Page 2 of Omega’s Fealty

Under the schedule is the briefing book for my next interviewer. Someone in our press office has underlined the questions she has been briefed to give me. The interview won’t be live, of course, so if she tries to go off topic, I will be whisked away.

On the next page are the rules. No handshakes. That’s the no touching rule. No surprise questions. She is not allowed closer than five feet. She is only allowed to look me in the eye when asking questions or I am answering.

That one is particularly stupid. It’s a Monteverra royalty tradition that eye contact is not allowed. It’s outdated there, but here it just makes us look backward. ‘Softening’ it by allowing it during questions just makes us look unhinged.

That’s one of the first rules I’d get rid of if I had any say in the matter.

On the television, my interview ends, and the panel starts in.

“—charming, of course he’s charming,” a woman is saying as I come through to the living room. “But let’s be honest about what this tour is. It’s a sales pitch. Monteverra wants the sanctions eased and it wants Americans on its ski lifts, and somebody over there has worked out that the crown prince is the best advertising the country owns.”

“The hothouse prince,” the host says. “That’s what the European press calls him.”

“Because that’s what he is. Raised under glass. He’s twenty-three years old and has barely been seen outside the palace. And now that he’s here? No unscripted interviews. Not one. Ask anyone who has tried to book him.”

I sit down on the arm of the sofa and watch them discuss me. It’s more information than anything my own delegation gives me. The Americans like to argue out loud. I like that about them.

The network gives Monteverra a defender, for balance. I recognize him. He’s a trade attaché comfortable in front of the cameras. “What people forget,” he says, “is that Monteverra is a very old country making real reforms at its own pace. His Royal Highness’s tour is a bridge. The prince himself is deeply engaged with—”

“Is he?” the woman cuts in. “Engaged with what? Name one thing he has actually engaged with.”

The attaché smiles and talks about heritage.

“Meanwhile the sanctions are causing real hardship for the people in Monteverra,” the older man says. “That is who is actually important. Not some prince who has staff practically wiping his ass for him. The banking restrictions, the import bans. Their economy is tanking and that’s the real itinerary here.”

That’s the truth of it. We need trade deals. We need the Americans to lift their embargoes. We need them to look at us and see a pretty fairytale kingdom, a little conservative, sure, but not actually oppressive.

“And then there are the protests,” the host says, and the studio is replaced by footage I haven’t seen yet.

I have a television at the palace, of course, but the national broadcaster doesn’t show this kind of news. I’m half surprised that I’m allowed to see it here and they haven’t taken the television out.

But then, I suppose, I’m not anyone who matters. At least, my opinion doesn’t matter nor do I have any political say. I guess it doesn’t matter if I get to see what is really happening at home. It’s not like I can make any difference.

The television shows the main square in the capital. It’s February, the fountain boarded over for winter. The footage is shaky and a little fuzzy. I suspect it has been filmed on someone’s smuggled-in smartphone. Certainly, no actual cameras would be allowed.

The crowd is chanting. The police line starts to move and I start to see batons coming down hard, then the sound of gunfire. The clip ends.

I keep my face still while I watch. There are cameras in every room I sleep in. There are the obvious ones in the corners but I know they are hidden too — in the smoke alarms, in the thermostats. I don’t know about this room but I keep my face still anyway.

“We should touch on the King’s health,” the older man on the panel says when the studio comes back. “The palace line is that His Majesty is resting.”

“He hasn’t been seen in public for months. And under Monteverran law an omega cannot hold the throne alone, so the real question was never whether Prince Aurelio marries. It’s who, and how soon, and what that man receives along with him. Which — to be clear — is the country.”

“And meanwhile,” the host says, “every eligible alpha in Washington has suddenly developed a deep interest in Monteverra trade policy.” The panel laughs. They go to commercial.

None of it is news to me. It is still strange to hear it said out loud, in American accents. At home nobody says it at all. I am the end of the line. Whoever marries me rules Monteverra.

In the dressing room I renew my blockers, because the car comes at seven. A patch behind each ear. The band at each wrist, tucked under the cuff. The unscented spray at the throat, ten seconds, collar held away. At home they call it modesty of scent. An omega of rank does not go about smelling of what he is.

I couldn’t tell you what I smell like underneath. I was twelve when they started me on them.

The heats are handled the same way — suppressed, charted, managed by two beta doctors and never spoken of above a murmur. I have never had a proper heat. I only even know what they are because once I heard two maids gossiping about them in the room next door when they were supposed to be silent.

There is a knock at the door. Three knocks, then one. Then one more.

It is Havel.

“Come.”