Runaway: Royal States, #9

By Susan Copperfield

Upon His Royal Highness of California becoming His Royal Majesty of New York, Cassandra Ferran descends into a living nightmare. Thanks to a mass exodus of aides, it falls on her shoulders to rein in the new heir's life while navigating through a Royal mess of a transition.

 

With the stress piling on and no end in sight, Cassandra dreams of slipping out of the palace and beginning her midlife crisis as a runaway.

 

Instead of a peaceful escape from the palace, Cassandra is dumped into the murky waters of political intrigue and a gambit for the throne that will forever change her life and determine the fate of California and its royal family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing
• Release date: Dec 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649640437

Book preview

ONE

Until yesterday, I had barely existed in his world.

"I need you to handle this, Cassandra," Prince Thomas of California announced, and he dropped a thick folder on my desk. The thump startled me into staring at him, taking away precious time from my work to ensure there was a memorial for Their Majesties of New York.

The file would break me, as would the other similar stacks he’d dumped on my desk after word spread that New York had a new queen and king.

In a way, I pitied Thomas.

Yesterday, he’d been just another Californian prince.

Today, he was the next in line to rule.

Rather than slap the prince with the file to find out if it could serve as a weapon, and rather than lose my job and possibly my head, I picked it up, braced for the worst, and flipped the folder open. In an era of computers, emails, and digital transactions, the appearance of paper copies of invoices for the memorial annoyed the hell out of me. As they wouldn’t add much work to my endless day, I resisted the urge to murder my boss.

A good aide kept cool and calm under any circumstance. I faked a smile and replied, I’ll take care of it, sir.

Good. How are you holding up?

The question surprised me; in the five years I’d worked as one of Prince Thomas’s invisible aides, he’d barely said a word to me. On rare occasions we crossed paths in the halls, and sometimes, he acknowledged me. Most times, he offered a nod or a smile, usually grim.

Until yesterday, I had barely existed in his world.

Today, he couldn’t stop invading my office with more work.

I missed yesterday.

My smile softened into something a little less cheerful but a great deal more honest. I’m fine, sir. Then, as I was trying to at least pretend I could be somewhat honest, I regarded my overwhelmed desk with a less-than-happy expression. Mostly.

As soon as we’re through the memorial, we’ll open hiring. The transition is not going quite to plan.

I raised a brow. There was a plan, sir?

Thomas, he corrected. Well, there was the start of a plan, but it survived for about twelve hours before the former New York monarchs made a mess of it. We’d meant for Ethan to make an announcement and begin the transition gradually, but the wildfire changed everything—and His Royal Majesty of Montana did not want to leave any openings. Ethan wanted to ease Rachel into going back to New York while making certain she has the support she needs. So, I get the job rather than Ethan, because she needs him to keep her stable, and I’m available.

Right. Availability mattered, and as the new heir, available and next in line to rule meant most of the work landed on my desk. Will we be hosting the public coronation?

Unfortunately.

As a mid-casted airweaver with a minor blood leeching talent nobody had bothered to rate, I barely qualified to work in the palace at all. Mostly, my parents’ ranking as elites had qualified me. The rarity of my leeching talent, which I could use to stanch blood in case of emergency, had given me a foot in the door. My ability to conquer any stack of paperwork had put me in the royal wing of the palace in an administrative role, where I sometimes bumped against my boss in the hallways but rarely anywhere else.

With His Royal Highness as my new boss, my ventures into the hallway would be a great deal more stressful in the future.

I drew in a deep breath to calm myself. I could handle a coronation on top of the memorial without snapping. I could snap after the coronation. By then, the palace would hire more appropriate staff for the job. I drew in a deep breath, held it until my chest hurt, and released it in a slow exhale.

When will the coronation be held?

Immediately following the memorial. That comes from the top. The top is unwilling to negotiate.

From the top meant two people: Thomas’s parents, His and Her Royal Majesties of California.

Could someone die from stress? I’d find out soon enough. I estimated I would be too tired to remember my own name within six hours; I’d already lost track of how long I’d been working since word had come down the line that I was responsible for arrangements for the memorial.

What was a coronation on top of a memorial?

Understood, sir.

His Royal Highness of California cleared his throat.

Thomas, I dutifully replied, and while I considered rolling my eyes over the prince’s request, I kept my opinion regarding the differences in our station to myself.

People like me weren’t even supposed to talk to people like him.

