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Michaelis ben Jason, the younger of the Shivadh princes, returned to Askazer-Shivadlakia from his last year at boarding school without fanfare. He came on the train from Paris, where he'd spent a few weeks after graduation, unwinding from exams. His older brother, Eitan, would have worked his way through the nightclubs and half the female population of the city; Michaelis was as charming as his brother but naturally more reticent, preferring to sit in the golden Parisian sun and read, or spend a contemplative afternoon in the Louvre.
He'd written that he would be arriving by the Tuesday evening train; he'd suggested to his father that a welcome-home reception a few days after his return might be more elegant than "a crowd on the platform with a ten-piece band." King Jason agreed, and was secretly pleased Michaelis had put thought into it. He'd sent a message the same day to Irene, the Duchess of Askaz, asking if she would be willing to host. He knew what her answer would be; hosting the reception for Prince Michaelis was an honor, and would be politically useful when he inevitably (at least to Jason's mind) became king.
In any event, Michaelis arrived in a trim suit of the latest fashion for the summer of 1978, a new hat, and sunglasses, unremarked by the other travelers. He scanned the thin crowd near the platform's exit and spotted Eitan, in a similar outfit of subtle disguise; waving, he trotted over to where his brother was leaning against the railing.
There was no question that their father wouldn't come -- Eitan could get away with loitering at the train station, but Jason could not. It didn't matter; he'd see him soon enough, and Eitan was a little easier to talk to, generally. He fell in the strange in-between spot that much older siblings do -- less judgemental than a parent, but with almost as much wisdom to impart. Eitan had been an idle twenty-four when Michaelis was born, and was now closing in on an equally idle forty-two.
"Hello, Imp," Eitan cried, wrapping him in a hug. "Are you taller? I swear every time I see you, you've grown a few inches."
"Might have," Michaelis answered, bending to pick up his suitcase again when Eitan let him go. "Thanks for meeting me."
"Of course. I'm coming to dinner at the palace with you, so it's no trouble. Car's this way," Eitan said, herding him towards a sparkling BMW. "Are you moving back to the palace? I meant to write and say you're welcome to my spare room, but I forgot. And anyway, a young man like yourself likes to have his own space."
Michaelis dropped the suitcase in the trunk when Eitan opened it. "Thanks -- yes, back to the palace for me."
"Not your old room, though," Eitan said, starting the car. Michaelis laughed as he climbed in.
"No, I'm not moving back into father's apartments," he said. "They've set up what he's calling bachelor quarters for me in the south wing."
"Hm. Well, it's your choice," Eitan said. He pulled out into the main street of Fons-Askaz and headed for the winding road up to the palace. "What are you going to do with yourself, anyway?" he asked, once he'd got out of the worst of the traffic. "Father said you were thinking about university."
"A little, but I didn't see the point in the end. What I need to learn I think I'm going to learn here," Michaelis replied. "Father can teach me more useful things than I'd get at Oxford or University of Milan."
"Can't say I disagree," Eitan said. "But you know I always preferred sport to schooling."
"What are you doing with yourself these days?"
"Outside of Palace work? Knocking around, here and there. Entertaining myself as usual. Which reminds me, would you like me to take you out for a celebration? Maybe a post party after the Duchess's reception?"
Michaelis understood, though it was never really spoken, that Eitan's offers to take him out had more to do with Eitan's concern for his sex life than a reward for finishing school.
"Suppose we'll see," he said, because going out with Eitan was usually fun, but he'd already dodged one visit to a certain house of negotiable affection that Eitan enjoyed, and wasn't eager to repeat the experience.
"Best to sow your wild oats while you're young, you know. Keep on as you have and Father's going to start scouting brides for you," Eitan warned.
"Well, he's given up on you," Michaelis replied, amused.
"Thank goodness, too."
"Anyway, I don't mind. If I'm going to stand for king, I should be married first. Gives a good impression, and imagine trying to date as the king." Michaelis shook his head. Eitan slowed the car and then brought it to a stop, pulling onto the shoulder of the road up to the palace.
"Eitan?" Michaelis asked hesitantly.
"Speaking of," Eitan said, and Michaelis wondered if he was in some kind of trouble. "I've been thinking -- brotherly duty and all that, you know...I feel like I should tell you that just because someone ought to do something doesn't mean they have to. And it doesn't have to be you."
"I don't think I take your meaning," Michaelis said.
"I know that you like politics, you enjoy working for the palace. But you don't have to. If you wanted something else for yourself than king, Imp, you only have to say. I'd back you against father and all of parliament, if you wanted to make different choices."
Michaelis nodded slowly, solemn. "Thank you, Eitan. I know I don't have to. But I want to, and it just...happens to be that father wants it too."
"Just don't confuse wanting something he wants, and wanting to make him happy," Eitan said. "I love him but from experience let me tell you, if he's decided to be unhappy with you, nothing you do will change that. Might as well make yourself happy."
"Are you okay, Eitan?" Michaelis asked.
"I'm fine. Father and I are fine, even. I just want to make sure you have the same choices I did. I don't want you to be the dutiful son just because I wasn't willing to be."
"Thank you. But I am making my own decisions. I'm looking forward to it. And I promise, if I decide it's not for me, you'll be the first to know."
Eitan nodded and pulled back onto the road, guiding them to the little parking lot behind the kitchen entrance. No matter how many times Michaelis came home, he always felt love and nostalgia at the sight of it.
"Well, let's go please and disappoint father together," he said, and Eitan laughed.
"Good to have you home, Imp," he said.
***
The young prince's return home began with a reception, but it didn't end there; after the first party there were other invitations, multiple ones a week -- hunting parties, picnics, bonfires at the beach, galas, dinners and luncheons. He would have preferred a slightly quieter life, but he knew this was part of the royal duties, not just as prince but as prospective king. If he wanted to rule Askazer-Shivadlakia -- and he did, seeing nobody better suited for the job in his opinion -- then he had to be a part of it, even if he would rather have been out fishing on the lake.
