The Frog Prince (25 page)

“That’s what I said!” I say with a chuckle. “But the first two floors are basically museums. You can see things like Empress Maria Theresa’s bedroom and the room where Napoleon slept. It’s the most popular tourist attraction in Austria.”

“What about the other floors? I saw photos—it looks like there are three or four floors.”

“There are, but people live there.”

“People?” she says, one eyebrow raised. “Like squatters?”

I shake my head. “No, just regular people. The non-museum floors of Schönbrunn were divided into apartments and rented out years ago.”

“Oh…wow.”

I can tell she’s as shocked as I was when I found out. Hell, if I’d known you could just rent a room in a palace, I might have already looked into it. I could have met a prince years ago.

“What’s going to happen to all the people who live there?” says Crystal.

“Well, Roman didn’t want to just kick everyone out the door, but the security situation would be a nightmare if they tried to keep track of who was coming and going. So they’re working to help everyone find new homes. It’s just going to take time.”

She nods and looks down at her notes. “One of the first press releases that came from the palace made it clear that Prince Roman would not be having a coronation. Why not?”

“Coronations are religious ceremonies,” I explain. “In the past it was about more than just formally getting the crown. Coronations represented the idea that the king was ordained by God. The monarch was considered the ‘Defender of the Faith.’”

“The faith in question usually being Catholicism or Anglicanism,” says Crystal.

“Right,” I say, watching Jerrod in my peripheral vision for any sign that I am totally driving off the cliff with this. His relaxed posture says ‘so far, so good.’

“Austria isn’t as homogeneous as it was when the monarchy was abolished in nineteen-seventeen,” I say. “About half of Austrians consider themselves either agnostics or atheists—including Roman. And then he thought that even though Catholics make up a majority of the other half of the population, there are also Jews, Buddists, Muslims, Hindus…”

“It became a matter of which faith he would be defending?’” says Crystal.

I nod. “I think the last real coronation for a European monarch was Queen Elizabeth the Second in the nineteen-fifties. Her son, Prince Charles, has even said that it was unlikely he would have a coronation when his turn comes.” I shrug. “Times have changed.”

“So why not have a formal enthronement instead?” she says. “President Baumgartner and Chancellor Engemann were in favor of this, but Prince Roman put the kibosh on that idea too. Why?”

“Well, the enthronement would have been a sort of ‘stepped-down’ coronation without the religious ceremony,” I explain. “In the end Roman felt like it couldn’t be justified. I mean, even though everyone still refers to him as ‘Prince Roman,’ he’s already King of Austria by virtue of the way the legislation was written. Parliament was very clear that the monarchy would be largely ceremonial; the real governing power will still be in the hands of the chancellor, the president and parliament. So you have to ask: why have a ceremony that implies that by sitting on a throne the office of the king is somehow above that of the chancellor or the Parliament?”

Crystal jots down a few notes, even though the entire interview is being recorded. She looks up again, shifting in her seat to uncross and then re-cross her legs. “A formal enthronement would have involved Roman actually sitting on one of the Habsburg dynasty thrones,” she says.

“That’s right.”

“Presumably the throne would have been dragged out of a museum somewhere for the occasion.” She pauses, tapping her index finger against her chin like she’s trying to decide if she wants to go off-script. “For royalty, Roman is very egalitarian. I got the feeling when he said ‘no’ that the idea of sitting on a throne, even for a ceremony, was embarrassing for him. Am I right?”

I smile, trying hard not to let a giggle break through. After the ‘coronation versus enthronement’ drama had broken out, I’d made the mistake of suggesting to Roman that sitting on a throne, even as part of a somber public spectacle, would be kind of fun. “Absolutely not,” he’d said. “The only throne I’m sitting on is the one in my bathroom.”

I dodge Crystal’s question with a vague answer. “Well, there was also the cost of having that kind of ceremony,” I say. “He just thought it was unjustifiable.”

“But he struck a compromise with the chancellor and the president…” she says, trailing off.

Even though this isn’t a question, it’s already public knowledge, so I go ahead and finish her sentence. “He’s going to take an oath before Parliament to defend the laws of the republic, or something along those lines.”

