“A bit of a mess, aren’t they?” she said with some apology in her voice.
“Is that Princess Aria talking or Mrs. Montgomery?”
“American Aria,” she said, slumping into a chair. “Freddie’s snow cream seemed perfectly reasonable before, but it costs money, doesn’t it? A lot of money.”
“Too much.”
“So what do we do?”
J.T. turned his head away from her for a moment. What do we do? He should have punched the king in the nose and hitchhiked out of the country before seeing her again. He was tempted to say, “Let’s ask Count Julie,” but he didn’t.
Instead, he turned back to her and told her how he thought her work load could be shared by her relatives.
Aria was thoughtful. “They won’t like it. Gena would enjoy looking at the young men of the Royal Guard—they’re the only troops we have—and Aunt Sophie will love the cannons, but the others will protest.”
“Then I’ll have to persuade them. I mean, your husband will have to persuade them.”
“My…” Aria said. “Oh yes, whoever I eventually marry.”
There was a quick knock on the door and the doors were opened. “Your Royal Highness, Count Julian,” said the guardsman.
Julian strode in, obviously already angry. “Aria, what are you doing in here alone with this man?”
Aria jumped out of her slouch and came to attention so quickly she swallowed her gum. “We are looking at accounts.” Her eyes were wide.
“It won’t hurt you,” J.T. said under his breath. “Every kid in America would be dead if it did.” He turned to Julian. “We were looking into Lanconia’s debts and the princess is here so I can see that she’s safe.”
Julian looked at Aria as a father looks at a wayward child. “Aria, it is time for our ride.”
Before Aria could reply, J.T. stepped in front of her. “The princess is busy. You got that, buster? Busy. Now skedaddle.”
Julian gave J.T. a look of fury then turned on his heel and left. A guardsman closed the door behind him and J.T. thought he saw a glint of approval in the guard’s eyes.
“Oh no,” groaned Aria, sinking back into the chair. “Now you’ve done it. He’ll never marry me now.”
“Good!” J.T. said. “You deserve better than him.”
“Where am I going to find better than him?”
“On any street corner in America.”
“You really don’t understand, do you? I have to marry someone with royal blood, someone who understands the monarchy, someone who—”
“Tell me about this Royal Guard of yours,” he said, cutting her off. “Is it my imagination or do they all look alike?”
“They are matched.”
“You mean like dishes?”
“Something like that. Their size is based on what is traditiona
lly thought to be Rowan’s size. They are from six foot one to two, have forty-eight-inch chests and thirty-two-inch waists. They cannot be larger or smaller. It is the greatest honor a Lanconian male can achieve to be a Royal Guard—but he must fit the uniform.”
J.T. was thoughtful. “Forty-eight-inch chests don’t grow, they have to be built. Do these guys have a training place?”
“Rowan’s Field.”
“Rowan again,” J.T. groaned. “I think I’ve seen enough of these books for a while. We’re going out to see the countryside. I want to see the grapes and I want you to tell me about this guard. Can they do more than open and close doors? And don’t give me that princess look. Here, have some more gum,” he said, leading her out the door.