A Prince on Paper (Reluctant Royals #3)(17)

“Hmm,” he said.

The king read that sound as sympathy. “If you believed the opinion section of the papers, the public want us gone. And Milos Arschlocher’s rhetoric isn’t helping.”

“That’s a pity,” Johan said. “But you do have your kitchenware empire to fall back on. Everyone loves a good spork.”

“For the last time, they’re not sporks. They are finely crafted utensils that speak to elegant sensibilities!”

“Hmm,” Johan said again, but he smiled. Unlike many royals, Linus had work that he believed in, and his silverware business employed people who might not have found work otherwise, like migrants who had crossed the border into the kingdom seeking a safe place to live. “And Lukas? How is he taking this?”

“Lukas is being Lukas,” the king said airily.

Johan sighed. “And what does that entail?”

“You know, staring at his phone. Going to soccer practice. Grooming his horse. Teenage prince stuff.”

“Okay. And he’s not upset? After the . . . event?”

Linus sighed deeply. “No. He’s gutt.”

“What about you?” Johan asked grudgingly. Part of him, the part that would always be a little boy watching the fairy-tale courtship with dread, still wished his mother had never married Linus. He’d once blamed the man entirely for her death. He now merely mildly resented him every now and then. But his stepfather, who’d never remarried despite many offers and could sometimes be heard having quiet conversations with the photo of Laetitia hanging in the parlor, also needed support. “Are you hanging in there?”

“I’m gutt. We’re all gutt.”

Johan didn’t know why he bothered asking. Everything was always gutt because apparently it had been bred into the royal line not to let pesky things like sorrow and grief get in the way of duty, and Lukas had apparently inherited the stiff, if perhaps a bit thin, upper lip of the von Brausteins.

“Gutt,” Johan said drily.

“Gutt,” the king said, a hint of desperation around that last consonant that almost made Johan want to see how long they could keep up the single-word conversation.

“Ja,” Johan said to break their loop.

“Well. Have fun in Thesolo. Don’t start any international incidents when you visit Njaza.”

Johan heard footsteps and saw Thabiso approaching. “I doubt I could do anything worse than three hundred years of brutal colonial rule, so no worries there. Bye, Forshett.”

He disconnected the call as Thabiso reached him, sporting the smile of a contented man in a world full of cause for discontentment.

“I haven’t seen you in denim for ages!” Thabiso said, walking in an exaggerated circle around Johan and stroking his beard. He gave a nod of approval. “Looking très rugged, meng ami.”

Johan felt strange in the stiff blue jeans he was wearing for the day’s activities, paired with the official wedding T-shirt he’d found in his room: soft-pink cotton emblazoned with #BisoVelcroLedi in black print, some inside joke between the couple, he assumed. His uniform outside of the gym, beach, and bed was at a minimum an oxford shirt and slacks, designer wear that fed into his playboy persona, but apparently what was in store today would require getting dirty.

Thabiso wore the loose-fitting purple linen tunic that was emblematic of Thesoloian royal sporting wear. As the summer sun beat down on Johan, he wished he had opted for the same.

“I thought about doing double denim, but I didn’t want to get anyone too hot and bothered,” Johan said. “Mostly myself.”

Thabiso laughed. “Speaking of that, are you sure you’re up for today? It’s okay if you need to rest,” he said as they walked through the ornately carved wooden front doors of the palace. “The traditional wedding hunt is, well, tradition, but I’d rather not visit the royal hospital ever again.”

Johan straightened, puffing his chest a bit. Sometimes he forgot that Thabiso had known him for half his life, before the muscles and the fancy haircuts and the models. Thabiso had met Bad Boy Jo-Jo 1.0, awkwardly posturing as he tried to fit in at a school full of rich boys who had nothing in common with the boys of his childhood except for their ability to sniff out weakness—or emotion, which was the same as weakness to them.

Thabiso had been there in the aftermath of Johan’s loss and, though they didn’t speak of it often, knew why Johan was out of sorts.

“I’m feeling much better, and I made sure to eat breakfast and hydrate,” Johan said as they approached the small cluster of people near the palace’s grand fountain, abstract cubes beneath steady flowing water, meant to emulate the breathtaking waterfalls the country was known for. “I should be able to stay upright as long as I steer clear of small, abnormally hot rooms.”

He had no idea how long he’d sat in the sauna the day before. After swimming laps with Thabiso, reenacting their swim team years, he’d gone in to sweat out anxiety about Lukas and memories of his mother. He’d fallen deep into thoughts about his family and the future of Liechtienbourg. Then Nya had come in, and leaving hadn’t even occurred to him.

Then he’d fainted on top of her.

Super.

“Oh. What does phoko mean?” he asked Thabiso. He knew conversational Thesotho, but had never come across the word.