While I couldn’t resent Ethan for marrying the woman he loved, I wanted to toss the entire royal family into the ocean until they came to their senses and stopped making me do work I had no business doing.

I expect I’ll be back within ten minutes, which is when my asshole parents will surely find something else to dump on my desk, Cassandra, the prince complained before striding out of my office.

He would drive me straight to a midlife crisis before I turned thirty, and I lost a few precious moments watching him leave.

Someone needed to fire his tailor. I couldn’t imagine anyone being capable of working with him while he wore such a perfectly fitted suit. The damned thing clung to him, and I suspected he spent an unreasonable amount of time working out in the palace’s gym.

The members of the royal family needed to pay a little less attention to their appearances. I needed my peace of mind intact, and having a fit boss who went out of his way to be handsome violated my peace of mind.

Only after the prince turned the corner did I manage to return my attention to my work.

How had planning the memorial for His and Her Majesties of New York fallen onto my shoulders? It should have fallen onto Dedaran’s shoulders. Dedaran could have handled it without breaking a sweat. My former boss handled everything with grace and dignity.

Me? I’d stopped sweating a few hours ago because sweating expended precious energy I could no longer spare.

Oh, right. I remembered. Dedaran was heading to New York as the primary aide of the new His Majesty of New York, formerly known as His Royal Highness of California. In the hours following the deaths of the New York monarchs, the royal shuffle had begun in earnest.

I checked the time. If all had gone to plan, Dedaran would have landed in New York an hour ago to manage the new king’s affairs, organize the palace in New York, and otherwise bring order to chaos.

I couldn’t tell which one of us had the worst job.

As a secondary aide to the newly minted His Royal Highness of California, I should’ve been ordering flowers, writing cards, and preparing hotels for visiting dignitaries as an overflow assistant, a glorified secretary of sorts, a jack of all trades who could handle any task with minimal loss of performance.

Someone had decided to test my capabilities. I hoped I never found out who was responsible. I’d hate them for the rest of my life. I’d consider haunting the bastard to extend my hatred for a few extra years, too.

Some of my fellow aides were transferring to New York in an effort to ease Her Royal Majesty’s burdens, a gift of sorts from the royal family. The others were claiming seniority and executing the out clauses in their hiring contracts, which gave them the right to flee upon Prince Thomas of California’s promotion to heir or monarch.

My contract did not include such a clause.

I regretted that. Not only did I regret the lack of such a clause, I couldn’t figure out how it had escaped my contract. Had I been young? Foolish? Charmed by the handsome prince now in line for the throne?

Years ago, fresh out of high school and faced with the choice of college, palace service, or joining the family business, I’d opted for palace service. Without a college degree but with a solid understanding of computers, my parents’ elite rank had bought me a spot among the candidates, a free-for-all employment pageant where the royals selected their newest aides.

For some reason I still didn’t understand, Prince Thomas had snagged me out of the lineup before anyone had bothered to interview me, jumping the line over even his parents to secure my employment on his staff.

Years later, the whole thing still confused me, but I’d learned to keep my doubt to myself. The royals didn’t need someone like me moaning and groaning about the workload, wretched hours, and packed palace schedule. Given the current state of affairs, they deserved some time moaning and groaning about their workload, wretched hours, and packed schedules.

I wanted to flee from the chaos and leave some other poor bastard to handle the planning. Alas, after me, there was exactly nobody else qualified to handle the job.

The other aides, the ones who hadn’t quit or were headed to New York, scrambled to do the million and one tasks their bosses required of them before the memorial service.

It would’ve been nice if one of the other princes had offered even one of their staff to help, but no. They wisely kept their distance.

Asshole royals.

Prince Thomas, as the current eldest prince in residence, needed to school his brothers about being selfish. One aide would have helped a great deal. With one extra aide, I could go home long enough for a nice shower, a change of clean clothes, and a treat from my freezer.

I kept chocolate bars for emergencies in the back of my freezer, and I deserved three of them. No, four. Maybe five. I deserved one for each day since I’d last been home, however many chocolate bars that was.

As there was no one to help me, I dealt with the funeral on my own while hoping for the best. His and Her Majesties of California played host to Her Royal Majesty of New York and her consort, who should have been our heir.

I’d only caught a few glimpses of the woman, and I’d gotten the feeling she needed all the help she could get. Prince Ethan—no, King Ethan—would have his hands full with her, as the pomp and circumstance of preparing for a Royal funeral seemed to suck the life out of her. She only smiled when he was around, and her two pet tigers constantly rumbled, mouthed at her hands, and did everything they could to distract her from the growing tensions in the palace.

