not just in looks. She had a very kind heart. It broke her when her son was taken. She died never knowing of his safe return.’
Krystiana nodded. It was tragic. Crown Prince Matteo’s kidnapping had been a story she had followed with bated breath, praying for his safe release. It had been a couple of years ago now, but still, she knew in her heart that it would never be forgotten by those involved.
‘The Prince must have been devastated when he got home to discover his mother had died?’
Sergio nodded sadly. ‘They were very close. Ah, here are your quarters.’
He stopped in front of a set of double doors and swung them open wide, and once again she tried to appear unaffected by the riches within, simply nodding and smiling.
‘Thank you, Sergio. These look wonderful. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.’
‘Your initial appointment with the Prince is at three this afternoon. Take time to settle in. Pull this red sash—’ he indicated a brocade sash that hung by the white marble fireplace ‘—if you want anything and I’ll be with you momentarily.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A servant will bring up your bag. Are there any refreshments I can get you? A drink, perhaps?’
She was thirsty, and now that some of her nerves were settling she felt that maybe she could eat. ‘Some coffee would be wonderful. And some water? Maybe a bite to eat? I had to come here in rather a rush and I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to dine.’
‘I’ll have a selection of food brought up to you immediately. Do you have any allergies or food preferences?’
‘No.’
He bowed. ‘Then I will be back shortly. Welcome to the Grand Palace, Doctor.’ And he departed, closing the doors behind him.
Krystiana spun around, headed straight over to the doors in the far wall and flung them back, allowing in the bright sunshine, the freedom of the outdoors, as she stepped out onto a large terrace and breathed in the scent of bougainvillea, jasmine and columbine.
An array of flowers grew in small ornamental pots, framed by clipped firs in taller blue pots. A table and six chairs were sheltered by a large umbrella. Below her were the private royal gardens and she took a moment to take in the sight. They were simply gorgeous: a low maze with a water feature at its centre—a stone horse crashing through stone waves—an ornamental garden, a lily pond, a mosaic. Little paths ran here and there—one down to a grotto, another through a set of rose arches to a circular bench and a bust.
Someone had poured a lot of heart and soul into this garden. She wondered who. Some gardener? A series of them? Each of them adding something new during their term, perhaps?
Beyond the palace walls she saw olive groves, small terracotta-coloured churches, roadside shrines and undulating hillsides that shimmered with heat from the overhead sun. It was something she could paint. She often turned to creativity when she was stressed. She’d never had such a view before—she had to sketch it before she left.
Not that I could ever forget this.
The view had a timeless quality. She almost felt she could stand there all day admiring it. But reality beckoned, and so she turned to observe her rooms more carefully. It was the most sumptuous suite—all white marble and silver accents. A large bed occupied the centre of the bedroom, with pristine white sheets and a gold counterpane. There was a desk and chair in the living room, a comfortable pair of sofas in palest cornflower-blue and vases of fresh flowers on almost every surface. A door in the corner of the bedroom led to an en-suite bathroom, with a sunken bath in the centre, a walk-in shower, a toilet and bidet and a huge assortment of toiletries in a room that was all mirrors.
Briefly, she wondered about the poor maids who had to clean it each day, buffing it to a shine, because not a single surface had a fingerprint or a smudge on it anywhere.
But what would you expect in a palace?
The opulence was meant to make her feel good. Treasured and important. But Krystiana had always preferred simplicity and rustic touches. Wooden bowls, plain knives and forks for her food. Simple cloth mats beneath her plate. Watercolours. Plain whitewashed walls—the minimalist look, with stone and driftwood she’d collected from the beach where she walked each day, barefoot, her trousers rolled up as she paddled in the water.
All of this was nice. Amazing, in fact. But it wasn’t real.
She felt like Alice through the looking glass, looking at a world she didn’t quite understand. But she was keen to know more.
* * *
Crown Prince Matteo Romano shook the hand of the cultural attaché from Portugal and bade him a safe journey home. He was looking forward to the future visit he would take to Lisbon, to see for himself the amazing artwork said to be displayed in Galleria 111. The attaché had done a fine job of convincing him the place was worth fitting in to his schedule, especially as he was such a fan of the surrealist painter António Dacosta, the work of whom the gallery had confirmed they had a huge stock.
As soon as the attaché had left, Matteo let out a breath and relaxed for a moment. He was almost done with his schedule for today. A few brief moments alone, and then he would meet the new doctor who had been brought in due to Dr Bonetti’s family emergency.
He hoped everything was all right with the man’s family. He’d known Dr Bonetti for years, and had met his wife and children. They’d all dined together on occasion and he thought very well of them all. He envied the doctor his happy marriage and his smiling children. They all seemed so together. So...content.
None of them had the stresses that were placed upon his shoulders. Who could understand the burden of being a prince, a future king, without having lived in his shoes?
He reached for the coffee that Sergio had brought in earlier, along with the news that the stand-in doctor had arrived and was settling in. The drink was cooler than he’d like—his meeting with the Portuguese attaché had gone on longer than he’d expected—but he continued to drink it until it was finished. Then, needing the freshness of the outdoors and the calm that viewing the gardens gave him, he stepped out of the terrace doors onto the balcony to gaze down into the palace gardens.
As always, he felt serenity begin to settle in his soul and he closed his eyes and breathed in the warm, fragrant air. Perfezionare. Perfect. His hands came to rest on the rich stone balustrade and for a moment he just stood there, centring himself. Grounding himself.
Behind him there was the gentle sound of Sergio clearing his throat. ‘Dr Krystiana Szenac, sir.’
‘Grazie, Sergio.’
He turned and there she was. Dressed in a black knee-length skirt and an emerald-green blouse, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulder in a long plait. A hint of make-up and an amazing smile.
She curtsied. ‘Your Highness.’
‘Dr Szenac. It’s a pleasure.’ He stepped forward to shake her hand. ‘I appreciate you coming at short notice and hope our pulling you from your schedule hasn’t disrupted your life too much.’
‘No. Not at all. I was able to make new arrangements.
