you always look like you’re teasing me, Dami. Even when you’re serious.”
“Because I am teasing you—even when I’m serious.”
She shifted the mountain of bags in her arms in order not to drop any. “You’re confusing me. You know that, right?”
He bent a fraction closer and she caught a hint of his aftershave, which she’d always really liked. It was citrusy, spicy and earthy, too. It made her think of an enchanted forest. And true manliness. And a long black limousine. “Try to enjoy it,” he said.
“Being confused?”
“Everything. Life. All these people out for the holiday. Sunshine. This moment that will never come again.” Suddenly, she wanted to hug him close. There was something so...magical about him. As though he knew really good secrets and just might be willing to share them with her. He added, “And won’t you please believe me? The Thanksgiving Bazaar is in my father’s honor and the more I personally buy here, the happier the merchants will be.”
She groaned, but in a good-natured way. “I think I give up. Buy me whatever you want to buy me.”
He inclined his dark head in a so-gracious manner that made her feel as if she’d just done him a whopping favor. “Thank you, Luce. I shall.”
By then they’d strolled the length of one side of the rue St.-Georges and bought goods from about half of the booths. Dami set down the bouquet of flowers and a few bags of toys and got out his phone. He made a quick call. A few minutes later two men appeared dressed in the livery of the palace guard.
The guards carried their packages for them, falling back to follow behind as they worked their way up the other side of the street, buying at least one item from each of the vendors. The ever-present photographers followed, too, snapping away, their cameras constantly pressed to their faces, but they did keep enough distance that it wasn’t all that difficult to pretend they weren’t there.
Midway back up the other side of the street, they came to the food-cart area, a separate little courtyard of its own in the middle of the bazaar. The carts reminded Lucy of old-fashioned circus cars, each brightly painted in primary colors, some decorated with slogans and prices and pictures of the food they served, others plastered with stenciled-on images of everything from the Eiffel Tower to jungle cats. Dami bought food from each cart—pastries, meat pies, sausages on sticks, cones of crispy fried potatoes, flavored ices, tall cups of hot chocolate. There was no way the two of them could have made a dent in all that food. But conveniently, groups of Montedoran children had gathered around. They were only too willing to help. Dami bought food and drinks for all, while the food sellers smiled and nodded and accepted his money. Were they grateful to be so richly “blessed”? Or just pleased to be doing a brisk business?
Lucy decided it didn’t matter which. Dami had been right. She was enjoying the experience, reveling in this moment that would never come again.
When they left the food carts, the children followed, falling in behind the palace guards with their high piles of packages.
Dami spotted someone he knew across the street. He waved and called out, “Max!”
The tall, gorgeous man with the unruly hair and mesmerizing glance bore a definite resemblance to the prince at her side. He returned Dami’s greeting and then went back to his negotiations with a vendor who sold scented soaps and bath salts.
Lucy asked, “Your oldest brother, right?” Dami nodded. “Will he make the rounds of every booth?”
“And buy something from each one.”
“No wonder the vendors feel blessed. I mean, there are nine of you, brothers and sisters together. That’s a lot of blessings.”
“We don’t all attend every year. But we do our best to make a showing—and come on now. We still have several booths to go.”
They visited the remainder of the booths, piling more packages into the arms of the two guards. When they’d finally made a stop with every vendor in the bazaar, it was nearing two in the afternoon. Neither of them was hungry, as they’d done a lot of sampling when they’d fed the children at the food carts. Thanksgiving dinner at the palace took place in the early evening, so they didn’t have to hurry back to get ready.
“What next?” Lucy asked.
Dami sent one of the guards off with Lucy’s purchases and orders to have them delivered to her room. “This way,” he said, and took Lucy’s hand.
It felt lovely, she thought, almost as though they really were together in a romantic way, her hand in his strong, warm one, the guard with all the bags of toys behind them, and a trail of laughing kids strung out along the street, following in their wake. It wasn’t far down to the harbor, and that was where Dami led them, to a little square of park along the famous Promenade, which rimmed the pier where all the fabulous yachts were docked.
“Right here,” he said at last, indicating an iron bench beneath a rubber tree. They sat down together and the guard put all the packages at their feet as the children found seats on the grass around them.
And then Dami began passing out the toys and coloring books, the dolls and stuffed animals, with the guard helping out to make sure everyone got something. A ring of adults stood back out of the way, and Lucy realized they were the parents of the children. Some parents had little ones in their arms or in strollers. The guard made sure even the smallest ones received a toy.
It was all so charming and orderly, like some fantasy of sharing, the children laughing and chattering together, but in such a well-behaved way. Once or twice she heard raised voices when one child wanted what another one had. But all Dami had to do was glance in that direction and the argument would cease.
When all the bags were empty and every child had a gift, Dami asked the gathered children, “Would you like to hear a story?”
A happy chorus of yeses went up.
And Dami launched into a story about a little boy and a magic book, a laughing dragon and a secret passage into a special kingdom where a kind princess ruled with a gentle hand. There was an evil giant who never bothered to bathe or brush his teeth. The giant captured the princess. And the little boy and the laughing dragon rescued her with the help of spells from the magic book.
When the story was over, the children and the ring of adults applauded and the children cried, “One more, Prince Dami! Only one more!”
He obliged them with a second story, this one about a brave girl who saved Montedoro from an evil wizard who’d cast a sleeping spell across the land. Applause followed that story, too, and a few called, “One more!”
But Dami only laughed and shook his head and wished them all a richly blessed Thanksgiving. The children went to find their parents and Dami took her hand again and pulled her to her feet.
“That was wonderful,” she told him. “Did you make up those stories yourself?”
A so-Gallic shrug. “I’m not that clever. They are Montedoran folk tales, two of many. A century and a half ago a Montedoran named Giles deRay gathered them into a couple of volumes, Folk Tales of Montedoro. We all know the stories. It’s something of a tradition over the holidays for the princes of Montedoro to pass out gifts they’ve bought at the bazaar and tell the children a few of the old tales.”
“What
