Darcy paced the long corridor of the castle in Arendelle, biding his time until dinner.
It was a name he had never given much thought to previously, and a country which had scarcely merited a single sentence in the geography book he had as a schoolboy.
Now he was to be the Royal Consort.
He stopped at a nook by a window. It was still light out, much like summer in Scotland.
"There you are," the Queen said. "We're going to be late for dinner."
"Has your council made a decision?" he asked.
"The wedding will be in three days."