She stands out like a sore thumb in the house, barely daring to sit on the couch or even move in fear of breaking something, anything. Everything looks expensive – hell, one vase alone would pay her future college tuition for a year – and Emma finds herself wondering for the hundredth time what she is even doing here.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and watches as a woman enters the room, all pretty dresses and professional smiles as she presents herself as "Belle, personal secretary" (the fuck?) and leads her to the gardens. As beautiful and expensive as the living room, of course, with wild colourful flowers and perfectly sculpted bushes. Emma is so used to the small apartment she has shared with Granny and Ruby all her life that she doesn't know how to react to all that space – what do people do with those big houses, seriously?
Not that she has much time to ponder on the question.
"Emmaline."
She turns around at the soft voice and replies "Emma, just Emma," out of habit even as she looks the woman over. Her face is as soft as her voice, with cropped black hair and an all-too familiar look, although Emma can't exactly place it. The woman's smile is kind too as she grabs Emma's hands in hers, pressing softly. She fights the urge to jerk away from the touch.
"Emma it is, then. Come, it's tea time."
The table on the patio may be lovely and the pastries may look tasty, but Emma is too focused on insulting Granny in her head, for forcing her to meet this woman for no other reason than because I say so, to actually care about tea time as she settles down in one of the seats. Still, Granny didn't raise no fool so Emma places the napkin on her lap and is careful not to put her elbows on the table – the woman, despite her soft features, looks like the kind to care about those things.
A waiter comes to pour hot water in her cup (a freaking personal waiter!) and she takes a few (long) seconds to stir her tea before dwelling on a "Soooo?" she hopes not to sound rude but straight to the point.
It seems to work on the lady.
"Emmali – Emma. Have you ever heard of Eala?"
Emma only needs a moment, the name ringing a bell from hours trying to learn by heart all the European countries and their capitals for a geography test last year. "The tiny country between France and Spain."
She doesn't need the woman nodding to know it's the good answer, but smiles proudly anyway at her own knowledge, even if she has no idea what that has to do with anything else – it's just a little patch of land stuck between two much larger countries, so what?
"Then you might also know Eala is a monarchy. As it so happens –" The woman coughs, almost nervously. "I am Mary Margaret Blanchard, queen of Eala. And… I'm also your mother."
Pause.
Emma bursts into laughter.
The kind that leaves her breathless and rocking back and forth on her chair, cheeks aching from too much smiling as she snorts on the air in less than elegant noises. But gosh, Ruby outdid herself on that prank, and Emma both wants to slap her and hug her for how intricate the whole thing is – renting a house and an actress for the day, really? It'll teach Emma to switch her red hair dye for green, that's for sure. She barely manages a sarcastic "yeah, right" before she falls into another fit of giggles as she looks left and right, waiting for her best friend to jump out of her hiding spot at any moment. But Ruby doesn't show up and the woman facing Emma remains stoic, arms stiffly folded in front of her on the table, just waiting for what seems like an obvious knee jerk reaction – like the woman isn't all that surprised, like she expected it to happen somewhat, the disbelief.
Her laughs die at the back of her throat.
"Oh my god, you're not joking."
"Emma…"
"Oh my god."
The familiar features of the woman's face make sense now that Emma looks more closely – she recognizes her own chin in hers, the same shade of green of their eyes, hell, even their mouths look similar. She seems young, too, but it doesn't come as a surprise to Emma – in her wildest dreams, her mother had mostly been pregnant with her as a teenager, never older than eighteen. It made sense to her then, and it still makes sense today.
It's the only damn thing that actually makes sense.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she hisses, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table – more offensive than defensive a stance, perhaps. But she has every right to be offensive, to be pissed and confused and lost because – because nothing else about this situation makes sense. Granny had never explained in details why she had been the one raising Emma and not her parents, only some vague excuses about it being complicated, that there was no other choice than for Emma to live with the older woman and her granddaughter.
'Complicated situation' for her had always meant teenager pregnancy and an obvious lack of money – both logical and understandable. You cannot really resent your mother for wanting what is best for you, after all. But now, a queen? An obviously well-off, educated, clearly not unemployed homeless queen?
Emma's world and convictions have been turned upside down in a matter of minutes.
The queen winces at the swear word but thankful doesn't comment, instead raising her hands in surrender. "I can explain. Just listen, please."
