Saskia only had to turn her head and look out the window across the pier.
She strode past the bewildered waiter and peered through the peephole in the door. Prince Bjorn of Norway was still standing there, looking indecisive. When she hauled the door open, though, he looked astonished and unnerved. It didn’t help that her robe almost fell open when the door snagged it. She caught it with her free hand just in the nick of time and retied it while the prince gamely tried to keep his eyes on her face. He was wearing a navy blue blazer and a well-tailored dress shirt over khakis. Looked as though he’d have been more comfortable, though, skiing through the mountains.
“Prince Bjorn!” she exclaimed.
“Your Royal Highness. When we last met—”
“My husband’s funeral. You were just a boy. How you’ve grown! Are you here to talk to me about my daughter?”
“Well, yes.”
“Come in.”
They sat down across the coffee table from each other. The waiter poured coffee for both of them. Saskia took advantage of the delay by pulling up a certain selfie on her phone. She showed it to Bjorn: Lotte in the gown she’d worn to the ball on the day she’d become Queen of the Netherlands, making a comically exaggerated wink as she posed next to Bjorn, who here was looking even more uncomfortable in black tie. Bjorn blushed as deeply as Jules had yesterday, but he was a lot more careful about using sunscreen—something of a professional obligation when you were the crown prince of a country full of outdoorsy melanin-deprived people—and so it really showed.
“Well then, I’ll get right to the point,” he said, as soon as the door had closed behind the waiter.
“Oh my god, is she pregnant?”
Bjorn barked out a nervous laugh. “Certainly not! My god. We haven’t even
“I’m just joking. If she were pregnant, you couldn’t possibly know yet.”
“The point is, she’s seventeen.”
“I was aware of it.”
“I’m twenty-two.” He shrugged. “It might seem a small difference to—to—”
“To someone as old as me? Go ahead, it’s okay.”
“But I just wanted to say—because there have already been false reports on the Internet—”
“Someone on the Internet is wrong? I don’t believe it!”
“Nothing has happened. And nothing will, until she is of a proper age. But—” Here Bjorn got stuck again.
“But you would like it to happen.”
“I believe there is potential there. Yes.”
“Potential. A dry and somewhat technical-sounding way to say it. You’re an engineering student?”
“Not anymore. Got my degree.”
“Congratulations!”
“I’m going to work on carbon capture.”
“Well, you seem like a wonderful young man. Serious and self-disciplined. Respectful in the way you treat women. I wouldn’t want anyone in my family to end up with some playboy.”
From the look on Bjorn’s face it seemed that this term was unfamiliar to him. Once again, she had dated herself. “I think now they are called fuckboys or something.”
The bathroom door opened and Michiel strode out, staring down at the screen of his phone. His bathrobe was wide open, sash dragging on the floor, flat stomach glistening, his erect penis sticking out like the bowsprit of the royal yacht. “Something came up while I was in the shower!” he announced, snapping a photograph. Then he looked up.
“His Royal Highness Prince Bjorn of Norway,” Saskia announced, but before Bjorn could scramble to his feet Michiel had retreated into the bedroom.
“Like that,” Saskia said coolly. “Don’t be like him and we’ll get along fine, you and I.”
It occurred to Saskia that if she moved fast she might be able to reach Michiel before it was too late. “See you at the opening session, Bjorn, in—what—an hour and a half?”
“Thirty minutes, in fact,” Bjorn said apologetically, getting to his feet. His eyes darted to the bedroom door. “But, you’re a queen, you know.”
“More of a Dowager at this point.”
“Anyway, you can show up whenever you like, of course.”
“I’ll be there in forty-five,” Saskia said. “Tell them I’m powdering my nose.”
