Chapter 4: Lisabet

I’ve never been to Oxland before, so getting to sit in the heart of the royal family’s summer palace feels like something straight out of a fantasy novel.

Everything’s made of white marble. Beautiful, pristine, and polished within an inch of its life.

There’s gold everywhere too. Gold picture frames holding up hand-painted family portraits of each reigning monarch in the kingdom’s history. Gold statues. Gold accented hallway furniture.

It’s kind of blinding.

The view is breathtaking, though.

The bright blue ocean that we can see just below the plateau to the east is stunning. Crystal clear waters, sandy white beaches, not a single cloud present to darken the sky. It stands in stark contrast to the murky waters of the Hudson that I’m so used to.

The greatest sight for me, though, was getting to walk into the summer palace’s private outdoor amphitheater in the south courtyard. The rows of seats are made of marble—

of course—while the perimeter of the area is surrounded by lush green hedges and stone planters full of vibrant fresh flowers. The sun’s out and shining, the gentle breeze that passes us by is warm against my skin, and for the first time in a long time, I feel relaxed.

The orchestra is just about finished warming up. We’re arranged in our regular U-formation in front of Wilma, who’s been given her own marble slab to stand on. The first and second violins are up front, stage left. The violas are dead center in front of Wilma’s music stand, with the woodwind section just behind them. I’m sitting with the other cello players, the double basses just behind us. The percussion section is teasing the two harpists in our company, as they usually do, behind the violinists.

Percussionists are always such a wacky breed.

I’ve got my cello resting up against me, every string tuned to the correct pitch. My bow’s rosined and at the ready, my music sheets pinned to my music stand to keep from blowing away. I don’t actually need the music. I’ve got it all memorized backward and forward and upside-down. It’s really out in front of me for Larry’s benefit.

Larry’s a nice guy. Shy, but talented. He’s an excellent performer, but he unfortunately suffers from terrible stage fright. When I look over, I see the sticky sheen of sweat dripping from his brow as he fiddles with his strings.

“Do you think if he doesn’t like the music, the King will execute us?” he bumbles under his breath.

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I reassure.

“Can you pit check me?” he asks. “God, why am I so nervous? I’ve never played for royalty before.”

I roll my eyes. “You just answered your own question.”

Wilma taps her conductor’s wand four times against her music stand, capturing her orchestra’s attention. We all look up and see our guest of honor walking toward us, a procession of really important looking people following closely behind.

King Albert hasn’t made a public appearance in almost ten years. I don’t go out of my way to keep up with the rumor mill, mainly because I’ve got better things to do. Things like practicing the cello or picking up the occasional side job with Larry, Damian, and Beatrice to make some extra cash.

What little I do know about the King isn’t too pretty.

He’s supposedly a good leader, but a harsh one. He’s the kind of man who treats those who are loyal to him very well, and those who’d oppose him like the dirt beneath his boot.

As far as I’m concerned, he seems capable. Oxland and its people are flourishing. There’s culture here, plentiful history. Their economy’s doing great, there are plenty of jobs, and there’s really no reason to hear about Oxland because they keep to themselves on the international platforms.

King Albert looks like he’s pushing seventy. A shiny, balding head. What little hair he does have left is completely white. The beard he sports is thick and gray, matching the color of his bushy eyebrows. There’s a severity to him as a result of a constantly furrowed brow and pursed lips. He walks with his back so straight I wonder if someone’s slipped a yard stick down the back of his shirt collar.

There’s a woman on his arm.

Queen Isabella.

She’s very pretty. Long blonde locks pulled up into a graceful French twist, pearl ornaments decorating her hair like tiny flowers. She’s in a burgundy dress that stops just below the knee, as well as a silver brooch of the Oxlandian Royal Family’s crest pinned to her chest. There’s a flow to her, like she’s made of water or air, always adapting and moving with ease.

If she’s water, her husband’s a rock.

It’s hard not to notice that neither of them look too happy.

We all bow as the King takes his seat, the Queen beside him in a smaller, less ornate chair.

Wilma bows with a dramatic sweep of the arm. “Your Majesties. Thank you so much for inviting us to perform for you. I can say without a doubt that we’re all very excited to be here.”

Queen Isabella smiles courteously. “No, thank you for coming on such short notice. My son highly recommend we try to catch you play.”

My stomach does a triple flip. I hold my tongue, even though I’m bursting to the seams with curiosity.

Her son?

Prince Miles?

King Albert doesn’t say anything. I’m pretty sure his face is frozen. “Begin,” he orders.

Queen Isabella pats her husband on the hand. “Oh, shouldn’t we wait for Miles?”

“He’s late. I told him to be punctual. Conductor, you may begin.”

Wilma is about to turn and count us in, but she stops when we hear a rush of footsteps over the courtyard’s cobblestone path.

I look up and find Prince Miles himself hurrying down the path, an adorable Golden Retriever bounding ahead of him. The dog runs directly at me, jumping up onto his hind legs to rest his front paws on my thigh.

I blanche. This is all too much for me to process.