But Emma doesn't want explanations. She doesn't want pretty lies wrapped into royalty wrapped into sixteen years of abandonment. It's too late for that already, and nothing the woman – her mother, damn – can say will change that.
"What do you want from me?"
For Emma wasn't born yesterday – after a lifetime of radio silence, the woman might want something from her if she is here. It is anything but a simple visit, or else Granny wouldn't have forced her to attend without an explanation. Granny isn't that cruel, she would have softened the blow, would have prepared the ground for Emma to be mentally ready for the truth bomb. No, it all sounds messy and hurried, it all sounds like an emergency.
"I – the doctors found out I was infertile last month. You're my only child. You're the legal heir – the only heir to the throne."
Emma's laugh is high-pitched, borderline on hysterical. "Yeah sorry, I'm not here for that princess nonsense."
That seems to upset the queen but, really, if she expected sympathy for the baby-making part, she obvious barked up the wrong tree. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows set into a frown, lips pursed in a pout as she ponders on her next words. Still, no amount of thinking makes her "Your country needs you. I need you" okay in Emma's mind.
"You need me? Well, that's rich coming from the woman who didn't give a fuck about me for sixteen years." The queen opens her mouth, but Emma doesn't leave her the luxury of a reply. "Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when I had nightmares, when I needed help with my homework, when I got my heart broken for the first time? Why should I help you when you were never here for me?"
She is on her feet before she even think of standing up, hands pressed against the table as she leans forwards, glaring at the woman in front of her. She needs to leave, now, all her instincts screaming for her to run, run and never look back.
"Find yourself another princess. This one is already busy."
And run she does.
…
"I now proudly present this year's Harvard Kennedy School of International and Global Affairs graduating class."
The crowd of students breaks into loud clapping and even louder cheers as they jump to their feet, throwing their caps up in the blue summer sky. It's a warm day and Emma feels like suffocating in her black gown, but someone suddenly pulls her into a hug and she soon forgets that minor detail as she celebrates with her friends, with a great many hugs and kisses and improvised dance moves, selfies taken and posted on Instagram in a matter of seconds. It feels like goodbye – it is goodbye – but the melancholia of the moment doesn't make her sad. A chapter of her life is closing only for another one to begin.
Her friends are begging her to write, okay, I know you'll be busy but don't forget us, when she is pulled into yet another hug. Granny's arms are familiar around her shoulders, and she gives the old lady a watery laugh before hugging her back, hiding her nose in Granny's neck and taking a deep breath. More than anything, she'll miss that perfume, perfect mix of coffee and flowers and freshly cooked pancakes, that perfume that lingered in their apartment for so many years.
"I'm so proud of you, my darling girl."
Granny's habitual firm voice is wavering with emotions, enough for the tears to finally spill out of Emma's eyes as she presses a kiss to the old woman's cheek with trembling lips. They'll meet again soon enough – Emma's twenty-first birthday is in October and Granny will fly to Eala for the coronation that will follow – but it doesn't make leaving the woman who raised her any less painful.
Leroy's hand on her elbow forces her to let go of Granny's tender embrace, a nod from the head of security all Emma needs to follow him through the crowd with one last 'I love you' mouthed to Granny and a handful of waves and quick hugs to her friends. Leroy's hand rests on her arm all the way to the parking lot, where a car waits to bring them to the nearest airport. He opens the door to her, and only then does he smile at her – this tight smile of his that always seems forced and sarcastic but warms his eyes and whole face.
"For the record, I'm proud of you too."
"A compliment, really?" she teases back. "Armageddon is near."
He hushes her inside the car with a bark of laugh and headshake then closes the door behind her and goes sit next to the chauffeur.
It's barely more than a twenty-minute ride from the university to Boston Logan Airport yet Emma's eyes don't leave the scenery outside the window for a second, as if trying to commit everything she sees to memory one last time. Chances are she will not be back to Boston any time soon – if ever – and like everything else, she'll miss it. It was home for twenty years, after all, and even if her summer visits to Eala were pleasant ones, she knows it will take time for the small country to become home.
Leroy jokes about her not changing in the car for once, and she smiles at the memories even as she doesn't look away. She will have enough time to change in the plane, after all, what with the ten-hour flight awaiting her. And indeed, it is only a matter of minutes before the car reaches the airport, bypassing the main entries and making its way to the smallest, non-commercial runways until it stops in front of the Ealan private jet – so small compared to the other planes, yet more comfortable than any first class on any company.
