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That’s strange. And it’s not a good sign.
Seems I have a trespasser on my hands.
It’s not the best way to hide until the royal mess blows over. I’ve survived the first week or so in my lean-to in the woods since the abdication of my brother, Prince Torben. I have no intention of staying at the palace to witness the chaos surrounding my other brother, Prince Etienne. I did my part already. But after all eyes turned to Etienne to be the next in line to the throne, I saw the writing on the wall. Things won’t go well for Etienne, and then the king and queen will come knocking on my door to find a wife and start producing heirs.
Finding a wife and making babies is all fine and good, but I have no interest in ruling as king. That will cut into my hobby of avoiding interacting with the public.
It’s best to lay low and stay hidden.
A week in the woods is nothing for me, but it will start getting colder soon, and I need a plan. I need a place to get warm and cook food over the unpredictable winters in rural Gravenland.
Fortunately, the palace has plenty of rustic hideaways all over the kingdom. There was a time when kings and queens spent all their downtime out in nature. The royals aren’t like that much anymore.
A puzzling keypad lock on the door blocks my entrance to this particular cabin. I take a guess at the code—the king’s birthday—and push inside.
And now, I realize I don’t have a trespasser on my hands. No, it’s much worse than that.
I have a squatter. Someone left a jumble of clothes on the bed. Well, not clothes. Underwear in all different lurid shades.
Wait, no, those are swimsuits. I pick one up by one of its delicate neon green strings and examine it. This one can’t be a swimsuit because it’s all strings and not much else.
My palms sweat, and I drop the flimsy thing on the bed.
At my feet is a pair of shredded denim shorts, a crop top, and something that might be called panties but is again mostly made of string. Someone is naked and prancing about the place?
I bend down and pick up the shorts, examining the pockets for a wallet, but all I find is a small plastic compact mirror.
My nose automatically goes to the crotch of the shorts. I inhale a clean, sweaty, not unpleasant sort of scent on this one. I … don’t know why I did that.
But I liked doing it.
Doesn’t matter. Whoever this scent belongs to is not welcome here, and I have to figure out how to get rid of them.
If I find them.
I’m thirsty from the hike from my last hideout, about fifteen miles deep into the woods. Fifteen miles is nothing for me, even laden with fishing and hunting gear. Nonetheless, I’m thirsty.
I move to the kitchen to pour a glass of water and find the cabinets and shelves stocked with half a dozen different crackers. I open another cabinet to grab a cup and see that dishes have been pushed aside for more crackers, snacks, and other abominable processed foods. Oh, gods, she must be American. And she clearly thinks she’s staying for some time, judging by the sheer amount of food.
Even so. Something doesn’t add up here.
The place looks different from the last time I visited for the autumn bird count. There’s a television over there, where there didn’t used to be. The fridge is not the ancient one but a big stainless side-by-side that overwhelms the rustic kitchen. And the front door…the keypad lock.
Oh no. Oh, shit.
Has my mother…did the palace list this place on a vacation rental website?
Fuck me with a damn chainsaw.
I throw open the fridge and see yogurts, sausages, a distressing amount of cheeses, creams, and strawberry milk. In the freezer, things only get worse. A bag of store-bought frozen fish.
Frozen…store-bought…salmon.
I need to sit down.
I’m going to be sick to my stomach.
I slam the freezer door and whirl around, spotting a handbag carelessly tossed on a kitchen chair. Inside, I find the pocketbook and work open the snap, pulling out the identification.