I love dogs. This one in particular is super cute. I want to pet him, but I’ve got a ten-thousand-dollar cello that I can’t just drop. I’m also thoroughly distracted by Prince Miles, who’s know rushing over to grab the dog by his collar.

He smiles apologetically. “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”

Our eyes lock.

I forget where I am, who I am, and why I’m here.

Prince Miles is somehow a thousand times more handsome than I remember. Maybe it’s got something to do with the air, or the fact that he’s back in his home country, in his element.

The sun shines against his hair and makes it look lighter, warmer.

He smells divine. Like pine trees and earth and the ocean breeze all rolled into one.

“It’s good to see you again, Lisabet,” he says, only loud enough for me and maybe Larry to hear.

“H-hello,” I stutter, totally at a loss for regular brain function.

There’s something about Prince Miles that makes my head short circuit. I’m internally screaming at the top of my lungs.

He remembers me! He called me by my name! Why does he smell so good?

Larry throws me a sideways glance, but says nothing.

“W-what’s your dog’s name?” I ask, praying that I don’t sound as dumb and awestruck as I feel.

“This is Jingles,” he introduces.

Jingles barks happily, tail wagging so hard that he accidentally whips me in the shins.

King Albert sighs loudly, clearly peeved. “Prince Miles. You’ve kept us waiting. Sit.”

Princes Miles’ smile falls slightly as he looks away from me toward his father. He guides Jingles away and takes a seat in the chair the attendants have produced for him.

Wilma bows her head respectfully. “I would like to present to you one of our most popular pieces. This is Tchaikovsky’s “Fantasy Overture” for Romeo & Juliet.”

With fluid ticks of her wand, she counts us in.

My body moves automatically, having trained for years to follow the precise beats and instructions of my conductor. Even though my thoughts are in overdrive, my fingers are thankfully able to operate on muscle memory alone. They find the right positions, the right notes. My right hand bows with precision and care.

My brain might be on fire right now, but at least the music sounds nice.

The entire time we play, I can feel Prince Miles’ eyes on me. I don’t think he’s looked anywhere else. I don’t dare look up from the sheet music, afraid that one glimpse at the prince will leave me utterly lost.

I can’t screw up in front of an audience.

Especially not a royal audience.

The music swells and falls. Sections fade in and out. There’s no one group that stands out, no one musician that hogs the spotlight. We’re an orchestra, a team, a family. We operate as one unit, and we reap the rewards as a whole. Nothing can be gained from someone trying to outshine the other lest the song sounds lopsided and rushed in places.

I manage to hold it together until we reach the end.

It’s only then that I remember to breathe.

The royals sitting before us all applaud, quickly followed by the supportive clapping of their attendants. Queen Isabella and Prince Miles look very impressed.

The same can’t be said for the King.

“I’ve heard better,” he grumbles.

Queen Isabella looks outright appalled. “Dear.”

King Albert straightens his posture. “Is that all? I have an important meeting to get to.”

The man’s just about to rise out of his seat, but Prince Miles beats him to it. “How about another?” he suggests. “Bach’s “Cello Suite No.1 in G Major?”

He looks directly at me.

Wilma bows dramatically again. “That’s a solo piece, Your Royal Highness. But if that’s your request…Jessica, why don’t you—”

“I want her to play it,” the prince says, holding my gaze. “Can you do that for me?”

If my face isn’t already beet red, then it’s a miracle.

Everybody’s staring at me now.

“Of course,” I say in a small voice. “Every cellist worth their salt can play it.”

Wilma beckons with a finger. “Come. Front and center, Thompson.”

I freeze.

Everybody’s watching me. My colleagues are all whispering to one another, as stunned as I am. I’m pretty sure I hear a hint of jealousy from our first violinist, Jessica, too.

“Why her? I’m the soloist.”

“Come on,” Wilma says to me. “Let’s not keep our esteemed audience waiting.”

I swallow hard.

My guts are suddenly lined with lead.

How is this happening? How is this my life?

I scoot forward in my chair a little, but Queen Isabella shakes her head.

“Come a little closer, darling,” she says sweetly.

I bite my bottom lip, standing to pull my chair behind me. I’m officially separated from the orchestra, exposed for all to see.

I haven’t been this anxious since my audition to get into Julliard. My palms are cold and clammy, my fingers won’t stop shaking, and my heart’s racing so fast and hard that it’s all I can hear. I take a deep breath in through the nose and close my eyes.

Pretend they’re not here.

I dive into it, doing my best to drown out everything else.

Bach’s “Cello Suite No.1 in G Major” is as basic as they come. It’s an intermediate piece at best, and I’ve played it countless times before. It’s the equivalent of a pianist turning to “Heart and Soul”, or a flutist performing “Ode to Joy.”

The notes vibrate through me, resonating with a golden tone when I play the strings just right. My nerves settle the further into the score I get, performance anxiety melting away as quickly as ice over fire.

When it’s all said and done, the first and only thing that captures my attention is the enthusiastic, loud applause. The King, Queen, and all of their attendants are smiling at me, showering me with their approval.

Prince Miles is silent.

