of the royal family. He had been taking care of the Baranovs for decades. “But you were very close.”

Christina kept pacing. The reigning king of Alaska, Alexander Baranov II, stayed seated at his desk, working on his word finds. Late afternoon sunlight spilled into the office from the large bay of windows on the left, gifting everything—desk, paperwork, floor, Christina's profile, Edmund's nose—with a golden hue.

“Right, North Dakota. That was my second guess. Well, the winters won't be much of a change for her.”

“It's spring, Sir.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Christina muttered. “So Alex goes and—what? Everything works out great and she forgives herself?”

King Al looked up and said, almost sharply, “She doesn't have to forgive shit. She did the right thing. She was my brave girl and if she hadn't kicked that guy's ass—”

“Devon's ass, Your Majesty.”

“Right, Devon. You'd think I'd be able to remember his name, but it's just one of those things that never stick in my head. Anyway, I would have—”

“Kicked his ass from your coma,” Christina sneered, “sure.”

“Well, I would have. Watch your mouth, miss. One of the three of us in this room is in charge, and it ain't you.”

Edmund cleared his throat modestly.

Christina adopted a more conciliatory tone, an amazing feat no one but the king or her husband could bring about. “Look, I'm not saying she did anything wrong,
you're
not saying she did anything wrong,
Congress
isn't saying she did anything wrong. But obviously she thinks—well, she thinks
something,
or she'd be able to sleep and eat and she wouldn't jump every time somebody picked up a pen. I mean, come on. That's not normal. Freaking out when your brother—your chronically late brother—is late, that's not normal, right?”

“For Princess Alexandria, no. It's not normal.”

“I didn't know her for very long before Devon did his little ‘time to kill the king and take over the country' shtick, but she just—I mean,
look
at her. You can hardly tell she's pretty.”

“An exaggeration, with all respect,” Edmund said. “The princess is beautiful every moment.”

“Not when she's staggering down the hallway at two thirty in the morning,” Christina shot back. “I don't care
how
great-looking she is, nobody looks good at that place and time. And you know why nobody noticed she was gonna faint? Because her normal skin color is ‘about to faint' pale.”

The king chewed on his thumbnail for a moment. He was an older, male version of Princess Alex, with the trademark Baranov blue eyes, black hair, and quick mind. His fists were the size of bowling balls, dwarfed only by his heart and generosity. “What does Dr. Pohl say about it?” he asked, slowly circling EMBARRASSMENT. “She's gotta have some ideas.”

“Oh, she's like a clam. All that patient-client whatever-it-is.”

“Privilege, Your Highness.”

“Right. Like she said this weekend. Anyway, she's not talking. Not even under extreme nagging. And I bet Alex isn't talking, either. Not to Dr. Pohl, not to us.”

“Characteristic,” Edmund suggested.

“Annoying,” King Al and Christina said in unison.

“So, she'll go. She seems like she wants to go…right? Chris, she say anything like she didn't want to go?”

“No, she's already signed off on her outfit lists and all that junk. She's got meetings scheduled and everybody's almost good to go. It's like she came to lunch with her mind made up.”

“Well, then.” The king circled ASSESSMENT. “Change of scenery, right? Kid might get a kick out of it. Might get some sleep.”

“I guess slipping something into her food is totally out of the question.”

“Yeah, plus it's against the law to do that to a member of the royal family.”

“Also,” Edmund prompted, “it's morally wrong and no way to solve a chronic problem.”

“Riiiiight,” Al and Chris said with convincing sincerity.

“When's she leave? It's on one of my schedules around here…” The king gestured to the hundreds of pages in neat piles around his work space. “Along with the grand opening of the new salmon farm.”

“The day after tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

“Tell her I'd like to have a meeting with her before she takes off. Clear my schedule for tomorrow morning and we'll get it done.”

“I'll see to it at once, Sir.”

“Al, how many times do we have to talk about this? You don't have meetings with your kid.”

“Haven't seen her in a couple of days,” the king said absently, circling ABASEMENT. “It's a big place. If I don't catch her now, I gotta catch her later. And I got stuff later.”

Christina flung herself into the chair on the other side of the desk and buried her head in her hands. “Don't even start with that.”

“Hey, it's meant to be, kiddo.”

“Please, Al.”