He began to participate more fully in Parliament as his father's aide, putting his theoretical studies at school into real practice. Eitan did let him drive the BMW occasionally, and his father sometimes loaned him something a little sportier. Life had its pleasures. And some of the parties he went to were truly stimulating, intellectual exercises in how the social fabric of the country held together. He could learn a lot about governance from attending parliament with King Jason, but almost as much from watching which MPs got toasted at what parties, and who made alliances with whom at them.
His father's parties were the most useful, he thought. Jason wasn't much one for Shabbat dinner or services at the Grand Synagogue, though he encouraged Michaelis to attend readily enough. Jason simply preferred, on Friday nights and particularly in the summer, to throw open the gardens of the palace, light them with torches and fairy lights, and host the powerful, the wealthy, the titled, and anyone else daring enough to wander up from Fons-Askaz and enjoy the music and the wine. Michaelis loved those parties the best.
He was in attendance at one, in the high summer about a month after he came back from Paris, when the world tilted on its axis and presented him with his future. It came in the form of Lady Miranda Daskaz, duchess presumptive, descendent of Askazer royalty, and a spare few months younger than he was himself.
He'd been doing some light political work on his father's orders, and gathered some intelligence he felt he ought to share; he was just jogging across the grass to speak to his father when a flash of gold on the edge of his vision made him pause. He turned, startled, and saw a trio of women standing in front of one of the big torches that had been lit when the sun went down. They were young, in fashionable party dresses -- one in green, one in pale yellow, and one in a deep orange saturated further by the torchlight. Their silhouettes, flickering in front of the torch, must have caught his attention.
What held it, arrestingly, was the woman in orange. She was laughing -- poised, elegant, with dark brown hair in complicated braids wreathing her head. She had a round, pretty face, half-shadowed, and she was so objectively beautiful, so purely aesthetically pleasing, that it stopped him in his tracks.
"But it wasn't love at first sight," he'd protest to her, after they were married. "I thought you were beautiful, but I fell in love later. You were beautiful the way...a painting, or a horse, or a sculpture -- "
"...a horse, sweetheart?" Miranda interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"You love horses!"
"You're very lucky I love you."
In the present, he was still for long enough that the woman in yellow noticed him -- Ruth Daskaz, younger daughter of the duchy, not quite yet sixteen.
"Michaelis!" she called, waving to him. "Come say hello!"
He made an instant decision; the discussion with his father wouldn't suffer for a few minutes' delay, and he liked Ruth and wanted to know more about the beautiful woman in orange. He smiled back and came over, giving them a respectful Shivadh bow. As he came out of the bow, the light caught the faces of the women -- he identified Gianna, who was thick as thieves with Ruth and had been since they were children playing with him on the palace grounds, and...
"Miranda!" he said, startled. The beautiful woman in orange was Miranda, Ruth's older sister, another childhood playmate. He hadn't recognized her; she'd been absent from the reception at her mother's estate, and he hadn't seen her since returning.
"Hello, Michaelis," she said cheerily, curtseying back. He remembered himself and greeted Gianna as well, then resisted the urge to turn back to Miranda and demand -- something, he wasn't sure what.
"Are you enjoying the party?" he asked them, sweeping all three with a friendly look.
"So much!" Gianna said. "Ruth and I are only just now being allowed to attend, you know."
"And not yet even allowed wine," Miranda said amusedly. Ruth didn't bother to hide the wineglass in her hand.
"Might as well learn to drink at these things now," Michaelis said. "It's not like the wine gets better as you get older. Father says I've no palate for reds, but I just don't like them."
"You make it sound as if he's been training you," Miranda said.
"Well, more or less. Although it's turning out to be a sort of long-form exam," he answered. "If I want to stand for king when he retires, there's an awful lot to know."
"Do you?" Ruth asked, eyes wide.
"Of course he does," Miranda replied. "You're very suited for it," she added. "You were off to politick with your father just now, weren't you?"
"A little," he admitted, oddly embarrassed. He supposed he'd have to get used to having his naked ambition scrutinized, but it did feel egotistical. Especially since Gianna was now studying him with more interest, the kind he'd seen spark in the eyes of more than one woman within five years of his age. Good husband material. "Nothing important. That's something you've got to learn too, I've been told; what can wait and what can't."
"And we couldn't wait?" Ruth asked.
"Of course not. Three lovely women, old friends, wanting a moment of my time? How could I resist?" he asked with a grin. Ruth blushed a little. Miranda smiled drily.
"We shouldn't keep you," Miranda said. "There'll be time for charming everyone later, Imp."
"Actually, I'd like a word in your ear," Michaelis said, because that sounded official and grown-up without sounding like he just wanted to speak with her a little longer. "Ruth, Gianna, do you mind if I steal her? And I'll owe each of you a dance later."
"Go on," Ruth said, laughing, though Gianna looked discontented. "We'll come and claim those dances later, when you least expect."
He offered Miranda his elbow and she took it, still coolly amused by his behavior, and patted his arm with her other hand.
"What word did you have for me, once and future king?" she asked, as they walked.
"Honestly? I was just surprised to see you," he said, moving slowly as he led her towards where his father was standing with a small knot of MPs. "I didn't see you at the reception a few weeks ago. I wasn't sure if you'd be home for summer holidays."
"Oh, I've graduated too," she said. "I think we were ships passing in the night -- I came straight home and then went to visit some friends at Lake Geneva just before you arrived, so I was gone when you came home from Paris. I got back yesterday."
"Good of you to come, then, you must be exhausted."
"Mother insisted," she said. "Now that I've got school out of the way, it's debutant season."
"Not seriously," he said, aghast.
"Not officially, but I'm at every summer party imaginable until the harvest, and then every winter gala imaginable," she replied.
"I know the feeling, but at least mine's vocational. Why on earth would she put you through all those jumps? You don't need to marry, and certainly not so soon. You'll be duchess someday -- you'd be much better served studying land management or business. It's not as though you aren't smart enough, you'd do very well at university."
