The Royal Pain

He shivered. They named the big ballrooms, halls, parlors, whatever, after towns in the country. South Juneau sounded like a conference room, but it was really a gigantic dance hall that could hold thousands. "Don't remind me," he said, and slouched off.



Everyone left him alone—the palace grounds were safe enough, and he was on the opposite side… all the guests were streaming into the place from the north.



He stood and watched the bees (a phrase he'd picked up from Nicky and, dammit, they were people, he had to stop calling them "castlebees" in his head) setting up for the reception. It looked like there were bowls and bowls of flowers just… everyplace. And since the ceremony was going to be brief (thank you, thank you God), they were already setting food out, protectively covered.



He grinned to see the stacks and stacks of miniature hot dogs—in wee buns an inch long!—and hamburgers, and mini lobster rolls. He could see the cakes being rolled out to their tables: a four-tiered groom's cake (they had made an extra one for the wedding as well as the rehearsal banquet) in dark chocolate, and decorated with thin white ribbons circling each tier.



Andthe cake, the one Christina had insisted on making and decorating: four enormous Swiss vanilla tiers covered in ice-blue frosting—but it was that flat kind of frosting—fondue? Fondant? Anyway, it looked as smooth as an ice pond, and had been decorated with sugared pine cones and chocolate twigs. He wasn't a sweets person, but the cake really was something. He could have gobbled half a tier on his own, if he wasn't scared he'd puke.



He got a little closer, puzzled because he kept seeing the same set of initials on everything: BR. Hanging banner-like from trees, on tables, on doors and windows—Rough? Bring Roses?



It hit him: duh. Baranov/Rivers. That was… nice. He guessed. Okay, it was a little creepy. He was sure someone had told him his and Alex's initials would be splashed all over everything on the big day, but to see it in real life was… weird.



"Hey! Loser!"



"Sheldon! Over here!"



He looked; there were the Grange twins in all their tuxedo'd glory—he couldn't remember Teal ever wearing anything but a T-shirt and jeans. He grinned; truly a momentous occasion.



"Thanks for the real food," Teal said with his mouth full as Shel approached. "Have you had one of these baby hot dogs? They're awesome!"



In response to a pleading look from one of the caterers, Shel said, "Knock it off, assface. Those're for the reception."



"Hey, we're guests of honor," Teal bragged, while his twin helped the caterer cover the hot dogs.



"True, but keep your ham-handed fingers off the food until it's time."



"I must admit, you're the best looking valet I've ever seen," Crane teased.



"Shut your cake hole. Both of you." He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Why didn't I elope?"



"Because Alex never would have agreed. She's all about duty, that girl."



"Don't remind me." The three friends fell silent and watched the caterers filling long clear vases with white calla lilies and place them on the tables. Kathryn had been right; the weather was a miracle. Lots of sun, no wind. It could have been August instead of early fall.



He stared down at the closest table, reading the top of the little box which served as a treat and a place holder, the name written in beautiful, spidery black script: Susan Sarandon. Oh, for Christ's sakes. That couldn't be right, could it? How did the Baranovs even know Susan Sarandon?



"What's in the boxes?" Teal asked, poking one.



"Stop that." Crane smacked his brother's hand, which saved Shel the trouble. "You take the top off, and there's a petit four inside."



"What the hell is a petit four?"



"It's a miniature cake."



"Oh. You can have mine, bro. I'll just take an extra baby burger instead. Listen, Shel, while I've got you alone, is it true you're giving dirt as wedding favors?"



Crane sighed, again saving Shel the trouble. "They're tulip bulbs, you ignoramus. The guests take them and plant them in the next week or so—they're a fall bulb, as everyone knows—and next spring a physical symbol of Shel and Alexandria's love will bloom."



"Yawn," Teal said.



"I thinkmy wife's idea was charming."



"Okay, okay, don't burst a blood vessel, you big sissy. I still say they look like little clumps of dirt. You can dress them up in all the netting you want: they still look yuck."



"Oh, anything that's different looks 'yuck' to you, so be quiet."



"You know, since you got made first chair and moved to this place—"



"And knocked up your wife," Shel added helpfully.



"—you're more annoying than usual. And that's saying something!"



