Princess Ever After

SEVEN





The cold air of his hotel suite felt good on his hot, sticky skin. Had he known Florida nights came with such a concrete wall of humidity, Tanner might have reconsidered his late-night run.

But he had to move, stride, work out the kinks in his weary muscles and tired mind.

Down the elevator and out the front doors of the Duval, he hit the pavement, his legs refusing to coordinate at first, leaving him to trip down the city streets like an old man.

About ten minutes into the run, he found his strength as he forced his body to move and kicked up his heels, cutting in and out of the bar parties spilling into the streets. Seemed the whole town was lit for this football match tomorrow.

For forty-five minutes he ran and thought of nothing—nothing—but striding, breathing, and maintaining a steady pace.

Back in his suite, he stripped off his sweaty shirt and lifted a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. Finding a hand towel, he wiped his face and arms, then ordered a late-night dinner. Salad? No, dessert. A slice of chocolate cake à la mode.

Collapsing into the chair by the window, he fixed on the burst of amber-hued city lights flickering above the city. And like a rising moon, way off in the distance, the arching white glow of the university campus.

Tanner pressed the cold water bottle to his forehead, then took a drink. He liked this town, humidity aside. Tallahassee was a blend of government, higher education, and what Americans called rednecks.

He knew a few rednecks back home, except they were called ringers—an old term, given to the coal and ore miners when they came up out of the belly of the earth after a long day’s work with a ring of coal dust or dark clay about their necks.

The national rugby team went by Ringers until the 1914 entail. After World War I the Hessenberg and Brighton rugby union      s merged and the Ringers simply became the Hessenberg union      .

Another swig of water and Tanner tipped his head back and closed his eyes. A thread of sleepy peace drew him toward slumber. So much history gone by . . . so much time past . . . never to be undone . . .

He jerked awake, sitting forward, when Miss Beswick’s face flashed across the palette of his drifting thoughts. He stood, taking another gulp of water, and moved closer to the window.

She’d gotten to him. Slipped under his skin. He’d been curious about his reaction to meeting his future monarch. Would he have feelings of respect? Admiration? Relief? Or perhaps disdain and loathing?

Any number of feelings were possible, but not the fluttery ones, not the sensation of infatuation tickling across his chest, making his stomach sink to his toes.

Blast! She was rattling him with her womanly charms.

But it was more than her fine features and mass of golden-red hair that tapped his soul. It was her determination. Her commitment to the life she’d made for herself. Her ability to stare at conflict and ask, “Why?”

He, on the other hand, surrendered the moment conflict reared its ugly head. Tanner had his demanding yet devoted father to thank for his shrinking from confrontation. The man demanded obedience, to live a life of honor, and set aside his ambitions.

Somewhere along the way, Tanner chose his own way and took a wrong step. A very wrong step. Then another. And another.

Ah, never mind. You’re beyond your past mistakes. Are you not?

Back to Miss Beswick. Tanner liked that she had a mind of her own. Pushovers and people pleasers didn’t make good leaders. Or legendary royalty. Prince Francis proved how fear of man could destroy a family dynasty. Indeed, a whole nation.

He also loved how Miss Beswick bore a strong, almost eerie resemblance to the Renoir of Princess Alice. Almost as if the former heir to the throne had stepped out of the 1914 portrait and into the twenty-first century.

Perhaps she had.

All that aside, would Miss Beswick travel with him to Hessenberg? Tanner had no idea. Would the investigator’s report and the entail edicts in the attaché case have any bearing on her heart?

One must hope. He must hope.

Turning back to the room, Tanner downed the last of his water and fired up his laptop.

Had he overplayed his hand? Put too much on her? If someone informed him the future of a nation rested on his shoulders, would he step up?

He hoped so. Especially after his past mistakes. He wanted to make good. Help others. And if possible, forget that he had dau—

Don’t awaken the pain, chap.

He shoved the almost-thought from his mind, leaving his heart reaching and yearning. What was done was done. If he’d been a wiser young man, he’d have paid closer attention to his actions and their effects on his life. But he’d been foolish and it cost him his future.

Which was how he came to owe a debt of thanks to old Seamus Fitzsimmons. Tanner had been offered a new path and a new beginning.

Launching e-mail, Tanner also reached for the telly remote and surfed to a sports channel, looking for some American football. He’d watched a few exhibition matches in Hessenberg when the Dallas Cowboys and Indianapolis Colts came to play. He fancied it a fascinating sport.

