The Secret Service section #9

Liam gives me one last glance before shutting the door behind him. I plop down onto his bed, but don’t lie down like he advised. I was too wired after what had just happened. I haven’t even been in Sorington for one hour and have already had more of an adventure than I ever would in Redreef. Unless pick pocketing old drunks counts as an adventure.

I won’t see Liam for a few hours. I get up from the bed and quickly change. I can’t help but start to pace. How does he expect me to just sit in here after what happened? I can easily survive on a few hours of sleep a night. And I can’t even remember the last time I “rested” during the day. In my home, there was always something that needed to be done. Chores, taking care of my little sisters, cooking and making as much money as I possibly could. At night, I would be stealing and during the day I would do odd jobs. I was used to working around the clock, never resting. Resting meant no money. And money meant no food on the table.

I came here to join the Secret Service, not rest while all the action was happening elsewhere! My hands are itching to do something productive, but I have not had enough training to qualify for whatever Liam was doing at the moment. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and leave his room. I will just do a little exploring until I am needed. After all, this is going to be home for the next . . . couple years? I feel an ache in my heart thinking about my mother and sisters whom I left behind.

Liam’s room is in a small hallway in the back of the castle, a door at the end of the hall leading to the stables. I wander through the corridors, each more grand than the last. My shoes hit smooth patterned stone cushioned with large colorful rugs and above, the ceilings are decorated with elaborate design. There are grand sweeping staircases and flowers everywhere I look. The walls are painted a soft cream, but are not a bore to look at for almost every inch is covered with expensive oil paintings, mostly of the Royal family.

The Royal family is made up of King Ernest, Queen Clara and Prince Henry. I take a step closer and study the paintings. They look exquisite, almost as if I was looking at the actual people. But I can’t help but scoff at them a little. They Royal family looks so foolish drowning in all of that expensive clothing and jewelry. It appears as if they are wearing enough clothing for ten people each! They do not need to wear all of that and have too much. The citizens of Redreef wear rags to cover their bodies.

“Looking at my portrait, I see.”

I turn quickly, startled. Here, standing before me, is Prince Henry. I stare, stunned for a moment. I glance back at the painting, as if to make sure he is the same man. He is tall, very tall with darker skin that suggests that he has been in the sun. He has dark curly hair that just fall over his eyes. His dark eyes that are the color of melted chocolate. He is very handsome.

“Wonderful art isn’t it?” he asks, a smile growing on his face, revealing a row of perfectly lined pearls.

“Why do you and your family have to wear so much clothing?” I blurt out. I slap my hand over my mouth and feel a fire being born in my cheeks. I can’t believe I just said that. To the prince. Of England.

Prince Henry looks taken back, as if that was the last thing he expected me to say. And it probably was. “What do you mean . . . we wear so much clothing?”

I open and close my mouth a few times, not sure how to reply. Despite my embarrassment, I was angry. Angry that these people were so ridiculous. So I let that anger out. “You all flaunt around here in you elegant clothes and your huge castle and your servants constantly waiting on you hand and foot. You are sitting at your grand dining tables eating your grand feasts while others are starving. Children don’t have enough to eat and parents go to bed with nothing at all because they can’t stand to consume the few morsels they have with those little hungry eyes staring up at them desperately. People are wearing dirty rags as clothing and their hands and feet are sore and bloody, their backs hunched from doing so much work for so little pay. Sewage and rats flow in the open gutters lining the streets. The only businesses that make enough money to stay open are taverns, filled with people drinking their sorrows away.”

I stop, catching my breath. The prince stares at me. I cannot read the expression on his face and start to panic. Is he angry? Is he going to order for my head to be chopped off? I swear I heard somewhere that decapitation is a common punishment in Sorington.

I startle when Prince Henry bursts out laughing. He closes his eyes and nearly falls backward into a small table holding a vase of antique roses. I don’t know what to do. Should I laugh with him or . . .? I just end up standing there, staring at him. I am suddenly very unsure of myself, my earlier viciousness completely gone.

“I love it! I love it!” Prince Henry repeats, when he finally stops snorting.

“You love what?” I ask, confused. I barely catch myself and throw in a quick “Your Majesty”.

“Your passion,” he answers. “No one has ever spoken to me like that before. It’s quite refreshing, actually.”

“I am only telling you what you already know. How can you let those people suffer when you have . . . all of this?” I ask, gesturing around us.

He follows my hand and, for a moment, he appears to be thinking about what I have just asked. “Everyone in Sorington has all they need. And if anyone ever needs food, they can always come to the castle and they can work in exchange for a loaf of bread.”

“I am not talking about Sorington. I am talking about the outer laying villages that you have chosen to neglect!”

His brow furrows. “How do you know about those villages?”

“Because that is where my family and I live. I was born in Redreef and haven’t set foot out of it until now.”

“You live in Redreef? No wonder this is the first time I have set eyes upon you. And I am so glad I have! Are you here just to have this very conversation with me and to scold me?” Prince Henry asks, a little smile emerging.

I shake my head, both in reply and to get rid of the thought that the prince might actually be flirting with me. “I am here to join the Secret Service.”

“Secret Service? I-”

A man calls his name, cutting him off. He turns to acknowledge him, before rotating back to face me.

“May I have your name?” the prince asks me.

“Keri.”

“Well, Keri, how would you like to join me tomorrow afternoon? It would be my pleasure to show you around the castle and the gardens,” he invites, looking at me with hopeful eyes.

“I would love to, Your Majesty,” I say, smiling up at him.

His grin widens. “Please, call me Henry.”

And with that, he turns and walks away to give his attention to the other man waiting for him. I watch him go, bewilderment filling my mind. I had just gotten asked to join the prince of England. This is something I never imagined experiencing, nor coming to Sorington at all.