After lunch the time had come: T'Challa and Janson came to talk "business". There were stones in my stomach, knifes in my head, fingers pushing on my eyelids and sandpaper in my throat.
We sat in Janson's office, even though I now officially had an office of my own. I just couldn't bare going there. In my head it was – and would probably always be – my father's office. I used to run there when I was little, dodging the arms of my mother or my nursemaids, when I was bored. I would disturb important meetings, though my father would never really get mad. He'd often seemed relieved, as if I was a needed distraction. He'd play with me for a couple minutes, letting me explain all the things I had done, and wanted to do that day, before handing me back to my mom or maids, apologising to his guests.
'Highness, I hope you will forgive me for taking the initiative in dealing with all that needs to happen before the funeral,' Janson started, speaking properly and articulately. Straight back, stern face. He had always reminded me of a statue.
'Please, Janson,' I said, rubbing my temples, 'you know I don't mind; the opposite, actually.'
Janson nodded stiffly. 'All right, highness. But I am afraid I will have to inform you on everything I have done, while I also have a list of things I – or his majesty King T'Challa – can't decide for you.'
'Yes, I understand. It's fine, really. Please, you may continue.'
Janson cleared his throat, restacked his papers, and started.
First of all, he showed me all of the official condolences of the heads of state. All of them had already been answered by him personally, and knowing probably all of the heads of state had let some sort of assistant write it, I didn't feel bad about it. Next he briefed me about the plans for the funeral; tomorrow afternoon, in the Solis cathedral, following all our traditions, which ranged from coffins to decorations. In the past centuries there had been written so many rules, there were barely any decisions left to make. Traditions can sometimes make life a lot simpler.
The invitations had already been send, and most of them answered. Security would be taken care of, and many states (including America and Great Britain) had offered their help for securing this "happening". Insensitive, inconsiderate and rude were words that came to mind when reading their messages. However, considering this was a worldwide phenomenon (yes, that's actually the world one of them used), I had decided to let it go.
'Is there any news from the autopsy?' I informed when I had heard too many details about the following day, which I wouldn't remember – like which people would attend the funeral, and what media would broadcast it. Why would I care?
'I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. It appears his heart stopped without any cause from the outside.' Quick, jerky movements when he re-stacked the papers made the documents crackle.
I nodded glumly, retraining myself. In my head I was fuming; my father had been healthy, under fifty. He even had a dietician who kept track of all the nutrients he took in every day. There was no way his heart "just quit". My father never quit.
Swiftly I glanced at T'Challa, who seemed in deep thoughts. His index fingers trailed small patterns on the desk. The other hand was clenched.
With uttermost care, I intertwined my fingers, studying them.
'What… about…. the coronation?' Damn. In spite of my concentration my voice still cracked.
'The council has decided, highness, that it can wait until you reach the age of eighteen. Marerran laws say you can be queen while still underage. Nonetheless, we think it is best – considering our international relations – we wait until you are of legal age.'
'Yeah, great idea,' I muttered, nodding along. The longer it could wait, the better.
'Anything else, Janson?'
Dumb question. Of course there was more. I mostly had to sign a lot of papers concerning my heritage and what not. I found it funny that I couldn't find the heading: "entire kingdom of Marerra and its contents". Marerra might be a modern and prosperous nation, much of our system still dated right back to more ancient times, including the laws surrounding my family.
After finishing up all the official hoo-ha, I was escorted to my private chambers, where a dressmaker was waiting with my dress for the next day. Of course, she immediately expressed her sympathy; everyone I met did.
The dress was simple enough, quite beautiful actually, if it hadn't been intended for mourning. Raven coloured fabric – naturally – designed and sewn with both modern and classic characteristics, tasteful and comfortable enough. The woman carefully worked with pins and needles, adding the final touches and making sure it fit perfectly. I thanked her when she was done. After she gave me a slight curtsy, she left me alone.
I didn't feel like dining in an enormous, empty dining hall. Not even in the smaller, more civilian dining room, so I let them bring my meal up to my room. When I had finished, I changed into my pyjamas – which didn't differ that much from the clothes I had worn all day – and informed Barnes of my decision to go to bed.
He had been standing outside my room, like T'Challa had told me he would, as my bedroom didn't have another exit, only a door to my bathroom.
I already crawled into bed, and watched as he inspected all the windows, before leaving the room again (not after giving another slight bow – he surprised me with that, because many foreigners - especially western foreigners - didn't abode the Marerran etiquettes, because they thought they were outdated) and I heard some soft clicking noises. I had never heard those before, or maybe I hadn't given them any thought. To me they sounded like gears inside the door, and the walls, clicking something into place.
Not only the mechanisms inside the walls clicked into place, also the ones inside my head. Suddenly a memory arose:
My father, holding my finger against a scanner, then showing me a code on an advanced looking (though small) panel. "This is very important," he had said. "Now we don't need them, but there might come a time, when there are bad people in our house. You can use this to lock yourself into your room, okay? Do you understand, Elissa?" I had nodded, and watched as he had pushed another button. Al of a sudden the panel rotated, and disappeared into the wall. My childish mind marvelled at the magic trick. It was gone, leaving a picture frame with a photo of our small family. Only three people stared back from behind the glass. To me they were a mom, a dad and their child. To the world a king, a queen and a princess.
"But don't worry," my father said, smiling, hugging me, "there is no reason for you to worry." Then he patted me on the head, a slight crease between his bushy brows.
And I had trusted him, so I had forgotten about it. Until now. And with the memory came the realisation that this country – my country – might be of more importance than I had thought.