At first, the tigers had frightened me, but only a blind fool couldn’t see the truth; the animals adored the fragile queen.

As the monarch’s aides scrambled to make preparations and support Her Royal Majesty of New York, Thomas’s aides—reduced in number to lonely me—handled the rest of the work.

Without any bodies to bury, the funeral would be more of a remembrance ceremony, during which California would thank New York for the sacrifice of its monarchs.

I had no idea how the hell I was supposed to plan a coronation on top of a funeral, what was supposed to happen at one, and what the New York queen wanted, if she wanted anything at all.

According to the rumor mill, the former monarchs had done the new queen a favor by permanently getting out of her life. With whispers of abuse rampant, including threats about what the royal family would do if the struggling queen heard a single whisper about her, I did the only thing I could.

I kept my head down, did my work, and avoided the situation as much as I could.

California had gone overboard giving our heir to New York’s queen, but after the initial surge of resentment over the arrangement had faded, I realized someone had accomplished something truly brilliant.

The new Her Royal Majesty of New York would care what happened to my kingdom when the wildfires burned each year. Her marriage to Ethan of California ensured that.

Assuming, of course, she was half as nice of a person as the rumors claimed.

I believed the rumors. She’d gone to face the flames even after her parents’ deaths. The speculations whispered throughout the palace suggested the New York monarchs hadn’t done anything at all for the wildfire, escaping shame and using their beleaguered daughter to do it.

Those whispers rang of the truth, although I couldn’t see how such a withdrawn, worn, and skittish woman could accomplish so much.

She couldn’t even force herself to smile.

To my shame, I admired her for her unspoken honesty, showing her heart on her sleeve and in plain view on her face. I remained a coward, smiling on command despite the weight of a new world slamming onto my shoulders.

In that, we were similar enough.

Instead of making the usual phone calls, sending flowers, and arranging suites for visiting dignitaries, I arranged for a pair of urns worthy of a king and queen, I contacted the largest cathedral in San Francisco for approval to use their building for the ceremony, and ordered enough flowers to fill said cathedral. Calling the cathedral to inquire if they would be willing to host the public coronation of the New York monarchs might kill me—although it could work out.

If the ceremonies were held back-to-back, we wouldn’t further disrupt services at the cathedral or have to coordinate extra transportation between sites. Heaving a sigh, I grabbed my phone, shuffled through the papers on my desk for the bishop’s number, and dialed.

Miss Ferran, how may I serve? the bishop asked.

Well, well, well. Last time, I’d had to leave a voice mail several times before I’d managed to get through to the man. I hope I’m not disturbing you, Bishop Lanhallen. I’ve just been notified California will be hosting the coronations of Her and His Royal Majesties of New York, and I wanted to inquire if your cathedral would be willing to host the event immediately following the memorial.

As someone who attended church only under duress every blue moon, I prayed for a miracle to spare me from having to locate a second venue, which would likely need to be the second-largest cathedral in San Francisco.

It would be our honor to provide the blessing for their coronation, my child. Shall we handle it in the Californian tradition?

Miracles could happen, and the bishop might talk me into converting to his religion if he kept making my job simpler. If you would, I would be most appreciative. It might be worth investigating how New York handles their coronations if only to avoid stressing Her Royal Majesty of New York. The Californian tradition may be kinder to her, however. We’ll need to accommodate her animals, as they do not leave her side often, I reminded him.

I’ve been promised the appropriate animal empaths will be on hand to handle any concerns with her feline companions. I have already discussed the situation with His Royal Majesty of New York personally, and I am satisfied their presence is truly necessary. We are praying for the new monarchs, and that Her Royal Majesty of New York finds peace in her new life.

I hoped the woman lost her haunted appearance at the very least. Thank you, Bishop. Your understanding is truly appreciated. I only found out a few moments ago we will be hosting the coronation.

I suspected such news would be coming soon, but the matters of the memorial are more important than the coronation in many ways. Doing them together is wise, as it will allow the new monarchs time to adjust to their duties. I am already scheduled to speak with Her Royal Majesty of California in a few hours, so I will discuss the details with her, and then I will get back in touch with you for further planning. Will you be free at five this evening? That will be right after the call but before our evening prayers. I don’t expect it will take long.