"Well, I know the basics, and my parents and the steward can teach me the rest. And honestly, if it's between a year of parties and a year of agricultural school..." she shook her head.
"I suppose that's a point. Still -- do you even want to be married?"
"Of course I want to be married! Eventually. But I'll pick the man, not anyone else -- or perhaps the woman, I haven't decided. And in the meantime, why not enjoy myself on mother's budget?" she said, and he laughed.
"I wish you luck regardless. And to thank you for escorting me to father, I want two dances from you," he said. She let his arm go and curtseyed again; he bowed, and watched her walk off before turning back to his father, who was watching him. He approached, gave the assembled dignitaries a bow, and then turned to Jason.
"Need a word?" Jason asked, eyebrows raising.
"Only if you have time. I wouldn't want to interrupt," he replied.
"You'll excuse me -- the journeyman consults the master," Jason said to the others, who nodded, some giving Michaelis encouraging looks. They knew as well as he did that he might be barely out of boyhood now, but in ten years, he could be their king. They dispersed, and his father handed him a glass of wine from a passing tray.
"Must we always have red?" Michaelis asked, sipping it.
"You didn't come to me to complain about the wine, and when you're king you can serve all the cheap chardonnay you like," Jason told him with a gentle, only slightly condescending smile. "Don't think I didn't notice you stopping to flirt with the Daskaz girls, either."
"It wasn't flirting -- I was just saying hello. Miranda's back from Lake Geneva and I hadn't seen her yet, I wanted to catch up."
"Just as you say," Jason agreed. "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?"
Gianna found him for a dance almost as soon as he'd broken away from his father, that night, and Ruth not long after; he didn't get two with Miranda but he did get one, and an approving smile from her mother when he brought her back to where her family was sitting, enjoying the warm night air.
"Some time, when your social calendar isn't bursting, you should come up to the palace," he said to Miranda, too quietly for anyone else to hear. He wasn't even sure why he was saying it, but aware that there was something important in the invitation. "The lake's much nicer than the beach this time of year. Come swimming, or I'll take you out in the boat. Bring Ruth and Gianna if you like," he added graciously.
Miranda sighed. "I love Ruth to death, but I would like just one or two parties where I didn't have to spend half my time babysitting her and Gianna."
"Well, then don't bring them after all," he said, smile widening. "Tell them you're seeing a secret amore."
She raised her eyebrows. "Am I, Imp?" she asked.
A year or two previously he would have backpedaled, embarrassed, or perhaps stumbled and overexplained things; now he just raised his eyebrows back.
"Up to you," he said. She seemed to grow thoughtful.
"Next Friday?" she suggested. "Before the evening party. I'll come up in the afternoon and bring my swimsuit. Remember when we used to try to dive for treasure?"
"I do. I'm fairly sure I can get a lot further than I could when I was nine," he told her solemnly.
"Oh, I think you're the kind to go well past what's good for you no matter the age. Never fear; I'll fish you out if it happens," she told him, and dropped a wink as she turned back to her father, who was asking some question or other. Michaelis faded back into the party quietly, and was still considering matters when they began to douse the torches and send off the revelers.
He was yawning when he said goodnight to his father, but he sat up in his rooms for a little while, making notes on what he'd seen and learned, a habit he would pass down to his own son (and inadvertently, his surrogate daughter, Miranda's niece) years later. The Shivadh nobility, blood or elected, were nothing if not thorough note-keepers.
***
For all he and Miranda might gripe about the social whirl they were caught up in, it was a brilliant summer. His father kept him on a loose lead, to see how he dealt with the realities of their chosen profession, and Fons-Askaz in the height of tourist season had no end of entertainments. When he wanted quiet, he could always go study the old kings' records in the library, or spend a night in blissful solitude at the fishing lodge. Eitan swooped in sometimes to take him out to more eclectic and exciting affairs than the royal rounds --
And there was Miranda, equal parts schoolgirl best friend and exciting new being he didn't have words for yet. She did come swimming with him the following Friday, and found him for dancing at most parties. If he phoned up to the Daskaz estate before going into Fons-Askaz, he could usually convince her to come meet him there, sometimes with Ruth and Gianna, more often without.
He knew his father and her parents (and probably Eitan, and lord knew who else) were watching them, and he knew there was an appalling sort of approval of the idea of a match, but he was content to ramble around with her as friends for now, talking about anything under the sun. Books, or music, or the usual things people made small talk about, but also deeper things. Her ancestors had been royalty, and she knew as much about human nature and government as he did. He could bring her a problem or a story from the archives, and she'd arch her eyebrows in that challenging way she had, consider it, and offer her opinion.
"I don't honestly know that I'm entirely in support of lifetime rule," she told him one afternoon, both of them stretched out on a patch of grass on the cliffs above the beach, watching the harbor.
"Well, it's hardly had much of a test," he replied. "But it seems a great deal less chaotic than, say, the American system. An election every four years? You'd hardly have time to unpack your suitcase in the White House before you had to pack up again."
"Perhaps it's more stable, but that doesn't make it better," she said. "If you've got someone really harmful on the throne, and they're there for twenty years, what then?"
"Shouldn't think they'd last that long. That's what the no-confidence vote is for."
"But you've got to be really egregious to get that called in."
"Well, if you aren't really egregious, how much harm can you do?"
She wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin on them. "I don't know. Europe's full of examples of men who came to power and managed to tear down decades of progress in a handful of years."
"Hardly likely to happen in Askazer-Shivadlakia, though, is it? We're so small."
"So was Austria," she said quietly. He leaned a little, bumping his shoulder against hers, not liking the pensive tone in her voice.
"You could stand for king, you know," he said.
"What, and run against you? Sounds like too much hard work."
"Maybe I'd recuse myself."
She laughed. "In favor of a girl?"
"You're a woman, not a girl, and you'd do a fine job. There'd be people who'd vote for you purely on the strength of your heritage, but if you gave a few speeches you'd get votes for your brains, too," he insisted. "It's 1978, Mira. No reason a woman couldn't run for king."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thanks. Be a little hypocritical of me to criticize life rule then, I suppose."
