Royalty Check

2 | ALL LOYAL SUBJECTS

"𝓟ardon?" I say, not sure I heard her right. "Did you say palace?"

She flips her computer monitor around to face me. On the screen is a picture of a gray castle with a brown roof, small but beautiful. It's surrounded by dark green hills. The towers jut out into a thin fog, making it look like the castle is sitting in the clouds.

It's not like the ones saved in the "INSPIRATION" folder on my desktop — Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany or Hluboka Castle in the Czech Republic. Those remind me of Sleeping Beauty, white massive structures with a Disney air of magic. This one is austere, dark, unassuming.

I try not to like it.

Sima, on the other hand, looks like she's about to burst. "OK, I didn't want to tell you until it was official. The royal family of Iridorra has invited you to stay in their home for three months!"

She looks at me expectantly. I don't even know what to think, let alone say. Is this a joke? What is she talking about? 

Clearly my confusion doesn't deter her because she continues as excitedly as before.

"It's a small country in Europe. They've chosen you for a writing fellowship to help kick off their new Arts and Culture Department. All you have to do is soak it all in, then at the end, write up a small piece for a reception they are having."

I hold up a hand, my head spinning. "Hold on. So a country I've never been to on a book tour or on vacation or at any time at all, let alone even heard of, reached out to you to ask me to stay for three months?"

"Well, no..." She flips the monitor back over and pretends to be occupied with something on screen.

"Sima."

"They did a contest and I applied for you," she says quickly.

"Excuse me?"

She puts her hands up in defense. "You've been in this rut for years. I thought this could help."

"I've only been stuck since January," I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I've had to claw the last two books out of you—"

"AND," I continue, my voice rising now, "how would a trip to a random European country where I don't know anyone help? I don't even want to go to the gas station unplanned."

"This is basically a free vacation!"

"I don't need a free vacation, Sima. I'm on deadline."

She looks away. "It's a royal castle, a royal family. I thought maybe you'd be inspired. The way you used to be."

My neck grows warm. How dare she compare my writing now to when I started? I was 22, living off of cheap coffee and temp jobs. I was desperate and delusional, the blind confidence of someone who had never been rejected by agents, editors, or anyone else in the world.

At 28, I'm supporting myself with my writing, which is an accomplishment itself. I've finally figured out how to not let a bad review make me cry for a week (answer: just don't read it). And my writing has drastically improved.

Hasn't it?

The dull ache behind my eyes is back.

"Before you decide," she says, typing and flipping the monitor back over to face me. "Look at this."

A grid of images fills the screen, paparazzi photos of a dark-haired man coolly smiling or strutting down the street. Messy hair in every photo, leather jackets, obnoxiously tight jeans. In one picture, he's in the inside of a crowded club with a girl perched on his lap. I cringe.