“So did yeh like the show? Why did you leave it?”
I shrug. “Wanted my privacy.”
“You dated that bastard, yeah? Bryce? The grocer?”
I rub my forehead. “Yeah,” I mumble.
“You can do better than him!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Thank you?”
After that, I try to focus on my iPhone’s Kindle app. After that, I’m sick again. When the ferry docks an hour later and Herb weaves his way down the pullout bridge from boat to dock, I make a quick decision.
I follow him to the rental car booth and let him get the keys. He manages to lead me to the car and load my bags, a feat I’m not sure how he manages.
I take the keys from him before he notices.
“Thanks so much, Herb. I’ll bring the car back in two weeks, just like the company said. Just pretend you’re with me. Take your own vacation.” With a quick wink, I hop in the car, speeding off, then jerking over to the roadside when I realize I’m in the wrong damn lane.
FOURTEEN Lucy
I’m jet-lagged as hell, so I stop at the first hotel I see in Clary, use a fake I.D. proclaiming me Sarah Alabaster, pay in cash, and fall face-first into bed. I then remember I haven’t set up Grey’s travel litter box, and have to drag my sad self up and do that. I spend a minute watching him before I decide he seems okay and collapse.
I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up, and I can’t remember when I went to bed. But the room’s dark curtains are leaking sunlight, so I hobble to the window, pull them open, and squint out at…amazingness.
I’m still in the city—my window faces a small field between brick buildings, but beyond that… Beyond the high-rises and stone cathedrals, behind the narrow streets and busy interstates, I see mountains. Big, green mountains wreathed in fog. Mountains that make me think Lord of the Rings. It’s as if I’m in a valley right now. Hell, maybe I am. I didn’t really take the time to learn Gael’s geography before I took off, so I don’t know.
But I’m impressed. Not just by the peaks I see from here, but even by the color of the sky. It’s milky blue, with almost purple undertones. My gaze falls to the grass in the little field behind my hotel building. It’s less green than the Georgia grass I grew up on, with yellow-gold and brown threads, like a more vibrant version of Colorado’s fields. Scattered through the little yard are stones, some soccer-ball-sized, one the size of a beach ball.
Despite my unease over seeing Liam and telling him what’s up, I can’t wait to see the countryside. I shower quickly, humming while Grey walks on the bathroom counter.
“Hmm, I need my bag,” I tell him, like he cares.
When I get out, I call the concierge and request they get my bag from the valet parking deck. A few minutes later, I take the bag from a short man with black hair and green eyes, reaching out the door in the hotel-issue bathrobe to hand him a ten-pound note.
I think about his accent as I shut the door and pad back toward the bathroom. It’s like Liam’s…only different. And I realize that’s because Liam’s is more like mine. More American, I realize. I wonder how he knows Declan Carnegie. I don’t want to drag out my laptop for sleuthing before I dry my hair, in the event that I pass through the northern costal town of Torr—where Haugr Castle is—today and need to look alive, so I deal with hair and makeup first, then stretch out on the bed to do some Googling via the international plan I got my phone before departing. And sure enough, I find that Liam and Dec both went to boarding school at Lawrenceville. Formally known as The Lawrenceville School, in Lawrenceville, New Jersey.
I guess I knew Declan went there, but I’d forgotten.
Liam on the other hand… I’m surprised.
Wouldn’t a country want its prince educated within its own borders? Making a mental note to ask about that if I ever get the chance, I stuff my dirty clothes into my silky hamper bag and pull an ankle-length, dark gray dress over my head. It’s thick like linen, soft like cotton, and just a little flowy. I pair it with brown Tory Burch sandals and a soft cream cardigan sweater, then fasten my hair into a loose side pony-tail, which I tie with a short strand of red velvet ribbon.
Then I spritz myself with the old-fashioned rose water my sisters make so much fun of me for having custom made.
When I’m sure I look good enough for a surprise paparazzi attack that probably will never happen on the Isle of Gael, I re-pack my suitcase, grab it and Grey’s carrier, and ride the elevator down three floors.
With the cat carrier at my feet, I buy a fold-out map at the concierge desk, and watch a fire crackle in a huge hearth while the valet gets my car.
It’s a charcoal gray Range Rover, which makes me feel a little silly when I walk up to it holding my cat Grey’s carrier and wearing my gray dress: as if charcoal is my theme color or something. Maybe it should be, I think as I get sick beside the rear left wheel.
“God.” I have to find a pharmacy. Like, yesterday. Or at least a petrol station with some ginger snaps or something. “Fuck me.”
This is just gross. I didn’t even see that coming. Now I need to brush my teeth. With a guilty glance back at the pool of drool I left on the asphalt, I take a swig from a bottle of water I swiped from my room and follow the vehicle’s GPS onto a busy street.
“Fuck me,” I murmur as my stomach churns.
Grey shifts in his carrier.
It takes a lot of focus to drive correctly, on the correct side of the road, hugging the line without leaving too much or too little space, and even more effort to find a fueling station. But eventually I do, on what appears to be the north, and more rundown, side of town.
I buy three bottles of ginger ale, one small box of ginger snaps, a box of Pepto Bismol—does that even work for preggos?—and an enormous bag of something that looks like a cross between a biscuit, a wafer, and a cracker.
For the next half hour, as I navigate my way out of Clary, the capital of Gael, my nerves buzz like a swarm of bees between my ears. I don’t have the mental energy to actually think cohesive thoughts, so it’s just stress humming up there—vague and unformed thoughts about myself as a mother, about the possibility that every car behind me is someone Bryce sent to have me murdered (yes, I’m crazy), about where I’ll spend the night tonight.
The guard/escort I left behind at the port had my itinerary, and I guess I could always try to call his company and get it, but for some reason, I don’t want to. I feel like I need to do this on my own. So what I’ll lose a little money on any pre-booked rooms? There’s got to be some point of being ridiculously wealthy, to balance out the low-points that come with scrutiny and criticism. This kind of spontaneity is it, I tell myself.