His Crown Does Not Fit in My Escape Plan

How it begins

Rhea Nasser charged extra for passengers who brought trouble. The man waiting beside her aircraft had brought a crown in a supermarket bag.

A gold thread had come loose from his collar. In the harsh hangar light, it looked surprisingly like an ordinary fault.

It was not even a strong bag. One of its handles had begun to tear.

"Absolutely not," she said.

He looked down. "I thought bringing a case would attract attention."

"I'm discussing the entire situation."

The airfield lay beyond the city lights, where the last hills flattened into winter grass. Rhea had accepted a late charter for one passenger, no cargo requiring special handling. She had not agreed to become a constitutional incident.

Gus Moss stood in the hangar doorway with rain darkening the shoulders of a formal coat. He was older than the prince in the official photographs, or perhaps merely less carefully lit.

"I need to leave before morning," he said.

"People who need that usually start by telling me why."

A vehicle moved along the road outside the fence. Gus watched it until its lights disappeared.

"Because the ceremony isn't a choice."

Rhea folded her arms. "Neither is flying in this weather."

For the first time, he looked past her at the aircraft rather than treating it as a door someone had failed to open. Rain struck the hangar roof in hard, uneven bursts.

"Then we wait," he said.

She had expected a threat, an offer, perhaps the sudden appearance of a person whose job involved insisting. The simple agreement unsettled her more.

His bag split. The crown hit the concrete with a bright, embarrassing sound.

Neither of them moved to pick it up.

"Does that happen often?" Rhea asked.

"Not in front of people who are allowed to laugh."

She did laugh then, once, despite herself.

Outside, another vehicle slowed by the gate. Rhea stopped smiling and reached for the hangar lights.