The End

Six years have passed since the GSaubb 2010 terrorist attacks, as they were subsequently named. I have majored in History at the University of Northbridge, and am now finishing a master’s degree in Linguistics at the Université Centrale de Emeraud au Rouge. My parents remarried on July 20th of 2012, and now following to his retirement, my dad moved to Emeraud au Rouge to take the place of King. Josie was accepted to the scholarship programme at Yale (she didn’t necessarily want to stay with her family for the rest of her life), and Mallorie eventually went to study Bio-medics at the University of Coimbra, in Portugal.

I lay fresh flowers on my grandmother’s grave every day. I know she’s looking out for us from wherever she is, and she knows she’s loved.

Good luck, everybody!

Sincerely,

Princesse Charlotte of Emeraud au Rouge

Georges Saubb

One week had passed since the attacks, and I was almost fully recovered. Officially, I wasn’t allowed to leave the house, but this was something I simply had to do. I knew the travel agency on Elm Street would be open by 7:00 am, so I sneaked out of the house at 6:50 under the pretense of going to the bakery. As I entered the travel agency, I saw a dark-haired woman at the counter. “Good morning, miss. May I help you?”. “Well, certainly. I heard that this agency sold trips to Emeraud au Rouge on a 70% discount, and I would be interested in acquiring them if this were the case”. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, miss, we aren’t making any discounts this season at all, but if you were interested in purchasing tickets from May 25th onwards, then…”. “No, in fact, I need them before and a friend of mine assured me that this discount was being made. These tickets were sold sometime during March”. “Oh, during March, you say? We did have a temporary worker here at that time. The trouble that man gave to the accountancy, my god!” “It was that French man wasn’t it? He worked for my father for a while after working here. I think he was even going to marry Penelope, you know, Dr. John’s daughter”. “Yeah, yeah, I know her”, she said. “What was his name again?”. “I don’t quite remember. Georges something, wasn’t it? Georges Saubb, I think it was”. Victory! I knew his name, or at least the name he was using.

I rushed home to tell mum, but was intercepted by an undesirable bunch. “Well, well, ma princesse! Wouldn’t you enjoy entering our van, solely to get some settlements straight, of course”. I had expected this. I had brought my pager in my coat’s pocket and pressed it without them noticing. Security would come at any minute. “Well, actually I would prefer to discuss it right here, gentlemen. I don’t see the necessity for violence. Repeated violence, that is”. The blonde man laughed at the sarcasm, creasing all of his scars. “Well, that is our alternative, princesse”, he said as he reached for a gun in his jacket. And as he pointed it at me my mind went blank. I heard a shot. Am I dead? I opened my eyes. The blonde man was on the floor; blood gushing from his head. It was over.

Premeditation

It’s 5:00 am. Who’s screaming? Who is it? I tried to get up but I couldn’t move. “What is it?” I asked into the blue. And as I stood up, four security men, along with mum and dad, rushed in the room. My mother’s face was covered in tears. “There’s been an attack, honey. The palace was bombed”, dad said in a calm, paced manner. “The palace has been bombed?”. I repeated this in my head at least twenty times before I understood what it meant. My home, my childhood; it had all been destroyed. And what if someone was hurt? What if Bridget, Nelson or Pedro were hurt? No, this couldn't be real!

“What are we going to do? Please! Why aren’t they being stopped? Just get them! Why don’t you just get them?” I was sobbing. More than that; I was wailing, quite violently in fact. Every single part of my body hurt. My god! I would do anything to be a movie princess! Princesses with pink frocks, diamond encrusted tiaras, immaculate blonde curls and long white gloves, singing adorably at parties, and spending their days at the opera or the ballet. I wanted to be a Princess Grace, not a Princess Anastacia!

“Ma Reine”, said a security guard that had just come in the room, “There have been threats of other attacks around the capital. What is the directive to the embassies?”. “They want Emeraudenses, they will not attack the foreigners”. “Blanche, you must issue a directive nonetheless. Who knows, they might still be in danger”, said dad. “Yes, yes. Jules, les inciter à rester dans leurs maisons pendants les prochaines 48 heures, ou plus en fonction des développements concernant les attaques”. “Oui Madame”.

At last they gave us some privacy. The security had left the room. And mum was feeling the pressure of leadership. “Oh my, Richard, what am I going to do? This was all my fault. I urged Mamma to deny the new immigration proposals. I tried to make it fair for my people; for my country!” Whilst she said she dare not look at me once. It hurt her immensely to as much as glance at me. She thought it was her fault that I nearly died that day. But it wasn’t. And now I knew it.

The blonde man and his peers had been watching me since I came here, or even before. They had known who my closest friend was, and how I was probably keeping my identity a secret. He had insisted on selling Mr. Barker tickets to Emeraud au Rouge, knowing that somehow that would lead Josie to find out about who I was. He knew that when I blew my cover I would be upset, insane even, and do something irrational. He was unlucky that I ended up going to such a public place, but took advantage of it nevertheless.