“No crown and no throne, right?”

Although I’m secretly sad that no crowns will be making an official appearance, I hold my smile in place. “It’s what he thinks is the right thing to do.”

Crystal nods. “Along those same lines, Prince Roman said when accepting the crown that he wanted there to be a periodic vote of the people to keep or dissolve the monarchy. This really angered a lot of European royals who believe that the monarchy is a permanent institution that shouldn’t be subjected to a vote as if the king were running for office like a politician. Do you think Roman regrets saying that?”

I see Jerrod eyeing me carefully, but he doesn’t signal that I shouldn’t answer. Still, I’m cautious. Crystal’s question is long and has several components–a perfect storm for tripping me up. My first inclination is to rush right in and blurt out an answer. This was the first tendency of mine that Jerrod corrected in our practice sessions, saying, "No one is going to see the stretches of silence during the interview when the article is printed. You have plenty of time to think about what you want to say before you say it.”

So I ponder for a few moments, deciding right away not to answer her last question directly. “Never answer ‘yes or no’ questions,” Jerrod had said. “The only question that can be answered with a definitive ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is ‘Are you pregnant?’ Everything else requires nuance.”

I stare at the couch cushions while I mentally draft and edit my answer. Finally I say, “Roman understands that he isn’t a politician. But to say that his position is above politics isn’t entirely accurate either. Monarchies are expensive institutions to support—we’re talking millions and millions of dollars a year. And people have to support the institution with their taxes. Without some kind of accountability, I think Roman thinks there could be a tendency to abuse the privilege and forget who’s serving whom.”

Crystal nods and starts scribbling away again on her pad of paper. Jerrod nods at me, silently mouthing, “Niiice.”

I’m starting to feel a little smug. With a little more practice, I might eventually be able to give an interview without Jerrod having to sit with me like–

“You understand that Prince Roman will never be permitted to marry you, don’t you?” says Crystal.

My eyes widen and my mouth falls open. “I–”

That’s the only word I get out of my mouth before Jerrod leaps out of his chair. “We’re done,” he spits. He reaches for my hand and pulls me up from the couch. I’m still numb, my eyes unfocused as I stumble to the bedroom, trying to tease out how exactly the interview just turned into a crash and burn spectacle.

From the bedroom door I watch as Crystal stands up, her expression defiant. “Jerrod, readers are going to want to know some details about–”

“Those ground rules weren’t optional, Crystal,” says Jerrod, jabbing his finger a few inches from her face. “We still have final edit rights, and let me tell you right now: you will not even
allude
to the fact that you asked that question or we’ll cancel the entire exclusive, photo spread and all. You’re
way
out of bounds here.”

“You said no questions about their
relationship
!”

“Exactly! So what the hell was that?”

“That was a question about the politics of royal marriage. I simply asked–”

I close the bedroom door quietly behind me. Their voices are muffled by the heavy door, but most of the shouting seems to be over. I sink onto the edge of the bed, hoping that Jerrod not only shows her the door, but slams it quickly enough to necessitate having the doorknob surgically removed from her ass.

Somewhere in the room I can hear my phone vibrating. After scrambling around on my hands and knees for a few seconds, I find it on the floor between the bed and the nightstand. It’s Kat.

“Hey,” I say tonelessly, leaning back against the side of the bed.

“Hey! Are you done?”

“I’m done.”

Kat hesitates. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“The interview…didn’t end so well.”

“Why? What happened?”

I groan. “I don’t even want to tell you.”

“C’mon Leigh, tell me.”

I blow out a long, loud breath. “She said that Roman would never be allowed to marry someone like me.”

“Okaaay,” says Kat, dragging out the word to buy some time. “I’m sort of failing to see the problem, other than the fact that it’s a pretty rude question. You don’t even want to
get
married. Remember what you’re always saying: ‘There’s a fifty percent chance that marriage will ruin your marriage.’”

“I know.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I just can’t see anyone being okay with the king of Austria staying a bachelor or just living with someone, or just dating someone forever …can you? There’s a reason they push for ‘an heir and a spare.’”