"Set a term limit. You rule for twenty years, I'll stand again when you step down."
"What will you do in the meantime?"
"What couldn't I do? Open a fried breakfast stand down on the beach," he said, and she laughed. "Play football. Breed prize-winning cats."
"Imp!"
"I like cars, I could sell auto parts." He considered the harbor. "Get myself a boat and live out there on the water. Mooch around being useless. Plenty of our peers do."
"You couldn't be useless if you tried," she said.
"Could so. Just imagine how enraged father would be. Here's him setting me up for king, and I go and throw it all away so this little slip of a thing from the Daskazes can steal the reins from the family. As if we didn't steal them ourselves from the last royal family, who stole them from your family in the first place."
"I can picture his face," she said, and dropped her voice as low as it would go. "Michaelis ben Jason! Ruining your future! What's the point of that, lad?"
He burst out laughing at the accuracy of her impression, turning to look at her again, and the afternoon sun caught her just right, burnishing her hair, highlighting the arch of her cheekbones, the tip of her nose. She was so breathtaking -- he'd known she was beautiful, clever, kind and thoughtful, everything desirable, but until that moment he hadn't understood that there was more he could have. That he could be hers, if she agreed. The day and the hour, he'd tell their son later. He knew exactly when he fell in love with her.
"You look too sad to be making me laugh like that," he said, studying her face. She gave him a small smile.
"I'm not sad, Imp. I just spend a lot of time thinking about the future. I don't know where I fit into it yet," she said. "I don't want to run the family estate. I don't know what I want, but I think I could do something -- bigger. More. I just...I don't know what."
He wanted to tell her to marry him, to be queen when he became king and rule with him, but he didn't want to terrify her, and he knew how strange it would sound. So instead he leaned in and kissed her for the first time, catching the corner of her mouth until she turned to kiss him back.
"Hello, Michaelis," she said, when he pulled back a little and leaned his forehead against hers. "Wondered when you'd work it out."
"I usually get there in the end," he agreed. "We're eighteen, Mira, there's no rush to meet the future. No rush to this either, although -- " he kissed her again, deeper this time. "I'd like to consult our schedules and pencil myself in to take you out this weekend, properly, if you'd like."
"Yes," she agreed. "I'd like that. Even be willing to cancel existing plans, depending."
"On me or on the plans?"
"Both. I expect a nice dinner -- not that I haven't enjoyed lazing by the harbor, but you're going to have to impress me a bit, you know," she said, and he laughed. "I'll be gracious, though. You've won me a bet with Gianna."
"Oh?" he asked, leaning away. "What bet is that?"
"She thought you weren't interested in women. Well, she thought you weren't interested in anyone, honestly, but that's just because she couldn't get you interested in her, I think," Miranda said. He felt, vaguely, that he should be offended, but it was true that the intense drive other men his age seemed to have hadn't really afflicted him very often. Just as well, honestly. When it did, like now, it was difficult to think about anything else.
"And you bet on me?" he asked, pleased when he realized it.
"You're interested in me, aren't you? You're just...contemplative," she said. "Measured. Plenty of energy once you get your feet under you, though. It will be fascinating watching you be king, I think. Never a dull moment with Imp on the throne."
"Can't call me Imp when I'm king," he said.
"Oh yes? What will I call you then?"
"Considering how you sass me now, probably any number of bad names, but you ought to call me Your Majesty," he said.
"You've got to win, first."
"Good motivation." He leaned back on his hands, stretching his shoulders. "We should go back. I'm meant to have you home by sunset, and father will wonder where I've been." He glanced at her. "Will you tell your parents?"
"No, I think not. They'd be unbearable if they knew I was actually on my way to seducing the future king," Miranda said, grinning. "Will you tell your father?"
"Only if you don't mind. He'll be good about it."
"That's fine. Just don't let him conspire with mother and father."
"He knows better. Though come to think of it, I might tell Eitan instead. He'll have more useful advice on how to be seduced by a would-be duchess."
"I doubt it -- for his advice to be useful you'd have to be at least ten years older than me," she said, and he gasped, mock-shocked.
"Aspersions on the elder son of the king!" he said, getting to his feet, offering her a hand to help her up.
"Well, there's one in every family," she said frankly. "Eitan's always been a gentleman to me but he isn't like you. He doesn't really want to be equals, and he hasn't got much ambition."
"Good for me, really," Michaelis said. He cupped her face and kissed her a third time. "Let's not talk about Eitan. I'll take you home."
***
He didn't need to decide, in the end. Eitan was at palace dinner that evening, and it was just the three of them; Michaelis was hesitant to simply blurt it out, but when the opportunity came he didn't see why he ought to keep it to himself, if Miranda didn't object.
"You've been quiet tonight," Eitan said to him, about halfway through the meal, and Jason glanced at his younger son, curious but not concerned.
"He's often quiet in the evenings," Jason said. "Still waters. Your grandfather was like that. There was a man who could fill a room with silence."
"I haven't been so quiet," Michaelis protested. "I just talk when I have something to say. Or when I need to entertain someone, but you two can entertain yourselves."
Eitan grinned. "Are you calling your elders chatterboxes?"
"Just stating facts."
Jason laughed, a low rumble. "That's you told, Eitan."
"It certainly is not, I don't concede ground to a stripling," Eitan answered. "There's something rolling around in that young head of his. Go on, Imp, out with it. Politics or personal?"
"Bit of both," Michaelis said. Jason, who had gone back to his meal, looked up in surprise. Michaelis set his silverware down. "I think I'm going to marry Miranda Daskaz."
Both men blinked at him.
"Have you discussed your decision with her?" Eitan asked.
"Not yet, but obviously she'll have a say," Michaelis replied.
"I should hope so," Jason managed. "Delightful young woman. I don't disapprove at all. But I didn't think either of you were taking it particularly seriously. You've been protesting all summer that you're only friends."
"It surprised me too," Michaelis said, a little haplessly.
"She's not pregnant, is she?" Eitan asked.
