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Mareike frowns and picks up a lock of my hair. “Dye top gray. Just top. Still blue under.” She pulls out a phone and scrolls through pictures, then shoves the device at me. The image shows the back of a young woman’s head. The top of her twisted and braided hair is gunmetal gray, with a bright blue underlayer. It’s stunning.
Moving in front of me, she gathers the hair above my ears. “This gray. That same.”
Lina wanders over with a huge mug of coffee and peers over my shoulder. “Do it!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
TEO
Victoriana pours tea into an heirloom porcelain cup and offers it to me. I carefully grip the dainty saucer and put it in front of me, hoping I won’t have to touch it again. My cousin loves to use the family china, but eating off these delicate dishes makes me sweat bullets. I take a cookie from the plate and nibble it instead.
Victoriana, the eldest child of my Aunt Franziska and number three in the succession, was born to be royal. Well, technically, we were all born into the monarchy, but Victoriana is the only one who fits the old royalty mold. She dresses elegantly, never does anything less than refined, and loves living on the palace grounds.
I, on the other hand, daily regret my decision to live here. Security knows when I come and go, which means Eduard and the Grand Duchess know, too. I’ve been summoned to the palace twice since they returned from their trip abroad—once when my aunt demanded an update on my “mission” and once when Eddie wanted to whine about me not introducing him to more women.
I’m not getting between the monarch and her son. Every time Eduard has been spotted with an American, his mother brings up Harry Windsor and Meghan Markle. “Eduard doesn’t have the luxury of being the spare.” This statement is usually accompanied by a glare at me, as if it’s my fault I’m the eldest of four, and she only had one child.
Victoriana stirs her tea. “You missed the family meeting before the trooping of the colors this morning.”
I start guiltily. The royal family meets for coffee before the parade. It’s an unofficial pre-event, but it’s not really considered optional. Normally, if I’m in town I don’t mind, but today I just wasn’t in the mood. “There was a matter at the factory.”
Her eyes half-close in a disbelieving look. “The factory is closed today.”
“It is. But I’m finalizing the Rotheberg shipment and needed to complete the inventory check. We’re still short a delivery from Torben.” I don’t mention that I could have done my inventory this afternoon. Or tomorrow. She knows.
“Don’t worry, I covered for you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve been gone so much, no one was surprised. Andela’s absence from the parade was harder to explain.”
I snort. “Andela’s absence is expected by now, isn’t it?”
“Expected, but not excused.” She waves a languid hand. “We’re supposed to get snow tonight.” While Victoriana is excellent at small talk—another royal attribute I did not inherit—this sounds more pointed.
“Not unusual for November.” I know better than to ask directly. She’ll get around to whatever her point is in her own time. Really, she could give the Grand Duchess a run for her money when it comes to being royally obscure.
“Do you know where Andela is?”
“At home?” I glance at the clock—it’s a little after three. I’m supposed to meet Hans for football—European, not American—in an hour. The field should have dried out a little by then, but I’m still predicting a muddy mess.
She pulls her phone from her ever-present purse. Sometimes I think she’s trying to channel Queen Elizabeth. She always has a bag, and even here in her own apartment, it hangs from a little hook on the table. She taps the phone screen, then hands the device to me. “She posted this right before you got home.”
“This” is Andela’s Instagram account—a private art account she keeps hidden from the palace PR people. Or at least she thinks it’s hidden. I’m surprised Victoriana knows it exists. I’m also surprised I didn’t see the notification on the Feltz Ornament account—I checked it this morning.
The first post is a selfie of three girls at the Freiberg train station. Lina and Eva, wearing winter coats and hats, stand on either side of a young woman with brilliant green hair. It takes a second for me to recognize my sister. The caption says, “Road trippin’ with my besties! #Tripl3Threat #Vienna.”
Vienna? I pull up the train schedule. “Does she think that hair is a disguise? And do my parents know?” Although they allow me to travel to the US by myself, they’re much more cautious with my younger siblings. Of course, Andela’s done things to merit that heightened level of oversight.
Monitoring and controlling the actions of their twenty-something children might seem a bit “extra” as Eva would say, but when you’re royalty—even junior royalty—there’s reason to be overprotective. Bad actors would use us if they could. We’re fortunate to be from a small city-state—we’ve gotten away with much more independence than our peers from larger countries. It’s something I understand but Andela never seems to get.
“Actually, they do. At least Aunt Inge knows. She tried you first, but it went to voicemail.” She frowns. “I’m not sure if she told your father.” Victoriana leans across the table and touches my hand. “I told her you’re meeting them in Vienna.”
I glance up from checking my settings. “I am?”
She taps the edge of my phone. “She shouldn’t go alone. Look, I’m one hundred percent in favor of treating men and women equally, but this is Andela. You travel the world on your own, but you’re dependable, organized. Safe. You don’t ‘road trip’ to Vienna and post it on your social media.” She shakes her head in dismay, holding up her phone again. “She thinks she’s being careful—only posting on her ‘anonymous’ accounts. Like people don’t know she’s a royal. She’s got three thousand followers on this account. You can’t tell me none of them know who she really is.”
I sigh. Sometimes it’s hard being the dependable, safe one. Bianka is the baby of the family. She’s supposed to be the charming risk-taker, not Andela. Yeah, I took a pop psychology class in college. The professor was really into birth order. And when you’re royal, birth order matters.
