Reign: A Royal Military Romance by Roxie Noir

they’re listening politely.
    The tour guide and I look at each other. I can’t tell if he’s hiding something or if I just can’t read his expression.
    “It’s also the most dangerous part of town,” he says, finally. “The unsavory element tends to congregate there, and I can’t have the U.S. Ambassador getting mugged, can I?”
    I lean back in my cafe chair. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Velinsk had an unsavory element, it’s so charming and picturesque.
    “I see,” I say, and smile. “That makes sense.”
    I’m still curious. Tell me I can’t go somewhere and it’s the first thing I want to do, but I drop it. For now.
    A calm silence settles over the four of us for a moment, and a gentle, salty breeze blows through. My father leans forward over the table.
    “Who laid out the streets in Velinsk?” he asks, always an academic at heart. “Was it the Romans, or did they follow pre-existing pathways?”
    The tour guide launches into the history of city planning in Velinsk, and I finish my coffee. It’s actually pretty interesting.

    * * *
    W hen I get back to my room late that afternoon, the first thing I see is my empty backpack, very neatly propped on top of the dresser. Instantly, I know that the housekeepers at the palace have taken my dirty laundry to be washed.
    I hate being waited on, and I’ve been trying to avoid it. The first day I was here, I left some dirty clothes on the floor, only to return to my room to discover that they were in the hamper, my shoes neatly tucked away in the closet, my used towels replaced with fresh ones.
    That was the last time I left anything out of place, especially dirty underwear, because the thought of someone else picking that up after me actually makes me a little nauseous. But I thought that my backpack was safe in the closet, joint hidden at the bottom and all. Honestly, I kind of forgot about it. I’ve been wearing the clothes that my parents had shipped from Boston.
    There it is, though. Empty and on top of the dresser.
    Well, I’m not arrested yet , I think. So that’s a good sign .
    Not that they’re going to arrest the Ambassador’s daughter , I think.
    I grab my backpack and look inside. Nothing. I stick an arm in and fish around for a while, explore the hole into the lining where the passport got lost, but there’s still nothing.
    Maybe the joint got stuck in my dirty laundry , I think, half-shrugging to myself.
    Hopefully the women who do the laundry are having a great time getting high, not getting into trouble.
    Feeling guilty that someone else did my laundry, I open the dresser drawers. Everything is very neatly organized, even my underpants, which makes me feel a little squirmy inside.
    When I open the last one, there it is. Sitting on top of the t-shirt my best friend gave me before I left for my Europe trip that says:
    Good girls go to heaven
    Bad girls go everywhere
    Maybe they thought it was a hand-rolled cigarette , I think.
    Well, why’d they hide it for me then?
    In any case, crisis averted for now.

    * * *
    I ’ve gotten into the habit of having happy hour with my parents in their suite before dinner. The dinners aren’t formal now. There are still more courses and forks than I’m used to, but the other people there are others who work in the government or at the palace, not actual royalty. I don’t think they’re even highborn.
    When I knock on the door this afternoon, it’s just my dad, because mom’s off somewhere in a meeting about exports and tariffs or something.
    “It’s good for her to have something important to do,” he says, handing me a glass of wine. “She’s starting to get a little stir-crazy.”
    I roll my eyes.
    “Be nice, she’s your mother,” he says.
    We both drink.
    “But between me and you, she could stand to learn to relax,” he says, with a smile. “We don’t need an itinerary for going to the beach.”
    “Did she really make you a beach-going itinerary?” I ask. “When? This