The Wild Heir(6)

Well, fuck.

“Okay,” I tell her, gathering my courage. “I’ll do it.”

“Yes. You will do it. And you’ll do the next thing as well.”

“What next thing? It can’t be worse than that,” I say softly, but from the look in her eyes I can tell it is. I brace for impact.

“The next thing…” she starts and then seems to wince at what she’s about to say. “Magnus. You’re going to have to get married.”





Two





Magnus





The words hang in the air, refusing to sink into my brain. It’s like I can stare at them, observing, not really understanding why they’re here.

“What?” I eventually say.

My mother’s eyes narrow. “You heard me. You’re going to have to get married.”

Still, they don’t sink in. I tilt my head, not sure I heard her right either time. “I’m sorry. Married?”

“Married.”

“To who?”

“To whom,” she corrects me. “And I’ve compiled a list. I don’t have it on me because I figured you would need time to warm up to the idea, but I assure you it will be someone European and of noble blood, someone this country can be proud of.”

My mouth opens. Closes. My heart pounds in my head, louder and louder as I realize what she’s saying.

Dear God.

What is she saying?

“How is…what is…” I pause. “You want me to get married?”

She rolls her eyes and lets out a short sigh. “I know you’re not stupid, Magnus, so instead of repeating it back to me, how about you start believing it?”

“But…why? How is this your solution to a leaked sex tape?” I take in a shaking breath. “Fucking hell, you don’t expect me to marry Heidi, do you?”

“Oh, calm down. We both know the girl is batty. So is the prime minister. You will get married to someone beautiful, nice, proper, and prestigious. As soon as possible. It’s the only way we can save face.”

“How does this save face?!” I exclaim, throwing my arms out as I jump to my feet.

“Sit down.”

“Sit down? Sit down?” I can feel my face growing hot, my pulse beating wildly out of control. I know I should try and contain myself, especially when I get this way. “You’re telling me I have to marry some stranger for no reason at all except you think it will somehow make the country and the prime minister happy?”

“Yes,” she says simply, folding her hands in her lap.

I stare at her, breathing hard, daring her to mess up, to flinch, to show me that there’s a part of her that feels ridiculous for suggesting such a thing.

But she only stares back at me with flames in her eyes. Those small, smoldering flames that only hint at the dragons she has caged back there.

Yeesh.

Still, I don’t sit down. To sit down is to give in.

“Listen, I know this isn’t something you want to do,” she begins.

I scoff loudly. “You don’t say.”

“But honestly, what the country needs is to know a good and responsible man is representing them.”

“That’s what father is. Everyone loves him.”

She looks away, her gaze going to the windows and the lights of the city. “Your father is very ill.”

Over the course of the summer, I’ve heard my father been described as ill, sick, under the weather, of poor health, ever since he was diagnosed with pancreatitis. Over the last month he’s had his own sick room in the palace where the doctor comes to visit and conduct tests. From all that I’ve heard, pancreatitis is something he’ll recover from. This is the first time my mother has used the words very ill to describe him, the first time that I’ve grasped a hint of sorrow from her.

“He’s getting better,” I tell her, as if my words make it all true. “I saw him just two weeks ago and he looked great. Well, good. Better, anyway.”

She lets out a low breath and wrings her hands together for a moment, another telltale sign that this is a lot bigger than she’s letting on.

Everything inside me sinks to a depth I rarely venture.

“He’s got acute pancreatitis,” she says.

“I know. But you said eighty percent of people pull through.”

“That’s what the doctors said. He’s seen a lot at this point. But even doctors can be wrong.”

I don’t want to ask the next words. My father just turned seventy-five. Sure he drank a lot when the world wasn’t looking, but we all do in our family.

“Is he…he’s going to be okay, right?”

“He’s in a lot of pain, Magnus. He’s got surgery coming up, and even that is risky. And even if it goes fine, he might be in a lot of pain for the rest of his life. He won’t be fit to rule.”

For some reason I imagined my father would live forever. Until he got sick, I didn’t really think about his age. He didn’t marry my mother for a long time, and it was even longer after that before she was finally pregnant with me. There’s a fifteen-year age difference between them and he’s always been so outgoing and spry.

Because of that, I’ve always thought of my role as heir to the throne as something that would never happen. Or something that would happen to someone else, even if subconsciously the idea has caused me to panic.