Finding a game, Tanner set down the remote and fixed on his messages. He had several, rather a lot, from Louis and one from the King’s Office requesting an update as soon as possible.

He was about to wade into work when a new e-mail popped in from Louis. He was awake early, tackling e-mail on a Hessenberg Saturday.

The subject line disturbed Tanner’s peace: Envelope in Your Desk.

Oh, bother. Louis, what have you done? Tanner ran his hand through his damp hair and exhaled.

His stellar memory aside, Tanner could compartmentalize his thoughts and emotions. If he chose to forget an envelope in his desk, he did. But now Louis reminded him of what he wanted to forget.

He clicked on the e-mail and read his aide’s brief note.





Looking for your office key . . . found it in the middle drawer . . . saw the envelope . . . thought it might be something for your diary . . . a personal invitation . . . tenth birthday party . . . Britta and Bella . . . Sunday the 5th. Shall I schedule . . . apologies for entering your personal mail.






Tanner stared at the message, reading it once more. Birthday party . . . and he was invited? He imagined an invitation inside the fine linen envelope but he didn’t believe they’d really invite him.

It didn’t make sense. Not in light of the past eight years. Britta and Bella were the two “things” in his past he could not compartmentalize, shove aside, and forget. Though he’d thoroughly tried. For their sake. For his.

But he’d not forgotten the twins were turning ten on five October. He was just prepared to ignore their birthday. Like every other year.

Tanner took another water from the fridge and strolled around the suite. He was finally cooling off when this business with the twins sparked a flame in his heart.

On the telly screen, a player ran down the field, ball tucked under his arm, the crowd cheering.

Tanner read the e-mail again.





Shall I schedule?





Setting down his water, he clicked a reply.





No.





He wasn’t even sure if he’d be home with Miss Beswick by the fifth. And even if he was home . . .

Tanner snapped up his mobile. Why did Trude even invite him to the girls’ party? Did Mum know about this? She was the only one who had kept in touch with Trude over the years, even if it was only at Christmas.

He started to dial home when he realized it was five in the morning Hessenberg time. On a Saturday. His parents would be sleeping.

Tanner tossed the phone back to the desk and stripped for a shower.

Just when he had life managed, contained, all roots to his past severed and the ground well covered, a force like Trude Estes Cadwallader came wheeling by with her rotary tiller and reminded him he was not the man he pretended to be.



Just inside her back door, Reggie hit the light switch, igniting a floor lamp and kitchen track lights. She was home where finally her world would settle down and make sense again.

She had driven home with the wind whipping through the old Datsun’s windows, feeling knotted and irritated. Mad. Frustrated.

And challenged to the core of her being.

What was a girl to do when someone came along and told her she was not who she believed herself to be?

The idea sliced through her heart into her soul and dissected everything she believed about herself. Her life.

The force of it all toppled her truths and turned her convictions at right angles.

Setting her purse on the kitchen counter and Tanner’s attaché on the table, Reggie stared at the smooth brown leather of the case for a long moment. He seemed convinced something among the documents would convince her she belonged in Hessenberg. At least long enough to deal with this entail business.

Dumping out the contents of the attaché, she spread them on the table, scanning each one.

A letter from King Nathaniel II. She sighed. Okay, that was cool even if the rest of this was craaaazy!

Shuffling through the papers, she noticed the oil stains still on her hands, and pressed her thumb against the black streaks. She’d need a hot shower and good scrubbing.

But she’d also need time to understand these events that had suddenly burst into her life. What in these papers could convince her to leave everything behind and go for the unknown?

See, when Regina Beswick woke up every morning, she knew who she was, where she was going, why, and how. And she liked it. Change was not necessary or required.

With a resolve to dig in to the attaché contents, Reggie pulled out a chair and sat down.

That Tanner was something, wasn’t he? Strong. Assertive. Yet charming and polished. Sincere. Not smarmy and pushy like Mark. Despite his suit-and-tie formality, he was kind of sexy, and that hair . . . long, coiffed blond hair. He wore it well. Very.

Reggie fingered over the documents, separating them one from another, willing herself to find nothing interesting among the state and legal documents.

She’d shuffle through the papers one last time and call it a night.

Near the bottom of the pile, however, she discovered a chart with names and dates. Lifting the page, her hands trembled with a surge of adrenaline.

Compiled by Lieberman Investigators LLC.

Reggie spied Gram’s name. Alice. Married Harry Pierce, Captain, Royal Air Force, England. Her first husband, a flyer killed in action.

