“Well, Swedish nobility originated in France,” he says. “This palace itself was built in the 16th century. It’s a UNESCO heritage site. Gorgeous, but not very homey, in my opinion.”
“But you grew up here. I can’t imagine what that would have been like.”
He shrugs. “You know what you know.”
It’s truly something and honestly has me so awed that for a minute there I forget to be nervous.
That is until I step in through the front doors.
Gold ceilings, massive chandeliers, and columns made of quartz, busts and statues adorning the walls.
I so don’t belong here.
And in the middle of it all are what seem to be a group of staff. Now here are the butlers and maids and cooks you think about in all those fairy tales and they’re all here, hands behind their backs and waiting to attend to us.
One takes my coat, another hands me a glass of champagne and then a tall thin man in a suit with slicked back blonde hair and an iron jaw is whisking Viktor and I over to another opulent room that puts the ones at our palace to shame. I didn’t even think that you could compare palaces and have one be better than another but it turns out you can.
“This place is incredible,” I whisper to Viktor.
He eyes my champagne glass. Which is suddenly empty. “Thirsty?”
Nervous as fuck, I mouth to him.
“They’ll be with you shortly,” the blonde guy says to Viktor, seeming to give me a look of disdain before he strides off.
“What’s with Dolf over there?” I joke.
“How did you know his name was Dolf?”
I blink at him and laugh. “Are you serious? His name is Dolf? I was making a joke. You know because he looks like that actor, Dolf Lundgren? You know, The Punisher and He-Man and --”
“Dolf Lundgren is a national hero,” he says, almost defensively.
Dead serious.
“Is he Swedish?” I ask.
“Who, the actor or my father’s private secretary?”
I’m going to assume they’re both Swedish. “Never mind.”
“His real name is Hans, by the way,” Viktor says under his breath just as the doors open and two butlers come in, standing to the side of the doors.
One of the butlers announces something in Swedish.
Oh shit. This got real.
The King and Queen of Sweden step inside the room.
Both Viktor and I immediately get to my feet and I realize he hasn’t taught me any of the royal protocol, so I’m trying to do my best impression of a curtsey.
They both walk, no, glide into the room and stop right in front of us.
I glance up and they’re staring down at me with tight smiles.
Shit. Maybe I’m not supposed to curtsey. Or maybe it just looks like I have a bad back.
“Mamma, pappa,” Viktor says before he switches to English. “This is Miss Maggie McPherson.”
I straighten up and give them my brightest smile, the one that says, I’m sweet and normal I swear, please don’t hate me.
“How do you do?” I say and then offer my hand.
They both look down at my hand and then over to Viktor, nonplussed.
In the agonizingly awkward seconds that my hand is just out there waiting, I take a good look at them. I’ve seen pictures of course, but in person they’re just that much more intimidating. More good-looking too. Viktor’s father has thick dark hair peppered with gray and a tall, foreboding stature. His mother has delicate features, high cheekbones, a stylish blonde bob that set off her glacial blue eyes. For some reason I expected both to be in tuxedos and gowns but they’re both in modest suits, hers pink, his a dark green.
Then, for a second, I’m thinking maybe they don’t speak English and they don’t know what he’s saying or how to talk to me.
Finally, after an exchange of looks between the three of them, his mother - the fucking queen – extends her hand to mine and gives it a firm shake. “So nice to meet you,” she says.
“Likewise,” I tell her. “Your Majesty,” I add quickly.
The King shakes my hand after. “Viktor said you were beautiful,” he says. “I see that he is right.”
My smile gets shaky. See, that wasn’t so bad. The king thinks I’m beautiful and the queen says it was nice to meet me. That could have been worse.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Your Grace.”
He looks at Viktor and back to me. “We don’t really use that term here in Sweden.”
“Oh I’m so sorry!” I exclaim.
“Not a problem,” he says to me though he’s giving Viktor a look like who is this crazy girl and why haven’t you been teaching her anything proper?
I’m about to open my mouth and make a remark about no cow on the ice but I decide from now on I better just shut up. I tend to talk and babble when I’m nervous and this is no exception.
“Shall we have a drink before the guests arrive?” his mother says and Viktor leads me to the end of the ginormous room where a few couches and love seats are gathered around what looks to be a solid gold coffee table.
