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Still, I cast a glance in her direction and wondered how the blonde beauty had ever gotten her hooks into Fitz.
The massive doors rolled open like thunder on a distant mountain. My eyes widened as we crossed the threshold into the Nolcovian palace. Gwendolyn had said the whole place was stuck in medieval times, but as I took in the double staircases with engraved vines twining up the length, not to mention the tapestries, the paintings, the gold leaf on every surface imaginable, I couldn’t catch my breath. The one who’d run off into the garden looked equally amazed, mouth agape, large eyes wide with wonder at the luxuries to be found at the entrance of the palace. Although it didn’t feel like Camelot, the sight of maids in grey dresses and footmen at every doorway made me feel like I was on the set of Downton Abbey.
“Ladies,” Reginald raised his voice to catch our attention. “As you can see, there are twenty-five of you here today. Only fifteen will stay. You will meet the prince tonight and he will make the final selections. For the time being, you may rest and prepare for the night’s festivities in designated areas. If Prince Leonidas selects you, an escort will take you to your room after the choosing ceremony.”
Fallon scoffed and spoke under her breath, “There are at least sixty rooms, surely the king could—“
“Ms. Avondale,” Reginald pinpointed the naysayer, “is there something amiss you’d like to discuss? Some policy of the king that deserves our attention?”
Her face paled, and her chin tipped to the floor. “No, sir. I eagerly await my prince.”
“Your prince,” that same stunning woman from earlier spoke up, “presumptuous, don’t you think?”
Fallon lifted her head enough to glare, but kept her mouth shut. Reginald went on explaining how to split us into thirds, but Fallon’s eyes remained locked on the one who’d embarrassed her.
“Why is she even here?” Her whisper barely carried beyond her lips, but Gwendolyn picked it up. “She broke his heart. I don’t see why he would ask her—“
“The queen invited Chantal,” Gwendolyn cut her off. “You know her majesty loathed their breakup. I think she’s hoping for a reconciliation.”
I could hardly hide my reaction. Fitz had dated the supermodel? In high school, he couldn’t even get the head cheerleader to look at him, let alone date him. What alternate reality had I landed in? Before I could dwell on it, a footman took hold of my bags and nodded for me to follow him. I started to, but noted the groups were walking in another direction.
“Um, excuse me.” I hated to be a bother, but I also didn’t want to end up halfway through a gate again. “I think I’m supposed to go that way.”
The footman frowned and shook his head. “You’re Lady Caldwell, yes? From America?”
Lady? Not typically. “I’m Michaela Caldwell, from California.”
“Very good, milady. I’ll escort you to your room.” The faintest smile twitched at his stoic lips. “By order of Prince Fitzborough.”
Well, if the prince wanted it, I suppose the prince got it.
We moved through the halls, past literal knights in shining armor, or at least their empty armor. Paintings in ornate frames adorned the wall, paired with so many antiquities that it was commonplace. No time to ooh and ahh when another one would pop up in the next ten feet.
He stopped at the corner and opened a hand-carved door. Before I had time to admire it, I caught sight of my room. The gasp came without my consent, but I didn’t blame my subconscious for the reaction. I could fit my entire apartment into the room, and the canopy bed that adorned one wall wouldn’t have fit through my front door. The arched windows looked out on the gardens. A fire burned in the fireplace, where a chair waited with a blanket and a couple of books on a side table. Everything from the burgundy bedspread to the scent of lilies that lingered in the air told me I was there. In fact, the only thing missing was Fitz.
I turned to ask the footman if the prince was going to come by, but he was almost out the door. Pausing at the entrance, he turned back. “Your lady’s maid will be here at five to help you prepare and will escort you to the parlor.”
“And the prince?” I looked around, wondering if he was going to pop out of a closet or something. Was Fitz really going to ignore me until he greeted the rest of the women?
The footman’s brow furrowed. “The prince will be there tonight, and…” he hesitated for a moment, “I assure you, he doesn’t make a habit of visiting guest’s chambers for visits.”
My eyes widened at what he was insinuating. I rushed to correct him, but the door closed, and I groaned. What a great impression I was making on the people of Nolcovia. First, I was the criminal trying to slip through the palace gates and now they thought I was looking for… well never mind that because I wasn’t.
I sighed and sank onto the bed, comforted by the softness. Why had Fitz put me off in the corner instead of with the others? Was he ashamed of me? They were the real deal, and I was just his royal wingman? And if Gwendolyn was so close to him, why not have her do my job? Why would he want me to come all the way from America?
Oh, I couldn’t even think straight. At home, it was the middle of the night and the sun beaming through the windows made my head hurt. Growing older didn’t make the complexities of a high school relationship any less confusing.
I flopped back on the mattress with every intention of maybe stealing a nap, but my head thumped against something hard. Confused, I pulled back the blanket and found a hardback copy of Romeo and Juliet and a small flashlight. I stared, not sure why it was beneath the blankets. We’d read it freshman year and Fitz and I had mocked it incessantly. Did he forget that? Or was this a nod to it? Did he want me to read it at night with the flashlight?
I cracked the cover and a card tumbled out onto the bedspread. Through the years, I recognized Fitz’s flowing cursive script. Curiosity peaked. I read what he’d written.
Bookcase. Frog. Two inches to the left. Stand back. Take the light.
Of all the cryptic…
I read the note again, hoping for clarity, but none came. But a bookcase waited against the far wall. Would it be so bad to check it out? Logically, it made some sense.
The handwriting belonged to Fitz.
