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“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to start filling my plate. “She was.”
I eat breakfast alone, and then pace around the castle until it’s time for me to talk to my father. But all too soon, I’m standing before the closed door of his office.
Nothing is going to happen to him, I repeat over and over again as I knock on the door.
It can’t. Nothing can happen to him.
“Enter,” Dad calls in his deep voice.
I take a final breath and push open the door. “Hey.”
Dad’s office looks more like a living room than a place of business, with all the comfortable furniture set up around the fireplace. There are pictures everywhere—family and paintings—as well as Dad’s collection of gold records and Olympic medals.
One of his guitars hangs on the wall by the door, a new addition to the décor.
“Hey.” Dad’s face lights up with surprise when he sees me, and before I’m all the way in the room, he’s come around from behind his desk to give me a hug.
It’s been a while since I’ve been home, so I take the hug, and hold it a little longer than usual.
“I didn’t know you were back.” Dad grins and motions me to the chair in front of the desk. “Although I don’t need to know things like that,” he says, waving his hands around. “You are a grown adult with a life of your own and I don’t need you to keep me informed of your plans to come home. I am your father, though. Youcouldtell me things like that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I settle into the chair and Dad leans against the desk. “Nice try at the guilt.”
He shrugs. “I do my best. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Got a minute?” I ask.
“For you?” He checks the diary on his desk. “I have fifteen. How long are you in town for?”
“That depends.” It sounds more ominous than I intended.
Dad frowns and reaches for the red Tim Hortons cup on his desk. “What’s up?”
“Silas’ll never forgive you for the Tim’s addiction,” I remind him, watching him take a sip.
“I know, I know,” Dad groans. “And I like Silas, so I try. But it was right there in the airport.” He looks longingly at the red cup. “The pods just don’t cut it.”
“You could buy local.”
“Are you here to lecture me on my coffee preference?” He fixes me with his gaze, the one that always knows when something is wrong, whether it’s with one of us or in the country.
He looks more kingly than he usually does this morning, in a navy jacket straining at his wide shoulders and flaming red tie and jeans, rather than beat-up sweatshirts and flannel shirts that he wears around the castle. He’s broader than any of us, but other than Gunnar, we’re all taller than him.
I’m not sure who I’d rather be facing—the king, or my father.
I had the same concern when I told Mom all those years ago.
“What’s going on, Bo?” King Magnus of Laandia asks with a frown. “Because something clearly is.”
I stare at the painting behind his desk. “I need to tell you something.”
“I figured that out myself.” He rubs his hands together. “Is someone gonna get in trouble?”
“Maybe.”
His smile fades. “This sounds serious.”
“Yeah.” I swallow twice. Take a deep breath, but the words just won’t come.