Now I knew what I was going to do. I was going to track him down and he would die. He would die for what he did to my grandmother! He would die for destroying my family!

I was alive

I was home! Finally! Mum, dad and I were in isolation at Northridge. I wasn’t going to return to school just yet, leaving the house would be limited, but at least we weren’t in that darned hospital anymore. Only certain people were allowed to visit, such as Dr. Robinson (dad’s colleague that brought him work from the university), Dr. May (my doctor) and Josie or Mallorie, that would bring me some work from school. Today I was working on elasticities for economics. I was trying to finish the exercises as fast as possible, to read the book that inexplicably appeared on my bedside table in the hospital, “The Mystery of Anastacia Romanov”. “A friend of yours must have sent this, isn’t it so, Charlotte?”, queried my mother after spotting the book. “Yes”, I answered, “A longtime friend of mine”.

As I read I discovered the life of a princess, much like me, trapped in the orb of royalty. I discovered a simple, clever and mischievous girl within Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia; a girl that was merely Nastya. A ginger-haired girl in a world of dark-haired, ballerina-like creatures; she was alone. And after a life of alienation, the witty girl was murdered; brutally murdered. If everything had gone as planned, I would be this girl. A girl violently slaughtered along with the rest of her family. But I was alive.

The Mystery of Anastacia Romanov

I hated this. I hated being here; not being able to talk; not being able to breathe. I hated not having a home. I hated that my parents felt guilty about what happened. It was my fault. It was my entire fault.

Since the assault both Josie and Mallorie had visited me at the hospital (under very special conditions, of course). Josie told me how she felt guilty about everything, because it was her knowing that triggered all these feelings. I told her that that wasn’t true. But it really was.
Mallorie gave me an extensive update (more specifically, a two hour update) of what had happened in school whilst I was out. Apparently Ricky broke his knee when playing rugby, Georgia had been elected student council president and Mrs. Fleming had given them a lecture about their decreasing grades.

I, meanwhile, had been here for 15 days. At this point I didn’t think I would ever get out. I had thought many times in the past days that I was dead. It was a comfortable feeling; very light, very peaceful. I remembered my childhood: running down the streets with mum and dad together; the first Romanov biography I got from grandmother in the Christmas of 1999; the first time I sailed through the Camil River. I remembered my family, when we were the royal family of Emeraud au Rouge. Before the rumours and the tabloids. And I realized that, on my deathbed, that was what I really wanted; a family.

“Charlotte, dear, I have a present for you”, said a very familiar, very soft voice. “I realized that you don’t have this one in your collection, love”, she said, handing me a thick, bronze-coloured book, with beautiful German cresses, with a large red title, spelling “The Mystery of Anastacia Romanov”, by G.T. George. “I love you, my dear. But you must let me go. I am well; I am blissful. And I am blessed to have had the life I had. To have had these girls, was everything I could ask for. Our stay on earth is only temporary, but that is good. Now I am at peace; I am with grandpa and mother, and father. Now you, young lady, still have a long way to go here. And I know you will triumph against this amoral cruelty with strength, brilliance and grace. You are capable of great deeds, little Charlie: your name will go down in history forever”. I blinked for a moment, tears running down my eyes, and the tall, elegant figure wasn’t there anymore. My grandmother had left us forever.

The Assault (Part 2)

A week had now passed since the attack. I had been in a coma for 6 whole days. I had three concussions, four broken ribs, a broken arm, punctured lung tissue and eleven deep cuts around my head. The doctors predicted that I would stay here, in Northridge General Hospital, for about a month. Five other people had been gravely injured in what I now knew to have a premeditated explosion straight after take-off on my flight to Emeraud au Rouge.

Mother was right next to me now, as where dozens of other security agents, who would be questioning me about that day for the first time (since I had been in a coma until yesterday). My father was in the room next door. “Mum”, I said. “Charlotte, what is it dear?”. “What’s going to happen? Are we going to stay together? What are we going to do?”. “Don’t worry, ma chérie, everything will be okay”. She couldn’t have sounded less convincing.

It’s the secret services’ time now. They entered the room with flawless postures and a very certain air about them. “Princess, we wished to speak to you now, if you are indeed feeling better!”. “Yes, sir”, I said with an unplanned mocking tone. “Very well. I would like you, hence, to describe the day of the incident. Did you notice anything or anyone specifically bizarre?”. “Well, the entire process was identical to the customary plane boarding one. I got to the airport by bus, I bought the ticket, I checked in and I boarded the plane. The only bizarre thing I noticed was the man with a burnt cheek in the air plane. He greeted me, though I didn’t know him, that I know of”. “A man with a burnt cheek? May you give me any additional descriptions of this man?”. “Well, he had white-blonde hair, and was extremely pale. His eyes were a sort of dark blue, or perhaps grey. From what I could tell he was quite tall and boney. He sat in the seat next to mine, on the opposite row of the plane”. “On the seat next to yours, you say? According to the records there was no one on that seat. And the only people collected from the site of the explosion were the people on the boarding list. Are you sure about this? Do you not think that the trauma may have fabricated some inexistent events on…” “What are you saying?”, said mother. “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”. “No, certainly not, Your Majesty! But you must consider the possibility that…” “Damn it! Are you going to question my daughter or are you going to stand there, calling her a liar when she’s lying there, hurt, and all because of me! I brought here into a world of violence and cruelty. I brought her into the world of royalty”, she said whilst sobbing hysterically. “Look at her! Look at my girl! I did this to her and she doesn’t deserve it!”. And after hearing the turmoil, my father came racing into the room, against all of the security: “Blanche!”. And I was, once again, out.