Gram immigrated to America in July 1946 with daughter Eloise, Reggie’s grandmother. Attached was a photocopy of their entrance through Ellis Island. Alice Pierce. Eloise Pierce.

Gram married William Edmunds in October 1947. He died before Reggie was born but she remembered Gram telling stories about him.

Eloise married Charles Hiebert in June 1948, giving birth to Mama two years later in 1950.

Reggie’s memories of her grandparents, Eloise and Charles, were short and sweet since both of them died when she was young. Seeing their names stirred a certain longing for them.

Grandma Eloise was a Pierce, not an Edmunds, who became a Hiebert. Did Reggie know this family tree had so many short branches? Did anyone ever tell her?

She tossed the chart to the table, familiar with the rest of the details. Mama married Daddy, Noble Beswick, in January 1979.

Reggie’s older brother was born in 1981. But he died six months later. Then, in March 1985, she came silently into the world. Actually, that was a fact she did remember. Mama said Reggie came into the world so peacefully, without one sound, as if to say . . . How’d Mama put it?

Hello, world, aren’t you happy I’m here?

Tears of missing Mama burned in her eyes. Back to the chart, Reggie regarded the names, trying to see the people, trying to remember a history she never knew.

Scanning the death dates, the short life spans, a tightness formed in her chest. All except Gram and, of course, Daddy died before the age of seventy. Reggie smiled. Gram, you defied death more than once, didn’t you?

Yet what did this prove? None of this information specifically declared Gram to be Princess Alice. Certainly it didn’t name Reggie as heir. The contents of the attaché case only confused Reggie more. Why didn’t Gram ever speak of this life?

Tanner seemed to think there was something in this case that would convince her she was the long-lost princess. But so far, all Reggie found was a well-documented family tree.

With a sigh, Reggie sifted through the last few documents, spying the edge of a photocopied letter. Pulling it free, she recognized Gram’s sprawling handwriting.

May 1946

London

Dear Otto,

It’s been so long since we’ve corresponded. But this war has taken it out of me. Eloise and I lost Harry in ’45, and we cannot seem to get away from the pain of missing him.

Esmé, my dear sister, invited us to stay with her in America, and we are setting sail tomorrow. I pray there is a new life, a new joy for us there. London is so ravaged from the war. I fear we will never laugh again. I so desire to put this all behind me. Hessenberg. Brighton. The wars. Death. I must begin again if I wish to survive this life.

Uncle has died, as you may know, in Sweden, in early ’44. Mamá will remain in London. She is happy and comfortable in the king’s circle. George VI has embraced her as a sister more than a cousin.

So much death in life, dear Otto.

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ll write when I arrive in America and get settled.

Lovingly yours,

Alice Pierce





Reggie read the letter a few more times, then set it aside. Her tired mind couldn’t comprehend any more. She shoved away from the table, desperate to think, desperate for a shower. The oil would adhere permanently to her pores if she didn’t wash soon.

Standing, stretching, she’d taken one step toward her room when her cell buzzed from her purse. When she saw it was Mark, she let the call go to voice mail.

Then, as she passed the back door, a soft tap-tap resounded.

Daddy.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” she said, opening the door wide, letting him pass. He looked dressed for bed, wearing his FSU sweatshirt, sleeping pants, and worn-out old slippers. He’d tried to train the dog to retrieve them about fifteen years ago, but Buster misunderstood and used them as chew toys.

“Yes, and I got a big job starting in the morning up in Thomasville. But this business with Hessenberg and your gram got me all worked up.” He shoved a square, nondescript box at her. “I brought you something.”

A box? “This couldn’t have waited until morning?”

“Maybe.” He stared at the box, hands on his hips. “I’m not sure. But when Sadie reminded me about the box after you left, I couldn’t shake the notion. Someone was nudging me to bring it to you tonight.”

Reggie set it on the table by Tanner’s leather case. “What is it?”

“Besides a box? I’ve no idea. Gram left it to you.” Daddy walked toward the dark front of the house. “I put it away, figuring I’d give it to you when you were older, when you could appreciate it. I stuck it in the attic and time got away from me. Next thing I know you’re rounding the bases to thirty and I’d forgotten all about the box. Then this Hessenberg dude shows up . . .” Daddy paused along the farthest reach of the kitchen light and peered toward the unlit, unused living room. “Reg, you still only living in three rooms?”

“I’ve been busy.” She cut through the kitchen and leaned against the doorway facing the un-living room.

