FOR YEARS DR KRYSTIANA SZENAC had walked along the beach with her dog Bruno, allowing her gaze to fall upon the faraway façade of Il Palazzo Grande—the Grand Palace. It was like a fine jewel in the warm sunshine. A glittering building set atop a hill, with every window, every white wall, reflecting the light. She’d often wondered about what it would be like to live in such a place, but had never imagined for one moment that she would ever pass through the arched gates into the royal sanctuary where the King and his son the Crown Prince lived.
He didn’t know it, but she felt a kinship with the Prince, and every time she thought about their connection—which was often—she would smile to herself, knowing it was ridiculous because he didn’t even know she existed!
But he was about to.
Krystiana sucked in a breath as the large armoured car drove her through the gates and into the palace grounds. She gazed out of the window, feeling like a silly little tourist as she took in the guards in their dark blue uniforms and the white sashes that crossed their chests, the flower displays—perfectly tended, not a weed in place—and the architecture: solid white walls rising high, the crenelated roof with the billowing flag of the royal family and the circular towers in each corner.
It had all the hallmarks of the castle it had once been, even down to the other guards she saw at the top of each tower, ever watchful, even though there had been no threat to Isla Tamoura for hundreds of years. It was pomp and circumstance for the tourists who flocked to the island in their droves, keen to explore this jewel off Italy’s south-eastern coast.
Did Crown Prince Matteo feel safe behind these walls? She couldn’t see why he wouldn’t. All the barriers... All the guards... Security was high. She’d already had her bags searched before she was even allowed in the car. A rugged, dark-suited secret service agent had frisked her down too—the most bodily contact she’d had in years.
It had made her feel uncomfortable, but she’d bitten her lip until it was done and then smiled politely at the agent as he’d opened the car door for her. ‘Grazie.’
The agent hadn’t said much. He’d had that mysterious, moody, steely exterior down perfectly, getting into the car and saying into his phone in Italian, ‘I have the parcel. Delivering in fifteen minutes—that’s fifteen minutes.’
She’d raised her eyebrows, having never been referred to as a parcel before. She’d been called a lot of other things in her life, but never a parcel.
The car purred its way through another set of arches and then came to rest outside a columned terrace. The agent got out, adjusted the buttons on the front of his dark suit and looked about him before opening her door.
Krystiana stepped out, her nerves getting the better of her at last, and wished she’d had something to eat before leaving home. Just something that would have settled her stomach. But there’d been almost no time to prepare. The call had come in unexpectedly. She was needed immediately. There had just been time to pack a bag for an overnight stay. To call her neighbour and ask her to feed and walk Bruno.
A day of living in the palace! It was almost a dream. That a woman like her—a woman who had been raised initially in Krakow, Poland—should find herself hobnobbing with royalty.
Well, it wasn’t exactly hobnobbing. It was work. Standing in for the royal doctor to run the Crown Prince through his yearly physical. She’d been chosen because she shared a clinic with Dr Bonetti, the King’s private physician, and had already had her background checked. That was what happened when your colleague was the King’s doctor. There could be no chance of any impropriety connected with the royals.
They’d already had enough excitement, after all.
A red carpet led from the car up to the white stone steps and into the palace proper.
On wobbly legs she ascended the stairs, aware that the agent was following along behind her. She assumed someone else would bring her bag. As she neared the top of the steps and saw the opulent interior of the palace she felt her pulse quicken, and her mouth went as dry as the Dune Dorate—the Golden Dunes.
She tried her hardest to appear nonchalant as she walked across the marble floor towards a man dressed like a butler, who had the rigid stature of an old soldier.
‘Dr Szenac, welcome to the Grand Palace. It is a pleasure to welcome you to these halls. My name is Sergio and I shall be your attendant whilst you are here. Have you been to the palace before?’
She shook her head, her long golden plait swinging at her back. ‘No. It’s my first time.’
‘Oh! Well, please don’t let it be your last. I’m reliably informed that the public tours are very entertaining and informative, if you wish to know anything of its history.’
She’d never been one to study history. History should stay in the past, where it belonged. Not be dragged back into the present at every opportunity. She could appreciate beautiful architecture, and respect the amount of time a building had stood in place, but she was far more interested in the people who lived in it now.
‘Thank you. I might do that one day.’
Sergio led her up a curved stairwell, adorned with portraiture of Kings and Queens of the past. She could see the familiar glossy black hair and beautiful blue eyes of the Romano family in most of them. Occasionally there was a portrait of someone who had married into the family, including the one she stood in front of now: Queen Marianna, sadly passed.
‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ asked Sergio.
‘Most