The trunk is opened, Leroy grabbing her large suitcase, by the time Emma gets out of the car – another one is already stationed there, surely with the rest of her stuff both from Granny's apartment and her dorm room. It's a lot of suitcases, but all her life is packed in there, giving a sense of finality to the whole day. She closes her eyes and sighs, chest heavy with the last deep breath of American air she takes.
(She is overdramatic, she knows.)
Inside the jet are only a handful of seats, large and comfortable, facing a television screen on the wall leading to the bathroom. On one of them rests a fluffy ball of white fur, and Emma makes a beeline for it, lips curved into a grin as she coos her dog's name. Ava barely opens an eye at her owner's presence, lazily wagging her tail before going back to sleep – a royal dog through and through.
On the seat next to her pet are a hatbox and a small carry-on bag – Leroy is thoughtful that way. She decides now might be as good a moment as every to finally get rid of her gown and slip on more comfortable clothes, while the fly attendants are still loading her suitcases and getting the plane ready for take-off. She opts for a long summer dress, letting her hair fall from its intricate braid and getting rid of her make-up and high heels. By the time she settles into a seat, Ava on her lap, they are ready to go.
She quickly finds herself dozing in and out of consciousness, ten-minute naps then trying to follow the movie playing on the television – some action flick Leroy is so fond of for reasons she'll never understand – only to fall back to sleep for the night soon after. She's one of the lucky people to actual be able to sleep on a plane, and so she takes advantage of that talent, knowing she needs her rest, if only because she can't afford being jetlag when a ball will be thrown for her during the following evening.
She is shaken out of her sleep by Leroy's hand on her shoulder and a soft "Your Highness, wake up. We're about to land." (At least, as soft as Leroy's voice can be, which isn't that soft.)
Emma rubs the sleep off her eyes as she sits straighter before leaning towards the window. And there it is, miles and miles of fields between two mountains, green and vibrant in the morning sun. Her lips curl in a smile at the sight, at the little dots of blues and whites as the plane flies over small lakes and small villages. Eala, her Eala, so close, welcoming Emma in its warm embrace – all nostalgia and sadness gone for now, only the thrill of the moment running through her veins. Home, she thinks, even if the word is empty of its meaning for now.
It will change soon.
It takes less time to land than it did taking off, and soon she finds herself grabbing bag and dog, large hat on her head protecting her eyes and face from the unforgiving Mediterranean sun. Rightfully so, as all she feels when they open the door is heat – the wind on her face warm, the sun in the sky blinding, the air hot and suffocating in her lungs.
A chuckle escapes her lips, soon followed by a longer fit of giggles.
Once on the tarmac, Emma lets go of Ava – who happily starts running to and fro after too many hours not moving – and reaches into her handbag until she finds her phone.
"Here, take my picture," she asks Leroy as she hands him the device.
Wind comes to the party right when the chief of security is about to immortalize the moment, and so Emma finds herself looking away as she holds on to her hat, hair flying around her face, huge grin on her lips. It makes for a beautiful picture, very Grace Kelly, and Emma snatches the phone back so she can post it on Instagram.
(The royal councillors were wary of the idea at first, the crown princess playing girl next door, but quickly changed their mind when it was pointed out that it only made her more popular and loved by the people. She still doesn't understand what is so fascinating about her posting pictures of food or Ava, but she plays along anyway.)
"Can we go now?" Leroy asks, doing a poor job of hiding his annoyance at her antics.
She almost wants to bother him a little while longer, for the heck of it, but thinks better of it if only because she is famished and wouldn't say no to a warm bath right now. So, putting her phone back in her bag, she nods and follows him to the car waiting for them a few feet away.
It is yet another half-hour ride to the royal castle, and Emma feels reckless by then, barely hiding her joy and relief at finally making it to their destination. She is barely out of the car that the queen appears by the main doors, looking slightly dishevelled (Emma doesn't put it past her to have woken up only minutes before). She stumbles down the stairs, neither quite regal nor graceful in that moment, before wrapping Emma into a tight embrace.
"Hello, Mother," she whispers, overwhelmed by the unexpected display of affection.
When Mary Margaret lets go of her, it's to grab both her hands in her, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes. "I am so glad to see you, darling."
Her voice sounds equally gleeful and relieved – after all those years, she still expects Emma to get out of dodge at any given opportunity. It would hurt, if it weren't based on facts. So she only smiles and hugs her mother once more.
"I missed you too."