A butler comes in and stares at me expectantly.
“What will you have, dear?” the Queen asks.
“What are you having?” I ask.
“Just coffee,” she says to the butler.
Shit. I guess that means I’m having coffee.
“Maggie will have a glass of champagne,” Viktor says, coming to my rescue. “I’ll have a scotch.”
“Make that two,” his father says as the butler replies something that must be the equivalent of “very good” in Swedish and goes to the lavish bar cart in the corner which happens to have an espresso machine.
“So,” the Queen says as she’s handed her coffee. “Viktor tells me you’re a journalism student.”
“Was a journalism student,” I tell her. “I studied at NYU.”
“That’s a very good school,” Viktor’s father comments. “Do you see yourself pursuing a job in that field at some point? Viktor tells me you’re currently a…housekeeper?”
I smile stiffly. “Was a housekeeper.” I swear Viktor kicks me on purpose. “I quit my job to come here.”
“Oh,” his mother says then takes a sip of her coffee. “I see.”
This isn’t going well.
The butler hands me my champagne and I immediately busy myself by drinking it.
Viktor puts a hand on my knee and squeezes it. “I’m sure Maggie will be going back to journalism very soon. She’s a natural reporter and a gifted writer. In fact, I think her interview skills are hard to duplicate. Did you know that within five minutes, she was getting all the details of Nick’s personal life?”
“No kidding,” his father says, seeming impressed.
“Yes, he admitted that his favorite musician at the moment is Harry Styles. Anyway, she has a promising career ahead of her.”
I’m glad that Viktor is sticking up for me like this, even though it’s not exactly true. I haven’t really thought much about journalism lately, especially after I didn’t end up writing the article about him. Maybe I’m too preoccupied, maybe I’ve just moved on. They say whatever you end up studying rarely becomes your career.
I am a little annoyed that Viktor is talking for me though. It’s a bad habit of his, along with ordering for me and the like. I know he can be bossy and dominant sometimes and I don’t even think he realizes it. In this case, though, it’s best to let him keep talking. He knows how to work his parents.
After that though, the small talk changes from me to King Aksel, and then some other people I don’t know from other countries and I end up feeling pretty excluded and rather bored. I just keep drinking my champagne and wishing we could go back home.
Then King Aksel arrives and we’re all hustled out into the hall and everything gets very formal.
I stand beside Viktor, waiting to greet him.
King Aksel is tall and handsome with a cutting jaw sprinkled with stubble, his hair a sandy brown. His eyes are hard and squinty and this gem-like dark blue and he seems to be perpetually frowning. He’s almost too perfect except for his nose which is crooked in places and seems to have been broken a few times. I wonder what the story is there.
I’m introduced to King Aksel and I do my best not to fuck it up. I almost do by offering my hand again but before I can move it, Viktor grabs it and holds it to my side with an iron grip. That’s when I realize that perhaps you aren’t supposed to offer your hand first to royalty.
So I wait for King Aksel to offer his hand first and I barely say anything else other than “Your Majesty” followed by a short curtsey.
This seems to satisfy him but I can’t be sure. His eyes flutter with a lot of dark emotions I can’t read into and his grip on my hand is crushing. What is it with these Nordic royals and their strong hands?
I’m then introduced to the entourage that follows him in, his sister Princess Stella and her family, plus head secretaries and a few dignitaries and maybe the entire cast of Hamlet.
The dinner is upstairs in what I’m sure is one of many dining rooms and as I climb the stairs with Viktor, hanging onto his arm while making sure I don’t step on my dress, I’m accosted with the gorgeous sounds of classical music which makes everything seem extra fairy-tale like and royal.
When I get to the second floor I’m shocked to find a man sitting at a grand piano in the hall and playing the music live.
The queen turns to me and says, “Are you a fan of classical music?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. I mean, I like it a lot. I used to listen to it when I studied. “And I adore Chopin’s Waltz,” I add, proud that I remembered the name of the piece.
She flinches and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Chopping?” she repeats.
I nod. “Yes. Chopin.”
Viktor groans from beside me.
The queen shakes her head, biting back a smile. “It’s not chopping, dear. It’s French. It’s pronounced Chopin.”