“A spare and a what? And who is ‘they?’”

“An heir to the throne and some backup offspring,” I explain. “‘They’ is the media, his family, the entire country.”

“He’s been King of Austria for three weeks and the entire country is urging him to take a wife and impregnate her? I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

I sigh again. “Probably. I think it was being called ‘white trash’ that made me a little sensitive.” And then I can’t help it—I chuckle a little, remembering.

“She called you
white trash
? Did this bitch forget to take her medication or something?”

“She didn’t call me white trash. She just explained that that was the way the rest of the world thought of me.”

“Oh, well, that’s so much
better
,” says Kat, her voice biting with sarcasm. “I wonder what the rest of the world is going to think of
her
when I beat her to death with a shovel and bury her in my back yard? Let’s see how good she is at name-calling when I rip out her tongue and feed it to my mother-in-law.”

I smile. Kat burns off a lot of stress by making empty threats against people she’s never met. “I’d better go,” I say. “I think Jerrod is threatening to cancel the exclusive.”

“You should let him!” she shouts.

“No way.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Are you kidding me? Did you see those proofs? I look hot!”

Dead silence. And then: “Leigh, the only thing that will save you from your stupidity is your vanity.”

I’m still laughing when I hear a click and the line goes dead.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“G2 to Schönbrunn.”

“Go ahead, G2.”

“Whiskey Tango secure at east entrance.”

I shut the door to the black SUV and settle The Look of Death on my bodyguard, Jason Stieber.

“Copy, G2,” a voice crackles from the walkie-talkie. “
Willkommenes Haus
. Welcome home.”

Jason flashes his ultra-white teeth at me, his ice blue eyes twinkling. He’s one of the two guards–“G2” in this case–who met my plane at JFK and has stuck around to torment me.

Despite my aggravation I take a deep breath and think how there’s no way I could repay Jason for everything he’s done for me in the last three weeks, bodily protection being the least of these. He’s listened to half a dozen crying jags, encouraged me when I was down, and given me a crash-course in Austrian culture and language. Thanks to him I can swear like a sailor in German. Plus he’s really, really funny, in two languages no less. I like funny.

You would not have survived the last twenty-one days without him
, I chant to myself over and over through gritted teeth.

The
Vanity Fair
interview hit the newsstands this week, the article called “Whisky Tango and Papa Romeo: A Modern Cinderella Story.” I had strenuously objected to the title, but Jerrod convinced me that my ability to laugh at myself would charm people. Apparently it’s charmed the socks off my security detail, which is now using ‘Whiskey Tango’ as my code moniker.

“Cute, Jason,” I say, still glowering at him. “There’s a stage at the Comedy Works waiting for you back in Denver.”

“That’s ‘G2’ to you.”

He’s got a point; G2 was my idea and it sort of stuck. And the way his Austrian accent turns a W into a V (“whiskey” comes out as a rather endearing “visky”), it’s hard to be too mad at him. I scowl at him just the same.

“Are we going in?” he says, toning down his smile and smoothing his cropped, dark hair forward with his hands.

It’s eleven o’clock at night in the dead of winter, but Schönbrunn Palace manages to defy both the time and the season. Lit by row upon row of accent lights from above and below, the yellow ochre stone façade of the palace glows a deep gold that I could see even before the car turned onto the avenue entering the expansive grounds.

I’m being smuggled through a side door, an entrance probably used in earlier Habsburg times by the scullery maid and the boy who emptied the chamber pots. I’m only slightly appeased by the fact that Roman uses the same entrance. “It’s just easier,” he told me on the phone before the plane landed in Vienna. “Tourists are all over the palace and grounds until five-thirty. After that the whole place is on lock-down and it’s a major hassle to get in or out any of the main entrances without setting off alarms.”

A middle-aged woman in a pale gray pantsuit meets us at the door. She shakes my hand warmly, rattling a collection of plastic IDs hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “Ms. Fromm,” she says, pronouncing my name like Roman does:
frahm
. “I am Johanna Rettenwender, His Majesty’s personal assistant. May I take your coat?”