“Doing what?” Daddy flipped a light switch, powering up an austere ceiling lamp that made the white walls and white brick fireplace feel like a cold waiting room.


“Working. Starting a new business.” The only color in the room was on a Tiffany lamp shade by the front window.

“How long you lived here?” Daddy stooped, picking up the Tiffany cord. “It ain’t even plugged in, Reg.” He snooped under the shade. “And there’s no bulb.”

“I meant to get a bulb.” She’d bought the house two years ago with the money Daddy set aside from Mama’s insurance policy. “And I’m going to use the lamp. I just need to find a good place for it.”

“How many barbecues have you had?” He walked to the darkened bedroom hallway. “Those rooms empty too?”

“Is there a point to all of this?” She snatched up the Tiffany lamp and carried it to the family room.

“The point is . . .” Daddy’s voice clouded with emotion. “I never saw it until now. Reg, you’re not living. You’re existing.”

“You been watching Dr. Phil on YouTube again, haven’t you?” Reggie set the lamp by a chair. “What do you think Al & Reg’s Classic Car Restore is about? It’s about me living, as you say. When I worked for Backlund, I was existing. But now I’m doing what I want to do. My passion.”

“How long have you had that old Datsun?”

She shrugged. “About a year, I guess.” A bit of fast math and she nailed the exact month. “I got it last July. Right after I sold the ’70 Nova.” Which she’d intended to fix up but never found the time. That’s why she went all in with Al.

And where was Daddy going with his questions? She didn’t remember him being so lawyer-like.

“That yellow Corvair still in the garage?”

“Well, I didn’t sell it.” After all, it had once belonged to Great Gram.

“But you’ve not worked on it either.”

“In case you missed the news, I’ve spent the last six months restoring a ’71 Challenger to Slant-6 perfection. We have a very happy customer in Danny Hayes. Before that, I was working sixty-five hours a week at Backlund. I was lucky to fix me up once in a while, let alone a car.”

“Know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.” She leaned against the front wall and shoved her toe into the plush frieze carpet.

“I did you wrong, Reg.”

She glanced up. “What? Daddy, no way. How did you do me wrong? You raised me. Gave up your nights and weekends to be both father and mother. You took care of Gram too.” A sentiment of truth whispered across her heart and tapped on the locked doors of her dark, inner rooms. “We’d go out back and toss the football, talking. You’d set up Gram on the porch with a blanket around her legs.” Reggie shook her head. “You saved both of us, Daddy.”

“You and Gram saved me. But I let you down. I closed off parts of the house,” he said as he motioned to the dark rooms. “Closed off a bit of myself.”

“You were grieving.”

“Yeah, but I had a job to do in raising you right.”

“Raising me right? Daddy, you were there for me. Every day. Every night. You’d lost your wife. I’d lost my mama. And you were the one who circled the wagons.”

“I taught you that when things get painful, you just shut yourself down. I didn’t let you in your mama’s sewing and craft room because I was afraid your fragrance would replace hers. Remember that? You wanted to study in there, listen to her music.”

“But I understood.” Even at the tender age of twelve. Death caused a girl to grow up fast.

“We stopped having holiday dinners and barbecues. Bettin wanted that big ole house on three acres so we could have parties. Invite the world. Instead, we lived just like you do here, Reg, in two rooms and a bedroom. Shoot, half the time we slept in the recliners or on the sofa.”

“Getting up and going to bed felt so lonely.” Even now she still slept on the sofa half the time.

“Me too.” Daddy sighed, running his hand over his face. “Like father, like daughter. Reg, I’m proud of you, but I taught you to cordon off part of your heart and I’m sorry. I think it’s kept you from really living.”

His words sliced. Offended. “I am living. Doing what I want to do. So don’t go feeling all sorry for yourself with the woe-is-me parent routine. Are you saying if I open up the whole house, buy some furniture, hold a party or two, you’ll consider me living?”

He shook his head. “It took Sadie for me to realize how shut down I was, Reg. When we got married, it took some time, but I started to move on.” Daddy squinted at Reggie, looking as if he was weighing his next thought. “But it never occurred to me that I might have left you behind.”

“I’m not cordoned off. I’m not left behind.”

“Still, it won’t hurt to hop on over and give Hessenberg a look-see, Reg. Sadie called her friend who’s got a contact in the FBI. We’re looking up Tanner Burkhardt, but I think he’s all right.”

“Dad, I’m not going to Hessenberg—to be a princess, by the way—because two bedrooms and a living room aren’t furnished. That’s crazy logic.”