If I wasn’t free, I would be free, and I hoped whoever I bumped to make room for the bishop’s call would forgive me for my rudeness. I’ll be waiting for your call at five, I promised.

Most wonderful, my child. I will speak to you tonight, then. He hung up, and with a sigh, I returned the phone to its cradle.

As my day could get worse, His Royal Highness of California made yet another appearance in my office armed with a file. I longed for a New Yorker’s flameweaving talent, which would result in the immediate disintegration of the extra work about to land on my desk.

Prince Thomas chuckled. I prefer that scowl to your smile, in case you were wondering. This is my parents’ latest attempt to murder me with work, and this is the request list from Her and His Royal Majesties of New York.

Unlike the other folders, its deceptive narrowness concerned me. It’s thin.

It is tiny but fierce, or so says my new sister-in-law.

How is Her Royal Majesty handling the situation?

Better than I expected. She’s viewing this nonsense as a trial to get to take Ethan home with her, and she must conquer it if she wants to run off with him. She hasn’t quite seemed to clue in she’ll need a bat and some rope if she wants to leave him behind. It’ll make things complicated until they settle down, but they’ll be all right. The funeral and the coronation will help. Of course, we’re talking about my brother here, so I expect things will be a disaster in one way or another. He’s so damned smitten he can’t see straight, and until they figure out they’re fine, they’ll annoy everyone around them. Her self-esteem issues will drive Ethan crazy, and Ethan’s determination to resolve her self-esteem issues will drive her crazy. But they’re so smitten with each other they have no idea how to handle how crazy they’ll drive each other. I wish I could follow them back to New York just to watch their first few weeks of ruling. It’s going to be memorable. Ethan is going to turn New York upside down trying to protect her, and she’ll let him.

Worried what the folder said, I flipped it open to find a single sheet, which consisted of a plea to make the torture end as quickly as possible. I see Her Royal Majesty is not particularly thrilled about the funeral or her coronation.

She asked my mother if she could be sedated through the entire damned thing so she could just wake up when it was over. That made my mother cry, as she doesn’t want to do anything to upset Rachel. That made Rachel cry, because Rachel can’t handle making anyone cry because of her. Ethan also cried, but that was because he was laughing too hard. The royal wing has been a disaster, and I’ve been told I can’t run away. I really want to run away.

His Majesty laughed at his wife? I blurted.

Oh, no. He was laughing at our mother. I was told privately it was likely a stress response, and as princes are regal beings, he was laughing that hard. I have no doubt Ethan was laughing that hard, but he’s normally more dignified than that. So, what do you think of Their Majesties’ request?

What day is it?

It’s Wednesday.

Damn. Had it really been three days since I’d gone home? No, wait. Maybe five. Four? How did time work? Why did time insist on being cruel to me?

I did the math in my head to discover I’d been working for at least thirty hours preparing for the funeral, and I might have grabbed an hour or two of sleep at my desk. I resisted the urge to sniff beneath my arms to check if I’d missed a mandatory shower. It’s a very reasonable request, and if I can make it happen, I will. I spoke with the bishop at the cathedral, and he was willing to handle the coronation. He’s supposed to speak with our monarchs about it today.

And that’s my next item on my to-do list. I’ll make certain they keep everything as short, sweet, and to the point as possible. Do we have a time?

Seven in the morning tomorrow, I replied, reaching across my desk for the notebook I’d dedicated to solidified details of the funeral. I held it out to His Royal Highness. This is the schedule. The coronation will happen immediately after the funeral ceremony. Can you ask His and Her Majesties to detail what they want with the bishop?

Which His and Her Majesties?

Of California.

I absolutely can. My brother’s taken his wife to their guest suite, and he’s threatened death if anyone disturbs them. She would work herself sick if left to her own devices, so he’s taking steps. I’ll make sure my parents do their job for a change and handle most of the coronation details with the bishop. It’s about time I can dump something on their desk. For some reason, it usually goes the other way. They don’t at all care I’ve lost most of my staff. The work still needs to get done. I swear, I’m going on vacation tomorrow evening, and I will take at least a week off—and I’ll make them handle hiring the new staff.

As I couldn’t remember the last time Prince Thomas had taken a day off, I expected a pig would grow wings and turn a rather unpleasant shade of green first. There is a Royal dinner for Their Majesties of New York after the funeral, I reminded him.

The prince grumbled and wrinkled his nose. Perhaps Friday, then.

