A Nordic King

Honestly, I didn’t think I would but I actually like having a uniform. It makes getting ready in the morning super easy when you only have a few varieties to choose from, plus I think it drives Aksel nuts that I wear these skirts. I know that when he asked me to get a uniform he was probably thinking something more classy and modest but hey, I think I look pretty good myself.

Not that I’ve seen him all that often. He’s kept his word to the girls and has been showing up for dinner on most nights. He doesn’t even say anything when Karla brings out two different dishes for the main course, although I can feel the resentment roll off of him like incoming waves. But other than that, he’s stayed clear of me.

Which I don’t mind, per se.

I mean, I do wish we had a different kind of relationship. Not like the relationship I had with my last “father of the house” since that went awry with inappropriate touching and come-ons. I think one of the reasons I even like Aksel is because he’s the opposite of that, like it disgusts him to even be in the same vicinity as me. He’s forever taking a step away from me like I have the bloody plague and yet it’s kind of nice to not be leered at.

But I wouldn’t mind it if I felt like I could approach him and talk to him about the girls and have a real heart-to-heart without all these stiff formalities in the way. Get to know the real him.

If there’s even a real him. At times he’s so larger than life, even when he’s right in my face. At others, he almost fools me into thinking he’s not a king of a prosperous country at all. That he’s just a normal single father, trying to take care of his daughters in a big, empty, lonely house.

That’s something that I don’t think they realize. How lonely the place is. Even with the staff living here as well, the halls seem to echo with memories. I may have not known Helena when she was alive but I feel her around us. Nothing vengeful or mournful, just ever-present in everyone’s minds. That loss of her, the lack of a mother figure, makes everything emptier.

So I’ve been doing what I can to fill that void. Aksel’s words still ring through my head from time to time, when he told me that I’m not the girl’s mother and they aren’t my friends and that I’m not part of the family. I mean, I know all that. I only just started working here, only just begun to scratch beneath the gilded fa?ade of this family. I know my place very well—or, at least, I’m trying to.

But my place doesn’t have to be stagnant. I don’t have to fit into the slot that was carved out for me by the nanny before me. I don’t want to just be a Band-Aid to this family—I want to help them heal. Maybe that’s na?ve of me, and maybe I should be a little more grounded with my goals, but that doesn’t change the feeling of why I’m here.

Before I got this job, I’d been feeling stuck in my own life. I’d done so much running and escaping, gone through so much tragedy and horror, that I just wanted something simple and stable. It worked, too. I was a nanny because it gave me the safety and structure I didn’t have back in Australia. But you can only run, only pretend, for so long.

Now that I have this job, however, I feel like I’m in it for the long haul. Sure, it might just be a year. It could be less, depending on how long Aksel can stand me. It could be more. But while I’m here, I don’t want to just be a nanny. I want to help them all get better, anyway that I can. I want to actually be useful for once.

“Well, you can start by getting these girls to whatever Tivoli is,” I say to myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth. I’ve stopped thinking that talking to myself is odd a long time ago.

After I braid my crazy hair back, knowing it’s going to frizz out on me later, I put on a touch of mascara and blush and then head down to the kitchen. Karla has the weekends off—lucky duck—and so Bj?rn, the secondary cook, is in charge of breakfast, and he already knows how much coffee I require.

I quickly grab a scone and tuck it into my leather messenger bag for later (it joins my notebook, a wad of euros, some Danish kroner, a million hair ties, a compact, nude lipstick, gum, these salty licorice candies I’m currently addicted to, Band-Aids, antibiotic cream, gummy children’s vitamins and a tube of this strange mustard paste that Clara insists on putting on everything), then sit down at the table with a giant mug (in European standards) of coffee and wait for the girls.

Naturally, I barely finish mine before they’re running over to me excitedly, Clara with her backpack on like she’s going to school, yelling “Tivoli!” and a bunch of other Danish words, and I know they’re going to be a handful today.

It turns out Tivoli is Tivoli Gardens, a famous amusement park and the second oldest in the world, located in Copenhagen. And, oh my god, it’s like Disneyland. By the time Henrik drops us off at the front entrance, I’m just as giddy and excited as the girls.

“Are you going to be okay, Miss Aurora?” Henrik asks warmly as we clamor out of the car.

I stick my head back in through the open door. “I should be. Right?”

He nods. “I can come in with you if you want. There shouldn’t be any problems, but if there is, I can always look intimidating.” He makes a faux angry face and pretends to flex a muscle.

“What problems?” I ask, feeling nervous now. “Oh my god. Like kidnapping? I didn’t get that far in the handbook yet!”

He gives me a wan smile. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, you won’t be all alone in the park.”

I look around the busy parking lot. That’s true but…

“Meaning,” he goes on, “there will be people, royal staff, watching you. Bodyguards.”

I look around again, brows raised. “Oh. Where are they?”

“They’ll be around,” he says. “When it comes to the girls, King Aksel wants them to feel as normal as possible. That means keeping the guards and attendants at a distance. But don’t worry, they’ll always be watching.”

I’m not worrying at all but it is kind of unnerving. “So what problems did you mean, then?”

“Paparazzi,” he says. “You know, taking pictures. Aksel wants that at a minimum. But if it’s too much of a problem, you can always alert the staff and they can kick them out and escort you as well.”

Oh. That. I haven’t had to deal with the paparazzi yet. I mean, I’ve taken the girls for walks along the water and the parks a few times now (trailed by bodyguards, I’m now realizing) and maybe there’s been a person or two taking pictures of us with a big camera, but they were always so far away that it never bothered me.

Then again, I don’t read the Danish tabloids so I have no idea if we’re even featured in them or not. I can’t imagine why. There’s nothing exciting about two little girls and their nanny, princesses or not.

Now, if Aksel were here, well then I could see that being a different story. In fact, that’s one reason why I don’t pick up the tabloids if he’s being featured. I may not understand Danish, but I don’t think what they’re saying is always nice. It must be so hard to not only be a king at such a young (relatively) age but to lose your beloved queen as well. Aksel seems to be fodder for them and is never held in the same regard as Helena was.

Still, I assure Henrik that I’ll be fine and I grab the girls both by the hand and lead them into the park.

“So what are your favorite rides?” I ask them as we approach the ticket booth.

“Drageb?dene,” says Freja.

“Minen!” shouts Clara.

“Ballongyngen.”

“Den Flyvende Kuffert!”

I don’t understand what any of those are but I’m sure I’ll find out soon.

We pay for our tickets—the girl working the booth immediately recognizing the princesses—and we step inside the chaos of the park. Actually, it’s not that bad. Maybe because it’s getting late in the season but it’s definitely not as crazy crowded as Disneyland Paris.