“It’s not about logic, Reg. It’s about—”

“Or because the Corvair and Datsun haven’t been restored yet.” She was really convincing herself, not Daddy.

If Mr. Burkhardt’s, er, Tanner’s, news made her topsy-turvy, this conversation with Daddy turned her on her head, inside out and spinning around.

“It’s that you haven’t met your Sadie yet. The one thing, that makes you long to open up your whole heart.”

“Isn’t Jesus that one? That thing?” She’d walked the aisle of Community Christian when she was eight. Gave her heart to Jesus. She meant it then and she meant it now. Even when Mama died, she believed he was good. And she often felt his presence like a hand on her head, walking beside her.

“He is, but I’ve a feeling this is all part of his plan.”

“Then why didn’t he tell me or have Gram say something? All those times we played princess and she never once coughed up the truth?” Daddy followed her back to the kitchen and Reggie shuffled the official papers into a pile. “Neither did you, for that matter. I’m in the car business now.”

“Yet you’ve never ventured farther than Georgia for a car show, and I don’t recall you flying up to the Detroit car museum to see the Starfire #89.”

“You are really starting to grate on my nerves.”

“Sorry, sweet pea, but I need you to see the truth before you shut the door to what this Tanner fella is saying.”

“You know what really bugs me in all of this?” She jammed the documents into the attaché case, taking extra care with the copy of Gram’s letter. “That I was settled, knew who I was and wanted to be. Then this bubba Tanner comes along and tells me I am someone else.”

“No.” Daddy twisted the knob on the back door and eased it open. “He’s telling you who you really are.”



In the shower, hot, cleansing water slicked down Reggie’s head and back, then swirled at her feet before slipping down the drain.

Lord, what are you calling me to do?

The first tears were gentle, but they opened her soul’s cellar door and the deep sobs came rolling out. Pressing her forehead against the shower wall, she released every buried missing-Mama emotion, then spoke to God in a short, cauterized dialog asking “why” and “what am I supposed to do now?”

Peace came about the time the hot water ran cold, so she toweled off, inspected her face and hair for greasy remains, and slipped into her pajamas.

If Tanner’s appearance was merely a challenge to start really living, then yeah, his surprise visit was worth it. But in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t shake the weight of his words, “You’re heir to Hessenberg’s throne.”

Was he telling the truth? After examining the items in the attaché case and reading the letter, how could she continue to doubt? Yet how could she believe?

Walking the house, turning off the kitchen lights, Reggie noticed the box. Daddy’s box. She reached for it, then drew back. Tomorrow. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

Shoot, she wouldn’t be able to sleep wondering what was in that box. So she snatched it up and carried it to her bedroom.

And, mental note, put a lightbulb in the Tiffany. And . . . and . . . throw a party. Get with Carrie and plan the largest, most whoppingest Oktoberfest ever.

She’d start living. Right now. By looking inside this box.

Sitting on her bed against a plump of pillows, Reggie examined the plain, ordinary box before unlocking the brass clasp and raising the lid.

The perfume of history—a thick, spicy, and floral oil under-girded by the scent of ancient paper—changed the aura of the room.

Changed the texture of Reggie’s heart.

The contents of the box were few. Reggie’s gaze fell on an old black-and-white photo, torn in two. A young man with trimmed, pale hair, dressed in an everyday suit, smiled at her, his expression brash and jaunty, his chin raised with pride. Reggie studied his posture. He seemed quite pleased with himself. With life. And he was in Gram’s box.


She leaned toward the end table light. Was that the tip of a woman’s sleeve on his arm? Reggie flipped the picture over, hoping to see a name. Sure enough, someone had written on the back, but the ink had faded with time. And what she could read was cut off by the tear line.

Rein Fri—

Spring 19—

Meadowbluff P—

And who was Rein F-r-i, Gram?

A friend? A boyfriend? Maybe a cousin or something? Did Gram have brothers she never told her about?

Questions with no answers made Reggie regret the permanent silence of death.

But there was more to explore. Maybe some of the answers were among the fragrances and personal items in the box. Setting Rein aside, Reggie took out a small jewel box and discovered a stunning sapphire ring mounted in a filigree shank with sparkling, clear diamonds resting on a bed of blue velvet.

“Oh my word.” Reggie rose to her knees, holding up the ring. The diamonds captured the lamplight, then splashed it against the wall in a glorious prism. The beauty of its design made her a bit giddy. Like the first time she saw a classic car. Like the first time she saw a Starfire #89.

But this ring . . .

