A Nordic King(19)

My room is quite large but still homey thanks to the thick Scandinavian rugs that cover most of the hardwood flooring. Of course, there’s still something so grandiose about it all, with a dark wood four-poster bed with a teal velvet awning, old antiquey-looking armoires, vanities, and wardrobes, as well as a sprawling bathroom complete with blue and white tile and a claw-foot tub.

I definitely lucked out in terms of my living quarters and what I should probably do before I go to bed is unpack my suitcase and duffel bag and put everything away, so I don’t have to rip through my luggage in the morning before I take Clara to school.

But the bed is more persuasive than anything else, and after I wash up and slip on the first item of clothing I find, a long-sleeved shirt that says “Dogs <3 Me,” I climb under the thick covers. The nights are chillier here than in Paris and the palace itself seems a little drafty. Then again, what palace isn’t drafty when you have rooms the size of apartments and ceilings that are fifteen feet high.

I lie there, thinking of how drastically my life has changed. Never in a million years did I think that a girl growing up in a shack outside the “town” of Windorah, Australia, surrounded by red dust and futility, going to bed hungry every night, wearing clothes donated from neighbors, wondering if she’d ever see her father again, could end up sleeping in a royal palace. Even as a child, I never even let myself dream about a better world for myself.

The sad thing is … I still don’t let myself dream, even when I’m supposed to be living it.





Chapter 5





Aurora





Despite being tired, I don’t sleep very well.

I never do in general and I especially don’t the first night in a strange place, whether it be in a hotel or my new room at my new job. I’m always too aware of how unfamiliar my surroundings are. I’m always planning my escape route in case something goes wrong—I’m always distrustful of the shadows.

In this case, my room is huge and the shadows are deep and long and everywhere. Plus, in the back of my mind I think I hear someone walking up and down the hall. It might be Sleepwalking Johan and I start to wonder if I locked my door or not.

When the sky begins to lighten from black to purple-grey, I’m already awake and getting out of bed. Maja had told me that Clara’s school starts at eight-thirty and is about a twenty-minute drive, so we should be out of the house—erm, out of the palace—no later than eight.

I’m nervous as I usually am on my first day on the job. I don’t know the area (and in this case, the country), I don’t know the children or the adults. I have no idea what to expect and that’s not even factoring in the whole royal thing. Having a shitty sleep on top of it all doesn’t help my nerves either. The best I can do is just ignore the whole royal thing for now, and the fact that my new home is a castle, and I’m caring for two bloody princesses, and just pretend that this is nothing new.

Though a vat load of coffee wouldn’t hurt. I flick on the lights and look around the room. I wonder if they’d mind if I got a kettle for the room along with some tea and instant coffee. I can’t see myself trudging down to the cavernous kitchen at all hours of the day and night for my fix.

You’ll get some caffeine in you later, I tell myself. Just focus on the day. You know everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.

The first step is to figure out what to wear. I’m a bit of a tomboy-ish dresser and you can usually find me more on the side of casual than not, favoring shorts and singlets in the summer and skinny pants and fitted tees and jumpers in the winter. But this being a royal palace and all and the fact that my two charges seem awfully fond of pretty little dresses, I wonder if I need to step it up a notch. Even the nannies from the Norwood handbook stuck to a Mary Poppins-esque uniform at school (Complete with hat!) and a working uniform of navy blue skirts and blouses.

I dig through my luggage some more, putting half my stuff away, until I come across the only skirt I have, which is a black wool A-line skirt. In fact, I don’t think I’ve worn it since I came to Europe—it was part of my waitressing uniform back in Brisbane before I scrounged up enough money to escape.

I squeeze it on, feeling like I’m going to have an aneurysm doing so, and can’t even get it zipped all the way up the back. Well, if there was any doubt that I’ve gained weight since moving to Europe, here’s the proof. Not that I’ve been lazy (I like my walks, and running after kids is brilliant cardio) or eating crap (the food here is amazingly fresh and whole compared to back in Oz), but I was painfully thin back then. In fact, this skirt used to be huge on me to begin with.

I shudder at the memory and figure I should probably take it off lest it remind me of my past all day. Only I can’t. The zipper is stuck halfway.

“Oh for crying out loud,” I grumble, twisting and trying to fiddle with it.

Someone knocks at the door. “Aurora,” Maja calls out. “Just making sure you’re up.”

“I’m good, just getting dressed!” I yell back, frantically trying to get the zipper unstuck.

“Breakfast will be served in the dining room in five minutes,” she says, and then I hear her footsteps go down the hall and knock on another door. She must be waking up the girls.

I sigh and look at myself in the mirror with my rumpled “Dogs Love Me” sweatshirt I slept in and an ill-fitting mini-skirt. I need to make the best of this. I mean, the skirt is probably too short but maybe if I pair it with tights and knee-high boots and a blouse it will be okay.