Crane ignored his brother's jibes. "Sheldon, are you all right? Do you need anything?" Crane pinched his brother and hissed, "We're his groomsmen, we're supposed to be asking questions like this."



"Yeah, do you need your back wubbed, wittle bitty groomey? How about a pony ride?"



He laughed, for the first time that day. "I'm fine, you morons. Well, moron, singular. I just came out to get some air. There's too many people fluttering around me inside."



"Like that Kathryn girl? She could flutter around me all she wants."



"Shut up, Teal, she's underage. And I guess…" He sighed. "I guess I better get used to it."



"Underage girls?"



"No, all the people." He sighed again.



Teal rolled his eyes. "Is this the part where we're supposed to cry for you because you're going to be stupidly wealthy for the rest of your life, Prince Sheldon?"



He didn't answer, instead, he changed the subject: "Did the rest of your sibs get here okay? Your folks?"



"Yup. Fourth row. They're in there right now, waiting to be impressed by the greatness that is us," Teal bragged.



"And my mother, for some unfathomable reason, wants to feel Jenny's stomach," Crane added.



"I'd feel Jenny's stomach," Teal leered.



Crane frowned at his brother. "You best get up there, then, Shel. Or wherever you're supposed to be."



"Yeah, don't want the king giving you a black eye. Did you see the size of that guy? And he's the one marrying you! I mean, you know. Not marrying you. Doing the ceremony."



"Alex wanted it that way." Shel shrugged. "It makes the, uh, coronation part easier."



"Ahhhhh. So they really just stick a crown on your head at the end and call it good?"



"The king does, yeah."



"Are you okay? You look kind of weird."



"My breakfast isn't agreeing with me. Why don't you guys go on in? I'll be right behind you."



Giving him identical doubtful looks, the twins left. Shel watched the bees—the palace employees—for a moment longer, then started the long death march toward the South end of the palace.



If he could have taken Alex without the title and the money and the employees and the royal protocol, he would have. Since he couldn't have her without all that other bullshit, he'd be the Prince of Alaska. But boy, oh boy, it would take some getting used to. Prince Sheldon! Ha!



It must be love, he thought, more than a little shocked. It must be! Because I would never—I could never have—but I can't live without her, either. Just the thought of it… he shivered again, and again, it had nothing to do with the weather.



"Wait! Oh, wait!"



He knew that voice, and instantly turned. There was the Princess of Alaska running toward him,racing toward him, her full white skirt caught up in her hands so she could navigate the turf better—he could see her matching shoes, pointy toes and diamond straps and all—he could see her hair jiggle, only the Baranov pearls keeping it from falling down past her shoulders in the dark cloud he knew well, so well he dreamed about it every night.



"It's okay," she gasped, finally reaching him. She pressed a hand to her bodice and fought for breath.



"Jeez, Alex, I don't think that dress is for, you know, running laps," he said mildly, but couldn't help grinning, he was so glad to see her.



"I mean… it's okay… you lasted longer… I don't want you to go… I'll hate it… but I understand…"



"Huh?"



"But I think… if you go… you're a coward…"



"I'm just getting some air, you nimrod! I'm not ducking out of the wedding." He looked around and observed that they were, for the moment, utterly alone. It was the perfect setting for an escape. "Uh, but I can see why you thought that. No, I was getting freaked out in there and came out here for a bit while I still could."



"Oh," she panted. "If I had… the energy… I'd be mortified… for thinking… the worst…"



"It's not like I haven't given you reason. Hey, do you need to sit down?"



"I'm… fine. That's—okay." She gulped a deep breath and swayed on her feet for a second, then seemed to recover from her mad dash across the lawn. "Well. Sorry. I saw you out the window and—and it's possible I jumped to conclusions."



"Trying to corral me before I could make my getaway, huh?" He looked her up and down. "My God, who could ever leave you?"



She dropped her skirts, covering her shoes, and he saw the dress in more detail now: off the shoulder, long sleeves, little white flowers sewn into the neckline, gigantic meringue skirt. Against the fall trees and the dying grass, she was the brightest thing on the grounds, the most beautiful.



His princess.



She smiled at him and reached up to see if her hair was in place; it was, secured firmly by the braids of pearls. Another set was around her neck, lustrous against her creamy skin: the Baranov pearls, inherited from her great-great grandmother.