Simon Vincent Gerald Stuart loved being a Duke of Danovar, but sometimes he wished Danovar took him a little more seriously. He had a law degree, a captainship in the Royal Navy, and all the same training as his cousins—the King and Prince—and yet the most important duty he was slated for today involved historic flower tubers and a hell of a lot more cow shit than he’d hoped for.

But shit or no shit, Simon always served his country with a good attitude, so he made sure to smile extra bright as he lifted his cutting shears and posed for a picture with Danovar’s three original dahlia bulbs. Dahlias were the national flower, and today was the annual First Cutting ceremony—a tradition normally fulfilled by the King or Prince, though no one seemed to notice they’d been stuck with a mere Duke this time around. Up until yesterday, Prince Eric had actually been slated for this duty, but he’d asked Simon to sub in at the last second when the prince’s fiancée Anna needed his help with something at the lab. Simon suspected he’d actually just wanted to avoid the manure, which the royal gardeners had lavished generously on the tubers in their charge.

He lined the shears up on the first bulb as the camera flashed, careful to place the blades right at the base of the cutting but not too close to the growth point, which would damage the bulb. He’d stayed up far too late last night doing research in preparation for his role this morning, and he had to hold back a yawn as he cleanly snipped the green shoot off.

The cutting fell into Simon’s hand and he held it up to a smattering of polite applause. Only about half of the seats in the palace garden were full, and he was the only person present between the ages of fourteen and fifty. Apparently the only other Danovians who cared about the First Cutting ceremony were either geriatric or Duty Girls trying to earn their gardening badges.

Simon fit neither of those categories, but he still cared about today. He always cared. Sure, there was a big part of him that would rather be involved in the more important responsibilities of governing up in the palace proper, and yes, it was true that he now had cow shit all over his pants—but he loved his country’s traditions, and he liked to be needed, even for something as small as this. He reminded himself of both those facts when he accidentally tried to brush at the shit with a gloved hand, which he’d forgotten was also covered in fertilizer.

He gave up and handed the cutting off to one of the royal gardeners, completing his duty with a bow and another smile, which he had to force a bit more than he had the first. The audience applauded again and then began wandering toward the refreshment tables as Simon peeled his gloves off with a sigh. He was sure that Danovar would need more from him than ceremonial flowers soon. He just had to bide his time, serve his country as best he could in whatever capacity it needed him in the meantime.

Although lately, he had to admit it did seem like he was only slated for small, relatively unimportant duties like this. Which was another thing that had kept him up so late last night; what if this was as meaningful as his life got? He had so much more he wanted to do—help with policy, spread information about programs that would benefit the people of Danovar. But if the trend of the last year or two continued, soon he would be as good as shelved while those closer to the throne took over all the jobs he wanted so badly to help with. And what would he do then? Leave? He’d only ever trained to be a royal, had devoted his whole life to his current path. What business would need a man with full knowledge of the law and also the appropriate method of pulling the national ale? Plus, the palace had always been like a second home to him. If he no longer served at the behest of the Crown, would he lose that belonging, that security?

He tried to push the thought down as an elderly woman with a walker approached him. She leaned toward the dahlia bulb, a frown slashing across her face as she squinted at it from several different angles. After a moment she stood straight and her frown eased a touch. “Decent work, young man,” she said, though her sour voice made it sound like an insult. Hearing her tone, a tiny, fluffy, gray-and-white head poked out of a giant bag hooked to the front of her walker: a Shih Tzu, glaring at Simon as if plotting how best to bite the man responsible for its owner’s irritation.

Careful to keep his fingers out of range of the dog’s tiny teeth, Simon shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you, ma’am. This is my first cutting ceremony but I’m proud to be a part of such a beautiful tradition.”

Her frown eased a few more notches and she eyed him. “Which part of the garden do you think they’ll plant today’s cuttings in?” she asked, with the same look Simon’s tutors used to have when they sprung a pop quiz on him.

Luckily, Simon had never been caught unprepared for a test. “Oh, the cuttings won’t be ready for full planting for a while,” he answered. “They’ll put them on a tray with a heat mat first, wait for the roots to grow a bit.”

Her frown turned into a thin-lipped line, and he thought he even saw one corner of it curl up the tiniest bit as she nodded her approval. The Shih Tzu made a noise that sounded like a grumble and disappeared back into the bag, probably upset it wouldn’t get to bite anyone after all.