"Eitan!" Michaelis gave him a genuinely shocked look.
"Valid question. I know you've had family planning, but accidents do happen," Eitan said, unruffled.
"No, she isn't pregnant," Michaelis retorted. "We haven't -- father, tell him."
"What exactly am I meant to tell him? Your affairs de cour are your own," Jason said. "I don't know what you and Miranda might have got up to, and I don't enquire. If you're mature enough to run a country you're mature enough to manage your own love life."
Michaelis covered his face with his hands. "We've barely kissed."
"But you do want to marry her," Jason said, seeking confirmation.
"Yes, because I'm inherently strange. I want to be king, I want to marry Miranda Daskaz, and I will never like red wine," Michaelis said.
"Don't see why that's so strange. It's good to know what you want," Jason said. "The wine thing is a little odd, you're very vehement about it, but it's hardly a barrier to becoming king."
"You like Miranda," Michaelis said, desperate to reroute the hellish detour the conversation had taken.
"Of course I like Miranda. A solid match. Politically expedient, and the fact you like her and she gives every appearance of liking you is a bonus."
"All right," Michaelis sighed. "Well, I'll get to work on that, then."
"Should I plan for an autumn wedding?"
Michaelis rested his head on the table. "Best make it spring," he said, muffled by the tablecloth.
"Decorum, Imp, no despair at dinner," Eitan said cheerfully.
***
That autumn, Michaelis and Miranda both went out into the groves to help with the olive harvest, like most of the young people did. It had been years since they'd been able, considering the boarding schools generally had no manners and started the term in September, before the harvest was ready.
It was hard work and long hours, but the Shivadh good humor and leisurely pace meant it wasn't unpleasant. When it was done there was a nationwide harvest festival, with parties in every grove, and the grove they'd been working was no exception. Michaelis, savoring a home-brewed beer handed out by the farmer's wife and seated on the flat roof of the little shed that sheltered the oil press, leaned down to give Miranda a hand up, then turned to face her as she settled in. She had half a loaf of still-warm bread and one of the ubiquitous little jars of bagna cauda to dip the bread in, so they sat and ate, oily-fingered, and sipped their beers, enjoying the music drifting up from the party at the farmhouse below.
He felt satisfied with the world, well-fed, warm, and a little photogenic, as the national paper's photographer snapped his photo ("The young prince seeing to the fields", he imagined the caption reading). The photographer gave him a gesture of thanks and Michaelis waved, waiting until he'd disappeared back into the party before turning to Miranda.
"And how are you, now that we've done our civic duty?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap.
"I'm sore, exhausted, and filthy, but what else is new?" Miranda said, popping the last of the bread into her mouth. "I think I'm going to go home, shower for a week, and sleep for two."
"Still, what joy," he said, and she laughed and nodded.
"I do love it," she said. "And I love this moment, when it's over and we get to rest."
"Can't appreciate the rest without the work, eh?"
"That's it exactly," she said. "We should do this every year."
"I wouldn't mind. I wonder if the king's allowed. Father never does it, but he's older. And he puts more stock in dignity than I do."
"Didn't know that was possible."
"Catty, my love!" he gasped. "Don't make fun of your Imp who adores you."
"My Imp looks very dignified most of the time," she told him, leaning in for a quick kiss. "I have to make sure you don't get above yourself."
"Which reminds me," he said, heart about to beat out of his chest, "I have a present for you. Close your eyes."
"If it's olive oil, I'm going to push you off this roof," she told him, but she closed her eyes, tilting her chin up a little like he might kiss her.
"Absolutely not," he said, taking her gift from his pocket. "It's just a trinket, really. But I've been thinking, ever since you said you weren't sure what the future would hold, that there really must be a way to get you out of running the estate."
A smile curved her lips. "I can't hear any paperwork, and there aren't any lawyers around."
"Indeed not," he said. "But I've got a solution regardless." He held out his fists, level with each other, in the old Shivadh custom of marriage proposals. "Okay, open."
She opened, caught his eye, and then looked down; for a split second she blinked, and her mouth fell open. She looked back up at him, stunned. He nodded at his hands.
"Leave the duchy," he said. "Be my queen instead. Come run the country with me."
Miranda, who never could do anything the way she ought (and what a dull world it would have been if she did), lifted both her hands, resting them on his knuckles. He blinked at her.
"Are you sure, Imp?" she asked, voice low. "Are you sure I'm the one you want? Politically, I know, but -- "
"I've been sure since the first time we kissed," he said, startled into honesty. "I didn't want to scare you by asking any sooner. I know it's still soon, but I want you to be my wife and I want you to be queen. In that order. The politics don't matter. If you weren't a Daskaz I'd still want you. Desperately," he added, trying to convey just how important this was. "With everything, Mira. If you asked me to give up being king -- "
"No!" she said sharply, pulling both her hands back.
"But I would," he said. She covered her mouth with one hand, and for a second he thought she might reject the offer wholesale, that he'd pushed too far, too fast. But then her other hand reached out and tapped the knuckles of his right hand. He unfolded his palm, showing her the plain little silver ring. She took it with shaking hands and put it on her ring finger. As soon as she had, he caught her hand and kissed it.
"Mother still doesn't know we're seeing each other," she blurted.
He looked up at her, over her fingers. "I don't think she'll be upset," he murmured against her skin. He leaned back but kept hold of her hand. "We don't have to tell anyone yet if you don't want to. It can be secret. I just -- I had to."
"Sweet man," she said, ducking her head. "No, I don't mind if people know. But we should tell my family and your father first -- the palace will want to make an announcement. Until then, I should..." she lifted her hand away from him, pulled the ring off again, and reached behind her, undoing the thin necklace chain around her neck and slipping the ring onto it. He took the chain from her; she leaned forward, pulling her hair off her neck, and let him clasp it at her nape for her, before tucking the ring under the collar of her shirt.
"Just until the press release," she said, hand resting on the little bump of it, where it sat over her heart.
