Prince Albert(23)

“A helicopter,” I yell over the roar of the rotors, unsuccessfully trying to restrain my hair as it whips around my face in the wind. At least I’m wearing my old jeans and not one of the new dresses from my closet. Thank goodness for small mercies, because that would be unfortunate. I’m sure Albie would be delighted to witness me having a Marilyn Monroe moment.

“Nothing gets by you, Princess,” Albie says. “I told you I’d give you a tour of Protrovia.”

Alexandra elbows Albie. “None of your combat landing bullshit this time, either, Alb,” she yells.

“It’s not my fault you have a sensitive stomach,” he says, laughing.

“Sensitive, my ass,” Alexandra yells. “You’re such a prick. I don’t know why I even agreed to get in a helicopter with you again.”

“Because you’d rather puke into a bag than spend an afternoon listening to your grandmother lecture you about how inappropriate you hair color is?”

“Wait. You’re the one flying this thing?” I ask.

“What did you think I did in the army, luv?” Albie yells. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“Never,” I say.

“That’s good to hear,” he yells. “If you’re good, I might even refrain from doing any tactical flight maneuvers.”

I’ve never actually been in a helicopter, but I don’t tell Albie that. A few of my high school friends had parents with private planes, so I’ve been on those – but a helicopter is different. We’re strapped in, our headsets on, while Albie runs a dozen checks, fiddling with buttons and dials on the dashboard in the front. Beside me, Alexandra flips through her phone nonchalantly, like she does this kind of thing every day. Of course, she probably does.

The two suits with us are their personal bodyguards – one each, for Albie and Alexandra. Apparently, I’ll get assigned a security detail soon enough if I stick around, but since I only just arrived at the palace, I’m in some kind of transitional phase.

I wonder why the hell we needed to sneak around inside the palace, when the bodyguards already knew where we were going. But I don’t have time to think about that before we’re up in the air and I’m distracted by everything else.

Alexandra texts on her phone, hardly paying attention to the scenery below us, but I’m transfixed. Albie speaks into the microphone, giving me a history of Protrovia as he flies over the city, pointing out particular buildings as he flies over the capitol city.

“Protrovia dates back to fifteen thirty-two,” he says, as we veer left out of the capitol. He gives us a brief history of the country, but I'm too distracted to listen, transfixed with the view I have of the buildings below.

“Albie is such a nerd,” Alexandra says into her microphone. “He’s like, obsessed with our family history and shit.”

“I guess if the whole future-king thing doesn’t work out, you can always get a job as a tour guide,” I say.

“It’s good to have options in life,” Albie says.

We fly out over the countryside, and Albie still points out important places, but I find it hard to pay attention to what he’s saying, simply because the scenery is breathtaking -- rolling fields the color of emeralds, dotted with cottages and farmhouses. At some point in the flight, even Alexandra puts down her cell phone and looks outside.

I’m not sure how long we’re in the air, before Albie tells us we’re going to land. “This is the summer house,” he says, as an estate, spread across acres of land, comes into view.

“Isn’t it summer now?” I ask.

“We’ll be there in a few weeks,” Alexandra says. “Once the royal couple makes their engagement announcement. The engagement party will be at the palace, and then we’ll retreat to the countryside. Fewer public appearances and all that. Way more boring, too.” I can’t see her expression, but if I had to guess, she’d be rolling her eyes.

No sooner does the helicopter touch down on the pad then a red convertible speeds up, driven by a guy in sunglasses I can tell is gorgeous even from where I’m sitting. Beside me, Alex scrambles out of her seatbelt. “Tell dad I’ll be back in a few days,” she yells at Albie.

“I’m not covering for you, shithead,” he says.

One of the bodyguards mutters under his breath, “Your sister,” and curses into his microphone before ripping it off his head. He follows Alex out of the helicopter, and I see her arguing with him outside, flipping him the bird as she hops into a convertible that pulls away.

So much for the summerhouse being boring, I guess.