Page 47 of Omega’s Fealty

There isn’t much but it is enough.

His Highness is safe. His Highness has been reunited with his delegation. His Highness is unharmed.

There’s a picture, taken in the dark with a long lens, of a shape under a silver blanket being put into the back of a black car. Someone’s hand is on his back. You can’t see any of him. Not his face. Not his hair. Nothing.

I look at that picture for a long time.

I put the phone down on the blanket and I lean my head back on the wall and I shut my eyes.

I can’t smell him.

I’ve got clean clothes on and the river took the rest and there’s nothing in this room but concrete and beans and the brown stuff from the kit. I put my hand up to my face out of habit and there’s nothing there either. I scrubbed the gravel out of my palms in the saline before I did the arm.

For nine days I couldn’t take a breath without him in it. Now I’m sitting in a room where the air is just air.

I don’t like it.

I wonder where he is. In a car? In a hotel? In a police station? I wonder if they’ve seen his neck yet. They must have. It’s been hours.

I miss him.

It’s stupid. It’s not even been a day. I’ve gone years without missing anybody and I’m sitting here in a hidey-hole with a hole in my arm and the thing that’s making it hard to breathe isn’t either of those things.

Even though I’ve just slept, I’m suddenly exhausted again. I clamber back to the camping cot and snuggle down, shutting my eyes.

I try to sleep but I can’t. Instead I check the phone every few minutes even though I’ve told myself not to.

The story doesn’t change. The search is ongoing. His Highness is unharmed.

I lie on the cot and read about him. For a man who has spent his entire life sheltered away from others, there’s a lot to read.

I find out his birthday. October 10th. He is the sole heir to the throne. There are a lot of photographs, none candid and all posed. In every single one, he wears a variation of the same outfit: a suit with a sash and medals attached. He wears the same polite royal smile in every single one of them.

It’s not a real smile. I’ve seen his real smile. I’ve seen him laugh.

His favorite food is cinnamon rolls. That one came courtesy of some Q&A in Vogue of all places, printed a week after he landed on American soil.

I google Monteverra and am rewarded with images of mountains, pine trees, castles. It looks like it comes straight out of a fairy tale.

There are a lot of articles about the politics. I don’t know a lot about politics. It’s never felt like it’s something for me. I’ve never even voted. It’s not like politicians are lining up to get people like me on their side. What’s the point?

And yet, I am suddenly very, very interested in Monteverran politics.

At ten to ten, all the news stations suddenly flip to showing the same video.

I can’t tell the location but it is fancy. I can tell by the expensive drapes and the plush carpet. There are two podiums with two flags standing behind them, one of them the stars and stripes and the other one dark blue with a gold crest.

Aurelio stands in front of the podium and my entire body flashes warm. He’s okay.

I knew he would be. At least, I thought so. A dark part of me had been terrified that something had gone wrong. But he is alive. He is in one piece. He is okay.

For now.

Aurelio is in uniform. The outfit is dark navy, almost black, cut close, with a row of medals on the left side that catch the lights.

The collar goes right up. Right up to his jaw, stiff and high and buttoned, with a thin line of gold at the top edge. I know exactly why.

They’ve seen it.