"Father's had it written for a while," he said. She raised an eyebrow. "I might have made my goals clear to him," he admitted.
"Well, that's at least convenient," she allowed. There was a spot of color, high on each cheek, and he tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"Miranda..." he said, voice a question.
"I might have told Ruth I thought I'd make a good queen," she said. He threw back his head and laughed. "She actually wants to be duchess. It only seemed fair to tell her she might get it if you proposed!"
He was still laughing, shaking his head.
"If I'd asked you that day on the harbor, the first day we kissed," he said. "What would you have told me?"
"I'd have told you to go buy a ring and come back when you'd done your homework," she replied.
"Rightly so," he agreed. He uncurled his legs, swinging them over the side of the shed, and dropped to the ground. She followed, letting him guide her down, hands on her hips.
"Do you want to go back to the party?" he asked, tipping his head at the revelry as he pulled her close.
"No -- drive me home and come in to tell my parents with me." She said. "Father will want to put a little fear into you, but don't mind him."
"I'll act appropriately chastened," he said.
***
It was actually quite late when he got home that evening; the Duke of Askaz did want to make sure Michaelis understood a few things about how protective he was of his daughters, and the rest of the family wanted to drink to the engagement. By the time he'd had a celebratory drink, waited a little while (in the garden with Miranda, hardly a trial) to be safe to drive, and then driven back to the palace, the staff had gone home. His father, he knew, would be asleep, and there was no real reason to wake him, given he'd known this was coming eventually. Michaelis resolved to tell him in the morning, and went to bed with a full heart and, it had to be said, an exhausted body.
He was woken the next morning by his father, who came into his apartment without knocking, walked into his bedroom, and smacked him in the face with a newspaper.
"Yargh!" he managed, flailing awake. "Father, what the hell -- "
"I knew I raised a politician," Jason said, crossing his arms, looking approving as Michaelis disentangled himself from the blankets and pushed himself upright. "I didn't realize I'd also fathered a marketing genius."
Michaelis squinted at him. "What are you talking about?"
Jason picked up the newspaper with a grin and batted him with it again. Michaelis grabbed it out of his hands, crumpling it, and batted back.
"Go on, have a look at your handiwork," Jason said. Michaelis, realizing he meant the newspaper, unfolded it and smoothed it out.
There, front page, above the fold, were a pair of photographs. The photographer might have gone back to the party but clearly he'd still been watching; the first image was of Michaelis, seated on the roof of the shed, both fists outstretched to Miranda. The second was of him kissing her hand, the ring clearly visible. The headline read Romance Ripens In The Olive Groves.
"He must have used a hell of a telephoto lens," Michaelis murmured, and then realization struck. "Oh, no -- Mira's going to see this -- her whole family -- "
He dove for the telephone as Jason called, "Do you mean to tell me this wasn't intentional?" behind him. By the time he reached it, it was ringing.
"Mira?" he asked, picking up the receiver. "I'm so, so sorry -- "
"I am absolutely dying," she cackled, and his shoulders dropped about an inch. "Mother's furious, it's great! She's so mad my hair wasn't done and I was wearing trousers!"
"I had no idea he was taking pictures!"
"Me either!" she hooted. "Just you wait, it's in the French papers too."
"If it's in France today it'll be in Britain tomorrow," he groaned.
"Who cares? You were going to make a press release anyway, and this is loads better."
"Thank goodness," he sighed. "I was worried you'd be furious. Father woke me by beating me with the newspaper," he added. Jason was near enough and grinning wide enough that he swung with the paper and hit his father on the arm again. "He thinks I did it on purpose."
"Can I tell my parents we did?"
"No! Your mother's probably already getting ready to kill me!"
"I'll manage her. It's honestly brilliant, Imp. We look wonderful. We look real."
Jason held out his hand for the phone, and Michaelis scowled at him. "Father wants to speak with you. He's being insufferable about the whole thing."
"Put him on!"
Michaelis handed the phone over, and Jason put it to his ear.
"Clearly my son can't be trusted to keep an eye on the media," he began, and Michaelis almost hit him with the newspaper again. "Miranda, it's going to have to be your job. Well, good. Now listen, if you like this angle, I'd like to know what you think next steps should be. Mm. Novel. It's not what I'd do, but you two are young; you'll need the eighteen-to-thirty vote. Ah, yes! I suppose you could. I'll see what palace funds are available. Very good. And congratulations, of course. I'm looking forward to seeing you crowned queen. Yes, all right," he said, and handed the phone back to Michaelis. "I'll see you at breakfast. Don't be all day about it."
"What just happened?" Michaelis asked into the phone, as his father left.
"The king would like some strategy," Miranda said. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, I've got it in hand. I'll be up later today to speak to publicity about a poll."
"A poll on what, exactly?"
"Public opinion on the betrothal. It'll give us some good information on how to handle your campaign for king, eventually, and if we ask the right questions we can nudge people along a little. You know. Get them believing that you're doing everything a young Shivadh prince ought to on the path to rule."
He couldn't really come up with a smart response for that, so he settled for, "Huh."
"You're fortunate to have fallen in love with someone so practical," she told him.
"Now, that I did know," he replied. "Did you say you'll be here later today?"
"After breakfast. Expect a motorcade."
"It begins," he sighed. "Can I leave the pageantry to you as well?"
"For now. See you in a few hours, darling."
"Better put that ring back on your finger, my love," he told her, and rang off.
Downstairs, washed and dressed, he was literally knocked off his feet by a flying congratulatory tackle from Eitan.
***
Miranda did not wait long to start arranging things to her satisfaction, both within the palace and within the royal family. Michaelis, occasionally amused and frequently awed by her skills at it, never tried to stop her. The only time he even came close to objecting was literally at their wedding reception, and even then it was weak protest at best. Why should he? Miranda knew what she was doing, and he'd married her for an equal, not a maidservant.
At the wedding, he was too pleased with himself for having secured his beloved, and with the world for approving of his work, to do much more than bask in the revelry. The parade ahead of the wedding had been ghastly, mainly because he was terrified something would happen to stop the marriage itself. He couldn't feel calm until the glass was broken, even if the ketubah had been signed the day before. But they'd survived all that, and now...