I considered not reminding him of his other obligations, including his debut meeting with the congress, another dinner with visiting dignitaries visiting for the memorial service and coronation, and the other hundred or so things he needed to take care of. To minimize the amount of work I’d have to do later, I checked his calendar, frowning at the suspicious lack of appointments on the upcoming Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. You could take three days off with minimal disruption starting on Sunday.

How difficult would it be to extend those three days into a week?

It took me a few minutes to go through his calendar, questioning if my predecessor had forgotten to add critical appointments before leaving for New York. It doesn’t seem impossible at least.

Prince Thomas blinked, his mouth dropped open, and he spluttered.

By the time Sunday rolled around, assuming we didn’t both go mad from being overworked, he would need at least a week to recover.

I could do a lot in a week, including run for the border or otherwise claim my status as the only runaway in the exodus of aides. Running away sounded like a great idea, and I could even return after a week so I’d get paid, rather than join the ranks of the unemployed. If I ran far enough, could I become a hermit and live off the land?

Hermits didn’t need employment when they lived off the land. Sure, it would significantly reduce my lifespan, but I could see a few perks to the scheme.

No princes meant no problems.

Well, beyond potential starvation, dying of some plague, or otherwise coming to an unpleasant end several decades early. I would need to put some extensive thought into the situation.

By it doesn’t seem impossible, if I were to ask you to clear my calendar for a week, how difficult do you think it would be?

How adept are you at using the word no? His ability to tell others no would make or break his chance to take a vacation. You will have to tell many people no if you wish to take a week off.

It seems I have insufficiently practiced the usage of the word no. I will rectify this and prepare for battle. If you can’t clear my calendar, let me know. I’ll go take care of the coronation problem in the meantime.

What was one more task?

TWO

It’s really not a disaster, is it?

Somehow, wearing a black dress I had no memory of buying, I attended the memorial service for the deceased monarchs and the coronation of the new rulers of New York. Rather than join the rest of the aides in the back or scattered in the various wings of the cathedral, Prince Thomas insisted I stay with him. In my planning, where I would fit in hadn’t occurred to me at all, which added to my general confusion.

Exhaustion took most of the blame, but in a lull after the bishop spoke prayers for the dead, Prince Thomas leaned in my direction and whispered, We might be the only people in this place who know just how close this came to being a disaster.

That woke me up enough I took a better look around the cathedral, decorated in dark red and dark pink roses, the red to express love and grief while the rarer dark pink represented gratitude for the former monarchs’ sacrifice.

I couldn’t remember if I’d made arrangements for the roses yesterday, the day before, or even if I had done it in that morning. Performing miracles had become part of my job description, but I would wait another day to try to remember just how I’d pulled everything off.

I’d skipped the black roses, as the last thing I wanted was to cast some ill portent over the coronation of the new monarchs. Instead, I’d slipped in a few green roses, wondering if anyone understood the color’s many meanings.

A genuine wish for renewal would do them much better than more reminders of grief and mourning decorating the church.

It’s really not a disaster, is it? Any other day, I would’ve mustered a smile, but all I wanted was to crawl home to my bed and sleep for a month.

It’s not a disaster at all. You’ve worked miracles, especially with the short-notice invitations and travel arrangements.

Oh, right. I’d made arrangements for several monarchs who’d been caught flat-footed, their regular jets somewhere else in the world while they worked from home. Somehow, I’d gotten Montana to play chauffeur, spending several days flying around the Royal States while I made alternative arrangements for European monarchs wishing to attend the ceremonies.

Spain and France had stepped up to bat for most of Europe, although the thought of so many monarchs on so few airplanes might result in the development of my first royalty-induced ulcer. Losing a pair of monarchs at one time sent shockwaves across the world.

The first thing I would do as soon as I could escape the ceremonies involved making sure no one flight had more than two pairs of monarchs on it to prevent them from becoming an enticing target.

Ugh. My work never ended. Making the travel arrangements to get all the monarchs back home safely would take another few days—and the first lot of them would want to be gone by Saturday to return to their duties.

I missed my dinky little apartment. With how tired I was, I’d have to find somewhere to crash in the palace before I even thought about driving myself home, although I could probably ask one of the other staffers to give me a lift.

Most had to drive by my complex to escape the palace and head back to San Francisco. Then again, if anyone found out where I lived, which was the cheapest eyesore within ten miles of the palace, I’d never live it down and might die of shame.

As I couldn’t dig out my phone during the coronation, I hoped I remembered everything I needed to do in the time it took the bishop to offer a very brief blessing on their reign and bestow the New York crowned jewels on the new monarchs.

