Chapter Eighteen

I found my grandmother in her library, surrounded by research and folders of every kind. Maps hung all over the walls, ancient cartography symbols mixed with modern satellite imagery.

She looked up when I knocked a massive carved bookcase. “Ah, Caroline. Settled, are you?”

“Yes, thank you. For making room for me—”

“And your servant.”

“Yes. My…friend.”

Astrid gave me a knowing look, tossed a pen on to her desk and settled back into her oversize leather chair. “I presume there must be something highly unusual going on to make you emerge from your hiding spot and return to your people.”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “I haven’t returned to anything. In fact, as soon as I take care of a few things, I will be returning to my hiding spot.”

“Really?” She smirked. “Which one?”

I shifted my weight from side to side. No one knew better than my grandmother Astrid about a Sevine women’s hidey-holes. She had led by example—wresting this convent nearly forty years ago from her brother’s inheritance (a story that was nearly legendary in high-flying European nobility circles) and collecting other, less notable properties as well. And I’d sought her advice years before when I started investigating discreet, efficient ways to invest in real estate.

“Sit, Caroline.” She indicated the chair on the other side of the messy desk. “And tell Grandmama everything.”

I sat and then began to pick my way carefully through the story. “I’m not really sure where to start,” I began. “And I’m afraid I don’t know all the particulars,” I continued. “But it has to do with Christian Fraser-Campbell.”

Astrid drew back. “That wretched man who abandoned Thea on her wedding day?”

“Yes.”

“And then killed himself, rather than face her?”

“Well…about that. It seemed that perhaps he didn’t. Or perhaps he has a twin or an impersonator who found me and is really quite insistent on meeting with me, for some reason.”

“A twin? An impersonator?” Astrid coughed a laugh. “Darling Caroline, always trying to make excuses for people. A born mediator, that’s what you are. I see what’s happened.”

“I’m glad one of us does.”

“Your other grandmother lost control of a situation.” Glee lit her face. “Aha! You know what they say about the chickens coming home to roost. Aurelia always thought she could manipulate people better than she actually could. She probably tried to buy this man off, make him agree to disappear, rather than continue to shame the royal House of Laurent, and now he’s reneging on the deal.”

It was possible…but based on what Hugh had told me, not probable. But I didn’t want to correct Astrid, since Hugh’s version of events dealt with some very serious treasonous accusations.

I went ahead and described the violence that it seemed Christian was sponsoring—to my house in Varenna, to my mother’s villa. “And when Hugh was hurt, and needed medical attention, I could only think that this was the best place.”

“For both of you,” Astrid pointed out.

I avoided her too perceptive gaze and tried to focus on a map of Jerusalem on the wall to my left.

“You’re not returning to Drieden, then?” she asked.

“Why would I? What’s left for me there?”

“She did strip your HRH, didn’t she?” Astrid said it like she had just remembered that factoid. But I knew my mother’s mother. She kept everything locked up in her brain. I imagined it like the royal vault under the palace. Walls of reinforced steel, heavy, thick locks, a thousand years worth of secrets and scores to settle.

Like this one. Astrid wasn’t particularly status-conscious, but only in the way that the most connected, well-to-do nobles are. A descendant of a branch of the Sevine family, she married back into the main family, then her second daughter married into the royal family. She certainly had the privilege to retreat from society, live on an Alp and devote her days to her deep-dives into archeology and cultural studies.

For instance, for the past twenty years or so, Grandmama had become one of the world’s leading experts on the Crusades, the Knights Templar and the search for the Holy Grail. Think of her as an elegant, female version of Indiana Jones’s father. Before that, she roamed Nepal and China, even followed Marco Polo’s travels, as far as the Soviet Union would let her.

She was obsessed with ancient history, which is why it probably shouldn’t be a surprise that she had some ancient history with my Big Gran, the other grandmother, Queen Aurelia of Drieden. “That woman,” she muttered. “First she was a vindictive bitch to your mother. And then to you. And for what reason? To protect her precious blood line?” Astrid scoffed. “Don’t get me started on the Laurents’ bastards back in the eighteenth century.”

“I…won’t…” I murmured.

