Page 47 of The Thing About My Prince

“Then yemustbe famous.” His voice is now loud enough for everyone in about a ten-foot radius to hear. Some of them turn to look.

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Cos everyone famous is American,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s very sure of their logic. “And ye ’ave him.” He points behind me to Dane.

Oliver insisted I bring one of his security guys with me and, while Dane is somewhat dressed down for the occasion in jeans and a gray wool coat instead of his usual black suit and tie combo, he still sticks out like the most swollen of sore thumbs amid the locals.

Oliver initially offered to ignore Giles’s instruction to stay away from the event and come with me, but then decided it would create way too much of a fuss and detract from the event itself. And that didn’t seem fair to the organizers or participants.

God, how awful to effectively be a prisoner in your own home. Even if that home is a castle.

“Sorry.” A woman appears by the kid’s side and frowns at me before turning to the boy and lowering her voice. “Leave the lass alone. She’s tha one I was talkin’ about earlier.” She takes his hand and resumes normal speaking volume. “Let’s go see if anyone’s found yer gnome yet.”

“I putta gnome in the bog,” he shouts at me over his shoulder as he’s led away by the woman, who doesn’t look back. Guess she didn’t have anything good to say when she was talking about me earlier.

When I arrived at the annual bog treasure hunt about half an hour ago, I was given the task of Keeper of the Register. The Register being the official list of all the items that have been placed in the bog along with the points associated with each one.

It’s a job not to be taken lightly—according to the mightily pissed-off guy who was stripped of the responsibility to make way for “Prince Oliver’s lass.”

It appears, in fact, that no aspect of the event is taken lightly. The rules seem to be as revered as if it were an Olympic sport.

Each contestant gets five minutes in the bog, and when their time is up, they bring their haul to me. I cross the items they’ve found off the list, add up their points value, and passthe total to the chief adjudicator, Moira,who’s sitting next to me at the judging table.

One of the main things I’ve learned today is that a staggering number of people are prepared to don swimsuits, goggles, and snorkels on a chilly late September day, then wade into a muddy bog creek to search for a bizarre collection of unwanted household items.

Some of the “treasure” is pretty funny. On the list, and still to be found, are “teacup glued to saucer,” and “Grandma’s false teeth”—I’m hoping she has a new set and that she’s not, you know, in a place where she no longer requires any.

“Violation!” Moira leaps to her feet beside me, making me jump.

I jump even more when she blows long and hard into her whistle, even though she’s already done it half a dozen times since we started.

“Straying out of your area!” she declares.

She sits back down and flips through the papers on her clipboard. “He cannae ever remember the rules. The bampot does that every year.” She finds the guy’s name on the list and marks a red X next to it. “Either that or he’s a born cheater.”

“Well, he’s a man, right?” I joke.

But Moira looks at me with a furrowed brow. “You’re not worried about Prince Oliver doin’ the dirty on ye, are ye?”

“Oh God, no.” The last thing I want is to tarnish his reputation even more. I’m supposed to be writing this book to help him, not make things worse in the process.

“I couldn’t be happier he’s finally found himself a nice lass.” She taps my arm. “He’s a lovely lad who deserves happiness.”

And here’s an opening for me to get the local background I came for. “Do you know him?”

“Och, no. Never met him. But I’ve seen him in the village over the years. There was a time when he was always oot and aboot wi’ his mates, getting up to mischief.”

That sounds interesting. “What type of misch?—”

“Violation! Excessive goggle wiping.” Moira’s back on her feet, and this time I manage to get my hands over my ears before she blows the whistle. Either this is a special whistle designed to alert every living being within a mile radius, or she has the lungs of an opera soprano.

“Mud on the goggles stays on the goggles,” she adds, clarifying the regulation.

Wow, interesting rule.

“Here ye go.” An older man dumps four items dripping with mud onto the table in front of me, even though competitors are supposed to wash them off in the buckets of water next to us first.

“Violation!” Moira declares. “Failure to rinse.”