“How can Betty resist this?” he bragged, jerking a thumb at himself. Broad-shouldered, his mane of thick black hair sprinkled with silver, his piercing blue eyes bracketed with laugh lines, the tall, fit monarch had a disturbingly good point. “Read
US
magazine if you don't believe me: I'm a catch, baby.”

“Al. Please. I'm begging you.”

“What do you care? Don't you have your hands full with Dara and David, not to mention being the Crown Princess? You're probably supposed to be doing something right this minute—”

Edmund coughed. “Signing off on the menu for Easter weekend.”

“—but you're in here yakking about Alex. What, you gotta worry about my love life, too?”

“Yes, Al, I have to,” she snapped. “We all have to. I think it's safe to say your love life is a global concern.”

“Bullshit. Hey, Edmund, where
is
Betty this week, anyway?”

“Her note advises Queen Elizabeth is conducting business in Scotland.”

“Bullshit! I just saw her on
CNN
this morning, hanging out at Buckingham for something or other.”

“I'm sure Her Majesty the Queen did not deliberately deceive Your Majesty.”

“Ha!” Chris said. “Looks like being separated by a continent
and
an ocean isn't enough…she's gotta make her secretaries lie to you.”

“She will be mine,” the king vowed, circling DEPRIVATION.

“You sound like a bad movie villain,” the princess snorted. “You've gotta drop the whole ‘uniting the houses of Baranov and Windsor' thing. You've just got to. It didn't work five years ago, a year ago, or right now. Don't you think we have enough problems?”

“My courtship is not one of your problems, hon,” the king said mildly.

“Says you,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling.

“Why don't you make yourself useful? Go gimmee Dara,” the king ordered. “I've got some toys for her.”

“Al, she's buried in toys. You've got to try to control yourself. The kid's got over 600 teddy bears at last count.”

“A few stuffed animals never hurt anyone.”

“A few! I tried to find her in her crib the other day and changed a Raggedy Ann doll by mistake.”

“Well, honey, you're kind of an idiot.”

“Al!”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, Your Highness.”

“Edmund.”

“Let's get back on topic,” the king said, circling CHAOTIC. “Alex is taking off to find a cure for her insomnia, Dara's the greatest baby in the history of babyhood, her mom's not too bright, and Queen Elizabeth is secretly in love with me.”

“I can think of at least three things wrong with that statement,” Christina said.

“Only three, Highness?”

“Maybe I should go with her,” she said, lapsing into a low mutter no one had ever been able to decipher. “Maybe mmm hmmm bmmm hmmm.”

“No,” the king said. “She's a big girl. She doesn't need you to come along and bring the nag machine.”

“Nobody does, Sir,” Edmund coughed.

“Oh, come on, Al. It'll be fun. I can bring Dara! She's never been to America. And you know Alex loves that baby. It's the only way she can sleep sometimes, if she brings the baby to bed with her.”

“Forget it, Chris. First off, you have to get my permission
and
Congress's before you take an underage heir out of the country. Second—”

“God
damn
it! She's my kid, too, Al, and she's got dual citizenship.”

“Which doesn't cancel the fact that she's an Alaskan citizen, not to mention the heir of the Crown Prince. Kid's probably gonna be queen of Alaska someday, you can't take her to McDonald's without me knowing about it, life sucks, go cry in a bag of money.”

“Al, you're killing me! Don't get me started on that
stupid
law—”

“Hey, I don't make the rules.”

“You do too!”

“Just saying. Besides, even if you could get your bad self organized in time, it's not a good idea. The baby's a crutch for Alex. I think we can all agree on that.”

Since she couldn't argue, Christina remained silent.

“This is something Alex needs to do, alone, we've all agreed on that. And Alex wouldn't be going if
she
didn't agree. Kid's as stubborn as a tick.”

“Yet another mysterious recessive gene,” Edmund said to the air.

They ignored him. “Anyway. You stay put. Alex goes. And Elizabeth…my sweet, sweet Elizabeth…”

“Can you grab that letter opener and stab me with it?” Christina begged Edmund. “Make it quick, but be thorough.”

“I'm sorry, Your Highness. I need to see to my own end before anyone else's.”

“You two are hilarious,” the king snapped, circling OBSCENITY. “Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”