In what had to be a royal record, it took Bishop Lanhallen ten minutes to go through the vows, which consisted of a promise from both the new king and queen to do their best for their kingdom without falling prey to the lures of greed and sin.

The sin part amused me. When none of the royals were around, the palace staff liked to joke about the perils of four young, hot princes ripe for the picking. Even the men joined in, as nobody had any doubt why His Royal Majesty of California had fallen so hard for Her Majesty.

The Californian royal family had an unfair number of beautiful people in the line, including its queen, and the princes took after their parents in all the right ways.

Thomas had an ass worth admiring, and I dealt with a reminder of that every time he left my office.

Great. I’d been reduced to lewd but honest thoughts about my employer while in a church. Assuming I survived through the rest of the week, I’d go to a different place of worship to confess my sins.

Did priests or pastors or whoever led services at the various churches in the kingdom accept confessions from random women off the street? I didn’t even know.

The last time I’d been to a church, I’d been twelve, and my mother had insisted I needed to be baptized. Had I known the church in question performed their baptisms in the ocean, I would’ve run away from home without question or hesitation. One incident with a rogue wave later, and I’d developed a fear of the water and of religion.

My mother had tried to teach me to swim afterwards.

It hadn’t ended well for anybody.

I made it through the ceremonies in an exhausted stupor, following Prince Thomas around while pretending I could tell which end was up. Fortunately, he remembered where we needed to go, what we needed to do, and what he needed to say. As his silent, not-quite-invisible aide, I stood around and fought to keep from yawning.

Nobody scolded or fired me, so I presumed I hadn’t offended anyone important with my less-than-professional behavior.

The trip back to the palace went by in a blur, and I somehow made it back to my office. Prince Thomas rattled off instructions for the monarchs needing to return home, which I noted down so I wouldn’t forget, confirmed they could be handled in a few hours, and waited for my new boss to leave before rewarding myself with a hard-earned nap on my desk.

While catching a few winks had been a critical part of my plan to get through the next few days, I hadn’t accounted for waking up anywhere other than in my office, drooling on my desk.

My office had hardwood floors, but my office did not have a couch. Some staffers had couches, but secondary aides got a comfortable chair, a half-decent desk, good storage, and two chairs for guests, but as my office lacked enough space for both chairs, I only had one.

Yes, Mother. I’m aware my aide isn’t in her office, California’s new heir said, loud enough to confirm my initial impression I’d somehow moved from the comfort and security of my office to elsewhere.

Judging from his voice, his commentary, and the rather comfortable couch I’d claimed as my nest, I’d been relocated to Prince Thomas’s office. I still wore the black dress, but a microfiber blanket kept me warm and cozy, and a sinfully soft pillow did a good job of convincing me to stay put rather than bolt out of the room in terror over my unexpected situation.

Yes, Mother. She’s not in her office because she’s taking a hard-earned nap on my couch. I forgot to tell her something and found her passed out at her desk. She’s been doing the job of fifteen people all week, and I confirmed with the RPS she hasn’t left since Friday. Yes, the one almost a week ago. After leaving for the Cathedral at five this morning, it’s no surprise she was exhausted and needed a nap.

Huh. It really had been Friday since I’d left. I wondered what day it was or if I even cared.

Returning to my nap seemed like the best choice, all things considered. Once Prince Thomas left his office, I could roll off the couch and slink to freedom. It didn’t count as a walk of shame; every staffer with any sort of experience pulled an all-weeker at one point or another. Most just didn’t get relocated to a royal’s office while they slept off their work.

No matter how tired we were, life went on at the palace, and the royals needed us to make sure everything didn’t fall apart on them.

"No, Mother. There hasn’t been any screaming. What is your problem today? No. You can’t have my only aide, and I don’t care if she’s better at logistics than you are. I gave your aides her notes on the travel plans. No, she had added the requirement to separate as many of the monarchs onto different planes as possible, and she’s right. Yes, I realize that means you need to ask them to call in their jets, but frankly, it’s a miracle we got away with getting them all here like we did. It’s more of a miracle that we didn’t have a mass quitting spree among the RPS. And no, you can’t ask His Royal Majesty of Montana to be a private chauffeur service again. Ask the

Reviews for Runaway

[jjmcgaffey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Pretty standard Royal States story - amusing that the royals are beginning to figure out how this works (which means a lot less opposition from above).