Beyond the woman’s shoulder, someone waved to get Simon’s attention, and he glanced toward the back of the audience area. A young, official-looking woman in a black dress coat with a pin of burnished gold and ruby red stood at the back, beckoning to him. He tilted his head, immediately intrigued. She was the only other person present who wasn’t a child, a guard, or geriatric, and unless he was mistaken that pin marked her as a representative of the Esconian government. What business could she possibly have at this ceremony?

Another elderly woman, this one in a wheelchair, had approached him while he was distracted. “You cut too close to the growth point,” she said, a chiding note in her voice.

The first woman’s almost-smile slashed back into a frown and she glared at the intruder. “I’ve already checked, Madge,” she said, pushing herself in front of Simon. “He did fine.”

The Shih Tzu popped its head back out, hackles rising.

“Hmph. As if you’re a reliable source. I’ll see for myself, Clementine,” Madge argued, trying to scoot her wheelchair closer. Clementine “accidentally” stuck one leg of her walker in the wheelchair’s spokes, locking them up.

Simon’s attention snapped away from the Esconian representative and back to the swiftly escalating problem at hand. Madge was now yanking the tennis balls off the feet of Clementine’s walker and tossing them into the bushes. Clementine’s dog, its loyalty overridden by the sight of the balls, leapt out of its bag and started happily tearing them apart. Clementine shrieked and yanked her walker out of the wheelchair’s spokes, but the motion threw her off balance, and she tumbled backwards into the table holding Danovar’s irreplaceable original dahlia bulbs.

Thanks to reflexes honed by years of rugby, Simon darted sideways and caught the table with one hand, steadying Clementine with the other. “Ma’am,” he said as graciously as possible. “Perhaps I could have a guard retrieve your dog and help you find some replacement balls? And Ms. Madge, if I might be so bold, there are some delicious scones at the refreshment table.”

Another minute of diplomacy and the intervention of two helpful guards saw both women on their separate ways, and the dahlia bulbs taken back to the greenhouse by a thankful gardener. Smoothing the front of his black, practical suit, Simon went to find the Esconian representative.

“I apologize for taking so long,” he said when he found her in a smaller, more private side garden. “I had to take a moment to deal with some… unforeseen circumstances.”

The woman smiled slightly. “I saw.”

“How may I be of service to Escona?” Please be something official and important, he prayed silently, but really, he’d settle for anything that didn’t involve manure and feuding octogenarians.

The woman got straight to the point. “I’m here to extend you an invitation,” she said briskly. “The royal family of Escona has been impressed by your stability and record of dutifulness, and would like to ask you to marry their new queen.”

He blinked a few times before responding. “Marry?” he asked, not sure whether he’d heard her right. He’d hoped his stability and dutifulness might net him some better jobs, but he never thought he’d hear the terms bandied about in a marriage proposal. If that was indeed what this was—in which case, this ceremony had just gone from boring to bizarre. Normally royal proposals involved quite a lot more pomp and circumstance than an unscheduled meeting at a flower cutting.

“Yes,” the representative confirmed. “I apologize for not going through the normal channels for this sort of thing, but I’m afraid there’s a bit of a time issue at hand.” She handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope sealed in red wax with the official seal of the royal Esconian family. “This has all the details,” she added. “If you agree, we’ll need to know within forty-eight hours so that we can set things in motion.”

Numbly, he accepted the envelope, turning it over in his hands. The seal was legitimate. This was actually happening. Escona actually wanted him to marry its new queen. Penelope, he thought, only knowing her name from the recent headlines. She’d inherited the throne after the prior king, Nathaniel, had abdicated in order to join some sort of alternative community in Oregon—something about becoming a “citizen of the world” and “freeing his mind from its Earthly anchors.”

The representative was waiting for a response, but Simon hesitated. He’d never even met Penelope, had only seen her face on the evening news. He had no idea if their personalities would mesh, if they would get along. Hell, he didn’t even know if she was fully on board with this proposal, which after all had been sent under the official seal of her family and not from her personally. This could very well be a terrible idea.

But then he glanced up at the palace over the representative’s shoulder. Lately he’d felt so unnecessary here—as if he were being humored with busy work rather than actually needed and used to his full capacity. He loved Danovar… but what if he could actually make a difference in Escona?

“Thank you for the invitation,” Simon said at last, tucking the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch regarding my decision.”