Once the ceremony was over and the celebration had truly begun, he relaxed, sitting on the high dais with Miranda, enjoying watching the party. His father was down in the thick of it, no doubt taking advantage of every political opportunity. Miranda's parents, next to her on her other side, were as pleased with the wedding as Michaelis was, and Eitan was a helpful rock next to him, keeping people from lingering too long paying their respects. Eitan might not always be the most reliable man, but he knew how to manage a party.
Roughly twenty-five years later, when their sons were close as brothers and on the cusp of manhood themselves, Eitan said to Jerry, "You've got to look after Gregory, you know. He might be king one day, but you're more a man of the world than he is. You've got to do what I did for your uncle; keep him out of trouble and find him a nice girl to marry."
Jerry loved his cousin and was a very keen judge of human nature. He'd known Gregory was gay before Gregory told anyone, and possibly before Gregory had confirmed it for himself, so he just nodded sagely.
"I promise I won't let him get any girls into trouble, father," he said solemnly.
Later still, on the eve of Gregory's own wedding, Jerry mentioned the conversation to his uncle, who roared with laughter.
"Did Eitan take credit for my marrying Miranda?" Michaelis asked. "That's rich, given what she did for him. May his memory be for a blessing, Gerald, but your father was the king of small lies even when he meant well."
Now, not yet taking credit for the wedding but enjoying himself hugely at it, Eitan caught Miranda gesturing at him, and leaned forward around Michaelis so he could hear her clearly.
"Eitan, I want you to do me a favor," she said. "And I need you not to be a creep about it."
Eitan grinned at Michaelis, then back at her. "I can only promise so much, Milady ben Jason."
"Lord, imagine if I really had to take your name," Miranda said to Michaelis. "Honestly, Eitan. You know Duke Jonathan, don't you?"
"Passingly," Eitan said. "Been out to the estate a few times to go riding. Beautiful grounds. Fine stable, too, good stock."
"His daughter Sarah's just home from school," Miranda said. "She's...a little awkward, and I think she's feeling left out. Would you go charm her? Maybe a dance or two?"
"Harmlessly," Michaelis added to Eitan quietly. "Charm, Eitan, not seduce."
"I don't seduce teenagers," Eitan told him with dignity, then raised his voice. "Of course, anything for the bride. Where is she?"
"There," Mira said, nodding at a young woman standing at the edge of the dancing, talking with another girl. She was taller than most of the women around her, with flyaway auburn hair; as they watched she gestured with her wine glass and almost smacked it into someone's face, apologizing profusely. She was very pretty -- the kind of pretty that would need a few years to grow into beautiful, but she clearly would.
Eitan nodded agreeably and stood up, making his way from the dais to the dance floor; he had the kind of presence that made crowds unconsciously part for him, and he moved easily through the sea of people to where Sarah was standing. Miranda leaned against Michaelis and they both watched as he introduced himself, then clearly paid Sarah dux Shivadlakia a compliment and offered his hand for a dance.
"I will say, when you give Eitan a job he's suited for, he does it extremely well," Michaelis said. He glanced at Miranda, who had a poker face on. "Mira. What're you up to?"
"Nothing, just trying out a theory," she said. "Keeping Eitan from getting too drunk, for a start."
"Thoughtful of you, but he usually has decent self-control at royal events. What's your real goal?"
Miranda smiled. "Well. Sarah's very sweet but she's not the most astute woman in the world. She won't be able to run the estate without a lot of help, and she's the sort of person a man would try to prey on if given the chance. Eitan's a playboy but he's kind, and he wouldn't hurt her."
"Of course he wouldn't -- are you suggesting he and Sarah...?"
"Why not?"
"He's forty-two!" Michaelis said. "Sarah's our age!"
"So? He's always liked younger women. Your mother was twenty and she married your father when he was in his forties, I assumed it ran in the family and you're just a sport."
"Well, that's true enough," Michaelis grumbled, watching Eitan and Sarah dance.
"Besides, he's bred for governance, but he'd be a terrible king," Miranda continued. "I think he'd do very well with a few hundred acres and a dozen horses to manage."
"Even if he were the kind to marry, do you think she'd seriously consider him?"
"He's handsome, wealthy, connected to the king. She could do a lot worse. Anyway, even if nothing comes of it she'll have enjoyed the wedding a lot more with Eitan at her elbow. Any woman here'd be happy to have him, now that you're off the market."
"No one had a chance, you know," he said. "Once I saw you, it was all over for me."
"You say that now."
"I'll say it now and tomorrow, ten years from now -- the rest of our lives together," he told her solemnly. She twined her fingers in his, leaning against him. "Queen Miranda."
"You've got to win, first, I keep telling you."
"And I keep telling you, you're only motivating me."
"Well, good," she said, head resting on his shoulder. "Once you're king I can really begin putting this country in order, Imp."
He kissed her hair. "Long may you reign, my love."
***
Decades later, but not at all far away, Mira and Imp's son -- by then Gregory III, King of Askazer-Shivadlakia -- arrived in the royal apartments to find his own beloved, Eddie, sitting on the sofa with his feet up, buried in a book.
"Busy day for you, I see," he said, bending to drop a kiss on the crown of Eddie's head as he passed, eager to shed his suit.
"Have mercy, I spent all day setting up tomorrow's tourism shoot," Eddie said, letting the book fall to his lap and watching through the open bedroom door as Gregory changed into an elderly henley and a pair of pajama bottoms -- a sign he was prepared to be in for the night, which meant no more work, which meant Eddie had his king all to himself. "All you have to do is show up tomorrow and look gorgeous."
"Fortunately I have practice," Gregory called, hanging the royal insignia ring on its little hook on his dressing-table and emerging. "What are you reading?"
"Found it in the library -- old book of Shivadh romantic poetry," Eddie said, holding it up.
"Fate preserve us," Gregory murmured. "The Shivadh Romantic poets were..."
