Upstairs are a few more rooms. One looks like it’s a listening room, with some turntables and other stuff plus tons of vinyl records. I guess they didn’t get CDs in Polovia just yet. I linger in there and run my fingers along the spines of the records before heading back down the hall. There are three bedrooms, two full baths, and finally the master bedroom. It’s enormous, with its own bathroom, and the bed is at least a king size. I jump onto it, laughing to myself, wondering how the hell I got so lucky.
On the right of the bed, there’s a little control panel. I don’t recognize the words in Polovian, so I start hitting buttons. First, the shades rise up, opening the windows. Next, the closet doors all open up, which makes me laugh. I don’t know why someone would need a button to open some doors. Finally, a huge television descends from the ceiling and turns on.
I laugh and shake my head but I don’t keep hitting buttons. I’m afraid I’ll blow up the freaking house by mistake. Instead, I put my hands behind my back and sink down into the comfortable bed, letting myself relax.
I feel like my life is finally going somewhere. After college, I started drifting, and since I didn’t get along with my family, I ran away to Europe. And in Europe, I just went from city to city, taking odd jobs to get some extra cash, but mostly just living off my savings, doing nothing but touring and having fun.
Now though, I have a purpose. It’s an odd purpose, one I never thought I’d have, but I’m married. I’m part of a family. And I have a man like Nolan.
Something on television catches my attention. A picture of me flashes on screen, which makes me frown. I know that I’ve been in the news lately. It would be weird if I weren’t. I just married one of the most famous bachelors in Polovia, and not to mention a prominent member of their ruling family. Polovians take their royals seriously, so of course they’re going to gossip about me.
They’re saying terrible things, or at least the stuff that I can understand is pretty bad. I try not to listen to most of it, since it’s all just slander. But this segment catches my attention.
It’s on a news channel called Tiger News. It says something under my picture, which I don’t recognize. The segment cuts to a talking head guy who looks into the camera and starts speaking in serious but fast Polovian. Another face appears, and I think they’re arguing.
I’ve been understanding Polovian better ever since I started taking lessons, but I’m still new. I can only catch a little bit, but they seem really serious, and they keep saying one word over and over again. It’s a word I’ve never seen before.
I can’t pull myself away from the segment. It goes on and on, and they even have pictures of Nolan and I together. It’s bizarre and terrifying to see myself on TV, but even weirder that they’re being so serious about it. The one guy seems really angry, in fact, and he keeps saying things about the royal family. They keep saying that word, over and over, and apparently I am whatever that word means.
Not long later, Nolan appears in the doorway. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he says softly.
I cock my head at him. “What are they calling me?” I ask him.
He sighs and walks over. “This is partly what I was dealing with on the phone.”
“It’s serious, whatever it is,” I say. “They’re really, really unhappy.”
“They’re calling you a spy,” he says.
I hesitate a second before laughing. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” he says, smiling sadly. “They say they have a document that proves you were hired by the State Department seven years ago.”
I stare at him like he’s insane. “But I was sixteen seven years ago,” I say. “I was in freaking high school. I didn’t even get my driver’s license until I turned eighteen.”
“I know,” he says. “Well, not about the license. That’s pretty old, isn’t it?”
“I’m a bad driver,” I say, waving him away. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s a fake,” he says. “I have people looking into it. And I was just downstairs, trying to speak with some supporters to calm them down. It seems that most people see through this bullshit.”
“And yet they keep saying it.” I watch as more people join the duo on screen to argue about whether or not I’m a spy, which is mind-blowing. “I was working at an ice cream store when I was sixteen, not at the State Department.”
He sighs and pulls me toward him. “I know,” he says. “You’re my princess, not a spy. This is Julian’s doing.”