All he does is stare.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve done something to offend him. Maybe my performance wasn’t to his liking. My heart races, and my palms begin to sweat all over again, but that’s when I see it.

The smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. The way his eyes are glued on me, trained on me like he’s drinking in the details of some sort of masterpiece. His gaze is a spotlight, and I’m the center of his attention. It’s the same look he gave me at the mixer, when he picked me out of the crowd of gorgeous women who I can only dream of being half as beautiful.

My cheeks burn, and my lungs seize. Could it be that he’s interested?

That can’t be it.

It’s just your imagination.

The King rises from his seat and claps his hands twice. “Thank you for taking the time, but I’m afraid I have other engagements.”

The Queen places a hand on her husband’s forearm. It’s hard not to notice the way he pulls away. “But, dear, I’m sure they’re not quite finished. Can’t you stay a while longer?”

“I’ve got a debriefing with the foreign affairs minister,” the King says curtly before turning on his heels to leave.

The poor woman looks disappointed, but gets up as well. She smiles courteously at as. “Thank you so much. It’s truly been a delight. I wish you all the best of luck on the remainder of your tour.”

We all bow and watch as the royals leave, Prince Miles included.

As we pack up our instruments with the utmost care, a young man with curly red hair approaches me and discreetly taps me on the shoulder.

“Miss?” he says with a small bow of the head. He holds out a business card. Something’s scribbled on the back in blue ink.

I hesitantly take it. “What is it?”

The man leans in to whisper in my ear. “Prince Miles would like a private word. Would you please follow me?”

I’m at a loss for words.

“Quickly, Miss Lisabet. Before the others catch on.”

“Oh, um…All right?”

I quickly close up my cello’s case and follow the man into the palace, momentarily leaving the safety of my orchestra. I know they’re not going to get very far, and even if I do lose track of them, we’re all booked at the same hotel in town. I can always join them later if we get separated.

The inside of the palace is an absolute maze.

Everything’s so shiny and bright that I feel out of place in my drab clothes and cheap flats I bought on sale at Walmart. Even the air smells expensive, floral perfumes and notes of famous Oxlandian dark chocolate everywhere.

The attendant takes me to a small room, tucked away somewhere in the east wing of the summer palace. I notice that there isn’t a lot of foot traffic, the whole area quiet and still.

“This way, Miss Lisabet,” he says, opening the door for me. “His Royal Highness is expecting you.”

“Um, thanks?”

“David.”

“Thank you, David.”

I walk into what appears to be a small octagonal study. The walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves, rows upon rows of thick leather-bound tomes surrounding me. Dust particles glimmer in the sunshine that streams in from the arching window, and the whole place smells sweet like freshly baked cookies and recently brewed tea.

And then I see him.

Prince Miles is browsing one of the shelves, a thin book already in hand. He glances at me over his shoulder and smiles, charming dimple gracing his cheek.

“Lisabet,” he says coolly. “Thank you for coming.”

My heart is beating at a mile a minute. There’s something fantastical about the way he says my name, his Oxlandian accent making it seem far more exotic than it really is. I’ve always thought my name was boring, but Prince Miles manages to make it sound like the most beautiful thing in the world.

I want to hear him say it again.

I’m about to curtsey, but Prince Miles chuckles.

“There’s no need for that, Lisabet.”

The tiny voice inside my head squeals.

“Oh, um…Okay.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time, so I hope you don’t mind that I get straight to the point. I can never tell how much privacy we have within the palace.”

I inhale sharply. “I don’t mind.”

“You’ve been on my mind since New York,” he says. “I’d really like to take you out so I can get to know you better.”

The gasp that tries to erupt from my lungs catches in my throat.

“Like, a date?”

Prince Miles nods. “Yes. I’d like to ask you out on a date. My tutors have assured me my English is impeccable, but if I’m saying it wrong, feel free to enlighten me.”

My head swirls so hard that I nearly fall over. I can hardly believe the words coming out of his pretty mouth.

Prince Miles. Me. Dating. Those three concepts just don’t line up.

Part of me wants to say yes. What person in their right mind would reject a man like him? He has it all. The looks, the charm, the money, the power. So what could he possibly want with someone like me?

No, Lisabet.

You’re from two very different worlds.

And the last time you opened up to someone, he broke your heart.

I shake my head slowly. “I’m sorry, no.”

Prince Miles blinks, clearly surprised by my answer. “No?” he echoes.

“I’m…I’m not interested in dating right now. I swear it’s not you. It’s me. I’m working through some stuff and…Well, I’ve kind of sworn off men. Uh, Your Royal Highness. So, yeah. No. But thank you. I’m flattered, I guess.” I realize too late that I’m rambling. If my face gets any hotter, it could be used to replace the sun. “I, uh…I’m sorry. I have to go.”

I hurry out of the study just as Prince Miles is about to say something. I’m sure I just broke a thousand different protocols by leaving without his permission, but I don’t care.

Walking away from the sexiest man alive is the only way I’m going to be able to keep my sanity.

What’s left of it, anyway.