“Receipts. That’s what I have.” She waved dramatically at the stuffed bookshelf behind her. “We all know, all these Morganatic assholes, how they manipulate the laws and the titles to protect their fortunes.” Here, Astrid used air quotes around “fortunes.” Between that and the fact that she kept “receipts,” I had to respect her up-to-date knowledge of modern lingo, even as fascinated as she was with the past. “The Laurents were always trying to keep up with the Sevines in that department. That’s because we embraced things like technology and commerce and weren’t content to wallow in the feudal system for an extra useless century.”

“Anyway,” I said, merely to interrupt this train of thought. I knew from experience that it could all too easily devolve into an hour-long rant about the superiority of one half of my family tree. With the longstanding ill will between the two families, how anyone thought my mother and father’s marriage would last forever was beyond me.

“Like I said, I have no reason to return to Drieden. I have no role in the family business. I’ve probably become a total outcast in the past year, and I don’t wish to become a tabloid sideshow like…” I cut off when I realized what I was about to say.

But Astrid knew. “Like your mother?” she said drolly.

It was true. My mother, Felice, had embraced a life of frivolity and fancy after her divorce from my father. She remarried twice (or was it three times? There had been another fiancé, I remembered, an Australian media mogul, but perhaps he had never successfully wrangled Mother to the altar), she traveled the world, hopping between her homes in Argentina, New York and the 6th arrondissement. She posted fabulous photos of herself on a yacht in Sardinia, sat at the front row of fashion shows next to Carine Roitfield and Anna Wintour, was even a guest judge on a drag-queen reality show for a bit. That, I really enjoyed, even if Big Gran nearly blew a gasket when she heard that Felice had worn her wedding tiara on the show.

“My mother lives her own life,” I finally said. “But I’m not interested in all of that.”

Astrid nodded in understanding. “Sevine women, we each must find our own way.” Her expression darkened. “It’s what distinguishes us from the Laurents, am I right?”

“Enough,” I warned her. “You’re talking about me and my sisters.”

My grandmother was unconcerned about any accidental insult. “Yes. And I did notice that your sister Thea is just over there.” She pointed at a mountain outside the window. “I read that she’ll be attending that conference in Davos this week.”

“Yes, speaking on some sort of education initiative, something with technology and girls.”

Astrid smiled. “Someone keeps tabs on her family.”

“I do,” I said evenly. “How better to know when I need to duck for cover?”

She laughed, her signature joyous bark. Another sign of the aristocracy—the complete confidence to let every emotion out if one felt like it. See, also, e.g., my mother. Astrid reached for her fountain pen, flipping it through her fingers. “I had thought to send her a note, invite her for a visit—”

“No!” My answer was firm and loud. Loud enough to drive my grandmother’s eyebrows up.

“Are you on the outs with Theodora?”

I covered my face with my hands and sighed. How could I explain that I wasn’t on the outs with my older sister, that I simply felt extreme guilt over us losing touch, that I wasn’t sure how I would be received and—oh yes—that her once-pretend-dead fiancé was possibly stalking me and threatening me with some sort of…persistent yet unclear threat.

“It’s complicated,” I mumbled.

“You two probably have a lot to discuss,” Astrid said vaguely, pulling up a pad of paper to scribble some thought down that had just occurred to her. But I couldn’t be worried about whatever she was writing because the thought of my sister had reminded me of Christian and the memory of Christian’s phone, and that he was out there…somewhere…and that he really, really wanted to talk to me about…something that I had no business being a part of.

I was opting out, I reminded myself. As much as the story of Christian’s disappearance tempted me, I knew this was going nowhere good. I was leaving. Just as soon as I could.

“Since we’re talking about Sevine women finding themselves…” I started, knowing Astrid wouldn’t be able to resist that lure.

Sure enough, Astrid’s attention was diverted from her personalized stationery. Her clear blue eyes rose to meet mine. “Yes, my dear?”

“Do you happen to have a secure internet connection I could use?”

“You mean, an untraceable IP address from which one could access travel reservations, bank accounts and private emails that self-destruct within thirty minutes of opening?”

Errr…“Yes?”

Astrid gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Let me give you the password.”