So well.
He had taken it often when he had lived here, heading for the one place on Santina that soothed him. Even as a child and later as an angry teenager, before he could drive, he would ride for the day, just to get to this place. When he could not stand the confines of the palace, when he could not bear to breathe the stifling air, when all he felt was oppression, it was here he would come, to a place he could breathe, could shout if he chose, could think....
He knew how she felt, for he had felt it once too.
He pressed a button and the roof slid away. When it was safe to do so he glanced over again and saw her more relaxed now, eyes closed enjoying the sun and the wind and air that was fresh.
For Allegra the silence from him was golden; she knew he wasn’t so angry now, knew that though she slept beside him every night and joined him at dinner, spoke with him each day, really they had not been alone, had not been themselves, since London.
She opened her eyes as the car slowed down; it was cooler and shaded. When they came to a stop, they both got out without a word, and she let Alex lead her to the place he had once come to.
‘I do know what it’s like.’ He was not shouting; he didn’t even seem cross. She was so glad for the drive, for the distance from the palace. She could see it still though, there beneath them in the distance, but she was glad for the expanse of land in between.
‘Before I could drive, I used to ride here. I used to stand here and swear I would not go back, though of course I had to—but I promised that I would get away, that for a few years I would live in London, live my life for a while, before I returned to their ways.’ They walked further into the copse, and he showed her where he would tie his horse. They walked further in till they were bathed in green and they sat on the damp moss that her eyes had reminded him of.
‘We should have brought a picnic,’ Allegra teased.
‘I wasn’t exactly planning to come here,’ Alex said, but it was good to be back, to lie down on the moss and look up to the glimpses of sky that the trees soared to. To not look at her as he told her what he should not, but what she surely deserved to know. ‘You know there is uproar with Sophia missing....’
‘She’s not missing—she’s married to your friend Ash, the maharaja,’ Allegra said, for when the young princess had heard that her father was about to marry her off, she had fled instead. ‘But yes, there’s an uproar.’ Prince Rodrigruez had arrived to claim his bride, and the king had decided that Sophia’s disgraced sister Carlotta would do instead. Allegra could not understand this family—how appearances rather than feelings mattered.
‘There is always uproar around Sophia.’ He looked up to her. ‘You’ve heard the rumours? That she isn’t...’
Allegra nodded; when he was trying to be more open, she wasn’t going to play games and pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘My father was always strict with me, but when I was young,’ he tried to recall, ‘there were times we went out. There seemed more freedom then, or maybe the palace seemed bigger. Then Mother had the twins, and though my father doted on them, especially Natalia, he really wanted more sons. I know he was disappointed, and my mother...she changed.’ He tried to explain. ‘Maybe you would call it depression. I didn’t know what it was then. But when I was twelve I knew there was going to be another baby—which should have been good news—after all, my father wanted another son. I heard them rowing—not just a row!’ She looked at him. ‘He told her she would bring down the monarchy—that her careless ways would cost the people dear...that her indiscretion...’ He looked to the sky and could hear their voices now. ‘It was not that she had an affair that upset him, he said. He was worried for the people, the damage a pregnancy—’
‘No,’ Allegra broke in. ‘Of course he was upset.’
‘You have to understand—’
‘I do understand,’ Allegra said, ‘because I’ve heard those types of rows too—hundreds of them—and whatever you think of my father, he’s not all that different from yours. I love him dearly, but he’s a mire of double standards. If it had been my mother who had had an affair—’