The Art of Annoying a King with 20 Questions

The journey to his summer residence concluded in what felt like a remarkably short hour, a duration that fell far below my initial estimations. It was a practical necessity, I supposed, for anything intended as a weekend retreat. A three-day trek would hardly qualify as a casual excursion.

His term ‘summer house’ was a masterpiece of royal understatement. What rose before us was, in truth, a sprawling mansion that would effortlessly dwarf my own two-story home from another life. As our carriage drew nearer, the sheer scale of the estate became apparent, its grounds rolling away into a seemingly infinite expanse that held a distant stable, a lake that glittered like a polished mirror, and a dense, deep woodland that promised mystery.

Our carriage navigated a wide circle around a grand fountain in the forecourt before pulling to a halt. Instantly, servants materialized to open our doors. Another contingent stood in a formal line before the manor’s main entrance, bowing in perfect, unnerving unison as the monarch alighted. The sheer number of them was bewildering. Who on earth could possibly require such a legion of staff? He was the king, I had to remind myself, but the thought still snagged. Did he truly do nothing for himself? Did this absurd hierarchy extend to the point where servants had servants of their own?

Stepping across the threshold, I had to concede that the interior was magnificent. The design was a study in elegant contrast, its predominantly white canvas punctuated by touches of rich, dark brown hues. It managed to exude a warmth, an inviting atmosphere that felt less like the ostentatious, overwhelming grandeur of the palace and more like a genuine home. The feeling, to my surprise, was rather pleasant.

Viktor personally led me up a stately, sweeping staircase toward the guest quarters. After indicating my room, he disappeared into the one directly across the hall. The placement felt anything but coincidental; I had the distinct and unsettling impression that it was a calculated move, a simple way for him to keep me under his watchful eye. What a jerk.

The moment I entered my temporary sanctuary, my attention was captured by a large window that opened onto a balcony. A wide, irrepressible smile spread across my face. I hurried toward it, threw open the glass-paned doors, and leaned out to survey the grounds below. From the angle of the light, which was just beginning to peek over the horizon, I deduced I was on the eastern wing of the house. The sky was a breathtaking masterpiece, a seamless watercolor wash where buttery yellows melted into soft lavenders, blues deepened into fiery orange, and the entire horizon seemed to be beautifully ablaze. It was an unforgettable spectacle, and a part of me wished I were a true artist, someone with the talent to capture such a perfect moment and make it immortal.

Tearing my gaze from the dawn, I followed the path we had taken, my eyes tracing its winding route past the stables, alongside the shimmering lake, and through the dense woods. From this vantage point, I felt as though I had a bird's-eye view of the entire estate. The perspective lent the house a sense of eminence that almost rivaled the castle’s, though that was a foolish notion. The castle stood many stories taller. It was only then, having rushed to the window in my eagerness, that I remembered to inspect my lodgings. I turned away from the breathtaking view to take in the room.

In the center of the space stood a round, white canopy bed, its frame adorned with simple yet elegant golden floral patterns. Beside it, a small nightstand echoed the theme, its golden structure accented with delicate white embellishments. The dresser across the room matched perfectly, its white body highlighted with the same golden details. The walls themselves were painted a soft, creamy white and decorated with faint, gossamer-thin golden designs that shimmered in the morning light.

Just then, Morgan entered, struggling slightly with the weight of my bag. I rushed over to relieve her of the burden.

“I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have to carry that all the way up here—oof!” The moment I took the bag from her, its surprising weight pulled me off balance, and I landed on the floor with an ungraceful thud. “What is in this thing? Rocks?”

She erupted into a fit of laughter. I glared up at her from my position on the floor, scowling.

“You’re not far off, actually,” Morgan managed to say between her chuckles. “It’s filled with all your gowns and jewelry.”

Humph. Who needed so many elaborate dresses and jewel-encrusted accessories? I would have been perfectly content with a simple white t-shirt and a comfortable pair of jeans to last me until the end of time.

“Wish I had some nice jeans,” I muttered under my breath. Morgan just laughed again as a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Come in!” Morgan called out.

The door opened, and Viktor stepped inside. Just like that, my pleasant mood evaporated. Morgan offered him a graceful curtsy, and I narrowed my eyes when he failed to even acknowledge her with a glance. He had, of course, changed his clothes again. The practical traveling attire was gone, replaced by some sort of athletic apparel that hugged his frame. They looked suspiciously like skinny jeans. What was it with the people in this world and their incessant wardrobe changes? What ever happened to wearing one or two outfits a day?

“You will require a riding gown,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I will give you thirty minutes to prepare.” He then turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Jerk.

Morgan was already at the enormous (and, as I was now painfully aware, heavy) piece of luggage, pulling out yet another gown. She helped me change, and in a flurry of activity, she had my hair pinned up, a wide-brimmed hat secured on my head, and a parasol placed in my hand.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the relief from the sun,” I commented, twirling the frilly contraption, “but don’t you think this is all a little… excessive?”

“Noblewomen here are exceptionally vain about their complexion,” Morgan explained with a soft laugh.

Once I was ready, we left the room, and Morgan led me out of the house and down a path that wound its way toward the stables. How she knew her way around was a complete mystery to me. We had only been on the property for an hour, yet she navigated it with an easy confidence. I made a mental note to uncover her secret; such a skill could prove invaluable in the future.

The air was filled with the cheerful melody of birdsong, creating a light, happy tune that followed us on our way. The grass was a vivid emerald green, perhaps a shade brighter than the lawns at the palace. The path to the stable was lined with several tall, round trees, their trunks so thick I doubted I could wrap my arms around them even if I tried.

When we finally arrived, I was pleased to find that the stables didn't carry the unpleasant odor I had anticipated. The air smelled of fresh hay, well-oiled leather, and the clean, earthy scent of horses—a testament to how meticulously they were maintained. As we ventured deeper inside, I saw Viktor adjusting the tack on a brilliant white horse. She was a magnificent creature—large and powerfully built, yet possessing an undeniable elegance. She was the grandest horse I had ever laid eyes on, though to my regret, I couldn’t identify her breed, my equine knowledge being limited to the word “stallion.”

Waving a quick farewell to Morgan, who was already departing, I turned my attention back to the scene. Viktor, apparently engrossed in preparing the mare, hadn’t seemed to notice my arrival.

“So, what’s her name?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Snowflake,” he replied without looking up from his task.

How original, I thought. Did the man possess no imagination whatsoever?

“And which one will I be riding?”

“You’re riding with me,” he informed me flatly.

A sudden heat crept up my neck, warming my cheeks. With him? On the same horse? Oh, that’s just fantastic, isn’t it?

As if he had just finished his preparations, he finally looked up and beckoned me closer. His eyes fell on the parasol in my hand. “You won’t be needing that,” he said. “Leave it by the entrance. We’ll retrieve it later.”

I complied, scurrying to the doorway to lean the little umbrella—I refused to call it a parasol in my head—against the wall before hurrying back to his side.