Page 2 of The Harvest Homecoming

“You’re being sardonic,” I said as she handed me a clean shirt, neatly pressed, still in the dry-cleaning wrapping paper. She never cracked a smile, but I caught the imp in her blue-brown gaze. “Those tiny bits make me itch. I’m filled up with water. Gus insists on pouring bubbly spring lilac water down my throat to cleanse my colon. I’ll shit like a damn goose for the rest of the day.”

After wrangling into a soft tee, I pulled my sweater back on as Houghton maneuvered into traffic. I loved having a flat in Oslo. The people, the city, everything was clean, safe, and welcoming. Yes, the natives could be considered reserved, but we Östermonians were also viewed that way by the outside world.

“I suggest you order bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast at lunch since you’re scheduled to meet Veronica Clark for dinner at eight to go over your role in the launch of her new perfume.”

“You’re telling me to eat the BRAT diet. Do I look like I’m three years old?” I asked as we passed the Oslo Opera House. “Don’t answer that. Did Mother mention anything about our season tickets here? I’d love to see Don Carlo as I missed it the last time it was in Oslo, as I was in Singapore for that wildlife fundraiser event to advance local species protections.”

“Is Dominik Sagen playing the lead role?” She folded my hairy shirt and placed it in her tote before removing her trusty electronic tablet.

“So I’ve heard,” I replied as I settled back into my warmed seat. Fall always brought out the chills for me so as soon as the first leaf turned yellow, I was in sweaters and coats.

“I’ll reach out to her secretary to see if they’ve made arrangements. Speaking of the queen, she wishes to remind you that you’re to return home next week for a familial meeting with your siblings about the fall festival this year.”

“What about it?” I wiggled about. The mention of going home to face my father irritated me as much as little snippets of hair down my back. “And why do we all need to go in person? She knows quite well how to do a group video chat. She does them weekly with Gilda, Anders, and Mitchell.”

“Perhaps she would like to see her children in person more often than once a year for Christmas?” I rolled my eyes. “You did ask, Sir. I cannot speak for the queen, nor would I dare to assume her reasonings. Shall I respond that you will attend?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Are all the boys going to be there? Anders?”

“Former Prince Anders is unlikely to be in attendance,” she quietly replied to dash the flicker of hope.

“No, of course.” I sighed heavily. Having Anders home made me feel less like the odd duck. Other than Rani, who was now in Kensington working with my sister-in-law, there were no other queer people in Dragens Abborre, the castle I’d grown up in. “Is this just a testosterone-filled family gathering, or will the wives and children be there?”

“I believe Lady Alva will be coming with Prince Ivar, but Princess Karina will be staying home with the children, as they are all suffering from runny noses.”

Rani would be there. That made the notion of sitting down to chart out a monstrously large autumn fete for the entire nation far less horrid. Sitting back in my seat, my ass warm, wound in rich cashmere, I drifted off as Vetra typed away. To moonlit nights in the south of France wound around Rani Adhikari, his lean body moving underneath mine as we lost ourselves in each other. Dark brown eyes, tan skin, thick ebony hair that curled when wet, and lips to make a man lose his senses. I’d never quite discovered a man or woman who touched me like Rani, and God knows I’d tried. Hundreds of people had tumbled into and out of my beds. But Rani…

Well, Rani was head and shoulders above the rest.

And I’d fucked that one special thing up just like I had fucked up so many other things in my wild past. Running an idle hand through my new hair, I wondered if changing one’s ways was as easy as changing one’s hair. Surely not, or every asshole out there would be less of an asshole. But small changes. Small changes. Those were easier. A Chinese proverb about a man who removes a mountain begins by carrying away small stones came to mind. I’d been flicking pebbles from the base of the Kilimanjaro of wastrel behavior I’d built up for months now.

Maybe I needed to move up to a bucket and trowel. Possibly something larger.

“Can you order me a wheelbarrow from Amazon?” I asked, which got me that sharp ‘what the hell is he on about now’ look from Vetra.

“What color, Sir?”

Chapter Three

Eight days later, I was pacing outside my mother’s solarium, waiting to enter.

This was just one of a thousand dumb things about royalty. Waiting outside a greenhouse to be announced. Most normal people’s kids just walked into their parents’ rooms—sometimes when they shouldn’t—or, when they got older, knocked and then entered after an all clear. Not here. Here I stood in the hallway like a moron, twiddling my thumbs, as some staffer in livery went inside to announce my presence. I could do the same by calling under the door, but that wouldn’t be fitting for a member of the royal family. It was all horrendously archaic as well as preposterous. Pageantry also fit. Vanity and pomp to impress whom exactly?

The two security guards at the end of the hall? The cook? The maid dusting off the bust of my great-great-great aunt, who, horrors of horrors, died a spinster in a flaming speedboat crash at the ripe old age of ninety-two? Mother liked to say that I had inherited Aunt Bulga’s daredevil gene.

Losing what little patience I had, for I’d wanted to find Rani to say hello, beautiful, I was about to just walk in when the door opened.

“Her Majesty will see you now, Your Highness,” the footman announced with a bow for me, which I acknowledged with a soft thanks. Strolling into the sunny room filled with urns of ferns, vining flowering plants, and a tiny fountain burbling in the corner, I found my mother and brothers gathered around a glass-topped wrought-iron table. They all glanced up from the platters of scones laid out before them.

“Holy fuck,” Frode, the eldest son and crown prince, blurted out. The others all gaped at me as if a unicorn in a kilt had just clip-clopped in.

“Language,” Mama chided automatically, the spoonful of clotted cream drifting from the scone on her plate to somewhere left of center. “Harold, what have you done to your curls?”

I walked around the table, saddened not to see Alva here, for that would have brought Rani into the room to take notes. My brother Ivar stared openly, mouth slightly open, as Frode tipped his head left then right like a dog.

“Good to see you, Mama,” I earnestly said, bending down to kiss her smooth cheek.

“And you, my sweet,” she whispered, reaching up to pat my sandy-blond, straight hair. “This is certainly a surprise. What led you to do this? Please, sit. Cook Margit made the cranberry scones just for you, Harold.”