"Not great on the whole," Eddie agreed. "There's some good stuff, though. And I have a mystery to share," he added, picking up a fold of paper from the table.
"Oh?" Gregory settled in next to him, stretching.
"I found this in the book," Eddie said.
"What is it?"
"Love letter, apparently. And unlike the poetry it's really good," Eddie said, handing it over. "Touching stuff."
"So what's the mystery?"
"No identifiable names. At least, not to me. So I got no clue who wrote it or who they wrote it to, or how it ended up in the book," Eddie told him.
Gregory frowned, unfolding the letter. It was expensive paper, the kind they still used in the palace, not yellowed at all by age, but the ink had faded from black to brown in places. The handwriting was clear enough, a nice copperplate, very familiar and not unlike his own -- the kind of cursive they taught at Institut Alpin, the boarding school generations of Shivadh nobility had attended.
It was addressed simply to My love, but at the bottom he found the name he half-expected, given the handwriting. Love, your Imp.
"Well, I can solve the mystery for you," he said, settling in a little, letting Eddie curl an arm around his shoulders. "I know exactly who wrote it."
"Really? Wasn't you, was it? Or are you quote-unquote My Love?" Eddie asked.
"No, that would be my mother," Gregory said. "Father wrote this. Probably about ten years into the marriage -- yes, see, here," he said, pointing to a passage. "I know how much you love the olive harvest, but we'll miss it for good reason this year. We'll go walking in the groves in August, I promise. So, he wrote this sometime in 1990. Early summer, probably."
Eddie was staring at him.
"It's the year I was born," Gregory explained. "They always went out and helped with the olive harvest. It was Mom's favorite thing to do. The only year she missed was the year I was born, because I was due in September and they didn't want to risk her going into labor so far from a hospital," he added. Eddie stayed silent. "What?"
"But why did your father sign it like that?" Eddie asked.
"Imp? That was his nickname as a kid."
"His nickname was Imp?"
"Uncle Eitan's fault. Apparently father tried to boss him around one too many times as a toddler, and Eitan started calling him Little Imperator. Imp stuck. Grandfather never used it, and of course once he was on the throne nobody else did, but Mom used to call him that in private." Gregory smiled over the letter. "You should show this to him. He'd probably enjoy it. He's been easier about her lately. Not so sad."
"Your father, who has called me Theophile as punishment since he learned my name wasn't Edward, was nicknamed Imp and you never thought to tell me this?" Eddie asked, voice high.
Gregory stared at him. "I didn't think of it, probably because I'm not a part of the super weird relationship of mutual trolling you two have built together."
"Gregory! You had a grenade in your pocket and I was getting shot at!"
"Don't be so dramatic, that's my job," Gregory said, kissing him. "You've got the grenade now, if you want it."
"I can't now, he'll want to know how I found out and I found out from a love letter he wrote to his beloved wife."
"How you must suffer," Gregory drawled. Eddie rolled his eyes and flopped his head on Gregory's shoulder. "I'd no idea he could be so poetic. Well, I suppose I did, he did a lot of his own speech-writing, but this is different. Very sweet," he said, scanning the letter. "They'd been married for ten years and it's not like they were apart very often -- I bet they weren't even apart when he wrote this. He probably wrote it in parliament and left it for her to find at dinner. When we've been married for ten years I'll expect you to still write me love letters," he added.
"I don't write you love letters now," Eddie pointed out.
"You write very nice and sometimes very sexy texts. Just expand upon the theme," Gregory told him.
"Well, now you're just asking for home-brewed pornography."
"As long as the papers don't find it," Gregory said absently. "Listen to this. For me there will always be the image of you at that summer party, lit by torchlight, laughing. I couldn't even recognize in you the child I had known before. Wonderful to find the familiar so new. Wonderful that you are so deeply known to me, and still new every time I see you."
"It's nice," Eddie said. "But isn't it weird for you, reading it?"
"Not really. I watched them be in love my whole childhood. I can hear him in it -- the way he used to be with her before she died." He sighed a little. "Makes me miss her. I'm glad he's happy again and I really like Jes and Noah. They've been good for Dad. But..."
"She's your mom, of course you miss her. You sure we should even give this to him? Might just upset him," Eddie said cautiously.
"No, I think he'd like to have it. And," Gregory said, "this is actually an even better opportunity to prank him."
"I can't prank him with your mother, Greg."
"No, but if you give this to him and tell him I said it was his letter, he'll know. He'll know you know the name, the secret silly name," Gregory said. Eddie's eyes widened. "He'll know you know, and you'll know he knows you know, and he'll wait for you to spring it on him, and it's imperative that you never do."
"Nobody knows how to wage a silent and incredibly irrelevant campaign of psychological warfare like a Shivadh," Eddie said, voice tinged with awe.
"Well, we've had practice." Gregory re-folded the paper and held it out to him. Eddie took it reverently. "He's coming up to the palace for the tourism thing tomorrow, isn't he? You can give it to him once we're done filming."
"Definitely have to write you a love letter for this," Eddie decided, tucking the letter back in the book.
"I thought you were promising pornography," Gregory said, mock-pouting. "My Dear Love, now that you are king and we are separated for at least four hours each day, all I can think of is your big, throbbing -- " he broke off with a yelp as Eddie, laughing, got both arms around him sideways. Eddie tugged, turning, and pulled Gregory onto his lap.
"Don't let the kids find that one," Eddie said, settling him in close, chest to chest, one warm hand splayed in the small of his back.
"No, I'll keep it with my other treasured possessions in the nightstand drawer," Gregory told him. He leaned in for a kiss. "Honestly," he said, pressing their foreheads together. "If I get the forty years with you my father got with my mother, and not one love letter the whole time, I will still die a happy man."
"Well, we'll shoot for fifty with letters and see where we land," Eddie replied.
"Sold. Now. No more parents, quote me some of that poetry," Gregory said, and Eddie laughed.
***
Let me be your gospel
Baby we've got history
-- Gospel, Robbie Williams