It was spectacular. A work of art. Reggie slipped the shank down her finger, surprised and delighted to find it fit perfectly.

What else was in this mystery box? Another jewel case contained a pendant on a gold chain. It was delicate and beautiful, but cut in half, and engraved with something Reggie couldn’t make out.

That was it, except for a small artist notepad that barely fit the bottom of the box. And Reggie recognized it instantly.

The fairy tale. Her fairy tale, penned and illustrated by Gram for Reggie’s sixth birthday. With trembling fingers, she worked the book out of the box, careful not to bend the sides more than necessary.

She’d all but forgotten about the fairy tale. Thought it’d been lost along life’s way or ruined during the great rains of ’00 when the attic leaked.

Reggie smoothed her hand over the first page. Regina’s Fairy Tale. The words leaned a bit too much and the press of a calligrapher’s pen spread the ink outside the bounds of the letters. But it was Gram’s writing. And a good job too, at ninety-four, painting a story for Reggie. Turning the page, she read out loud.





Once upon a time, you see, there was a princess, a duchess-in-waiting, because her uncle was the Grand Duke.





Reggie stopped, her pulse fluttering in her throat. This fairy tale was about Gram.

The thin watercolor image was of the duke and the young princess. She was dressed in royal array, her mass of red hair piled high on her head.





The princess lived in a beautiful land surrounded by the sea. Her palace of gleaming floors and flickering lamps sat on the meadow of Braelon Bay and the Cliffs of White. When the spring winds came, the salty breeze moved through the peaks and into the palace’s open windows, bringing the music of the waves.





The painting depicted a turreted stone palace with high gabled peaks and multiple smoking chimneys across two pages. Gram added a paving stone walkway and a carpet of green grass dotted with yellow daffodils.

In the background were the tall, rather ominous-looking white-tipped cliffs and a hint of the blue-green North Sea.

Reggie hopped up for her laptop and googled Braelon Bay and Cliffs of White. Chills gripped her scalp and trickled down her neck and arms when the images popped on the screen looking exactly as Gram had painted them. Had she painted them from memory. Or from a photograph.

Back on the bed, Reggie returned to the story, her resolve, her “no” waning. But she could not let a booklet painted by an old woman direct her life.

On the next page, the princess sat on a settee under a bay window in a luminous room with swirls and swirls of sunlight falling through the window.





The princess was most happy with her mamá and sister, living with her uncle in the palace of the magical kingdom. But as she grew older, she fell in love.





Reggie glanced at Rein. “Was it you?”





But all was not well in the land.





Turning the page, Reggie’s heart sank to see the swirls of golden light now swirls of dark, ominous clouds. The princess ran through some kind of forest, a possessed one if Reggie ever saw one, with craggy limbs and twig fingers snatching at the girl’s hair and clothes.





Evil came to the kingdom, and the princess and her family had to flee.





Evil? Gram, what evil? Did she mean the war? The entail?

The princess clutched a brown bag to her chest, peering back over her shoulder, her red hair streaming over her eyes.

In the next scene, the princess found safety in a red stable nestled in a light-washed thicket clearing, thin brambles and vines growing about the structure as if to protect it from outside intrusion. Sitting under an arch of white light, the stable image was ethereal. Surreal. Reggie could almost see the light beams dancing in the air.

Reggie flipped the page and walked with the watercolor princess through the stable door, her lantern raised high.





With only moments to spare, the princess stowed away her treasures, believing that one day, when salvation came, they would be found and loved again.





Hmm . . . Gram, what do you mean? When salvation came? Was she referencing the entail? The war? The future heir? Was she even aware of the entail’s consequences? While fascinating and reminiscent, Reggie found none of the fairy tale compelling enough to leave her home, her job, her security, her friends and family to . . .

How did Daddy say it? Hop on over and give Hessenberg a look-see.

Turning the page, Reggie read to the end of the story, still unmoved to travel four thousand miles for the sake of some old piece of political paper. Or the whims of a dead uncle she’d never met.

However, the last page torpedoed all her resolve. Bombarded all of her walls of reason.

In the depths of the stable, darkness all around save the lone lantern, the princess knelt by a sparkling red Starfire #89.

Scrambling off the bed, her pulse surging and every nerve firing, Reggie collected the contents of the box and stuffed her legs into a clean pair of jeans without bothering to remove her pajama bottoms. Pulling on a top and jamming her feet into boots, she grabbed her purse and the attaché case and headed out the door, barely caring that the clocks were striking midnight.