The Assault (Part 1)

As my eyes opened in a halt I remembered hearing the police siren. They soon closed. And now, they were open. I saw before me my father’s face, his strong features in sheer horror. What had happened? I looked up and all I saw was white. But it wasn’t a prosperous, creamy white; it was a grayish tint. The colour I knew only one place had. I was in a hospital. I wanted to ask my father where I was, but I didn’t have the strength to speak. I then tried to move but my entire body was in pain. What had happened to me?

And then it hit me: the plane. I remember going to the airport in the morning and buying a ticket for the Emeraud au Rouge flight at 9:00. I even remember boarding the plane. And that man. The blonde haired, dirty looking man with a burned cheek. I remembered how he looked at me. His eyebrows twisted as he greeted me. I remember wondering whether I knew this man. Was he one of dad’s students? Did he work at school? I remember nothing from there on.

As I opened my eyes again my father held my hand. “Blanche is coming, honey. Mum’s coming. It’s all right. You’re going to be all right”. I looked around and I could spot at least seven security agents in the room, including a police officer. I heard the creak of the door, and there she was; my mother. I missed her so much! A tear rolled down my cheek as I looked at her, and, surpisingly, I felt an unbearable sting. What had happened to my face? She approached me. She was really here. The tears flowed down her eyes abundantly: “My baby!” Then I was unconscious.

The Dream

“Bonjour, Princesse. Comment ça va toujours?’’. ‘Ça va bien, merci’, I said to the housemaid whilst looking out at the infinite grounds of the palace’s garden. In my hand I had Tsar Nicholas II’s biography, which I hadn’t even touched in so very long. As I swam through the deep seas of literature I heard a tender, sweet voice I hadn’t heard in a long time. “Charlie, ma chérie!”, said mother. As I turned to look at her I was reminded of her incredible beauty, like no other. I truly missed looking into those bright blue eyes! However, now I could spot a few creases in her once youthful face. But that just made her all the more honorable for her title of Her Majesty Queen of Emeraud au Rouge. Today that shiny, sleek hair which I so longed for as a child was braided. She was wearing a long, navy blue dress and a rubi encrusted sash with the royal symbol of Emeraud. It was her coronation. But it couldn’t be; I knew I had missed it! She sent me the pictures! I saw it on television…

And that was when I woke up. I was still in Northridge. I hadn’t seen mum. It was just another school day. But, today, I wasn’t going to school. I was going home.

Ma Maison

Only one day had passed since Josie’s sister’s birthday, and also since it was revealed that she would be spending the summer at Emeraud au Rouge, my country. I was sure that Josie would begin a meticulous research about it as soon as possible. And, soon enough, she would inevitably come across the royal family. She will know that I’ve been lying to her all this time. She will never forgive me.

And that’s why, when I meet her for punting today, I am going to tell her about everything. My background, my future, and, worse of all, my present.

“Miss Charlotte, you’re here early” . “Ughh” – I still cringed when I heard that name. “Well, actually I wanted to talk to you before we went. You see, I haven’t been perfectly honest about who I am…”. “What do you mean, Charlie?”. “I hope you understand; I didn’t want to be recognized… To have that right for once in my life!”. Josie looked at me in complete bewilderment. “The truth is… My name is Charlotte Hippolyte-Hapsburg, or rather Princess Charlotte, the heiress to the Hapsburg Empire and second in line to the throne of Emeraud au Rouge. My mother is Queen Blanche, of the House of Hippolyte, and my father is Duke Richard Hapsburg, of the Austrian House of Hapsburg. I came to Northridge because of my grandmother, Queen Glorie’s, murder. Because I came here to ensure my safety I told nobody of my real identity. I understand if you wish to discontinue our friendship, nonetheless I would very much appreciate it if you did not divulge this information to others.” As I walked away from Northridge Central Park I felt I hand pull my arm. It was Josie. “Relax, idiot I won’t tell anyone”, she said in a humorous tone. “… Besides, I already knew. I happened to have conducted a very thorough research of Emeraud au Rouge yesterday night and when I came across someone named exactly like you, that looked exactly like you – well, I thought something was kind of fishy”. And at that moment – and I have no idea why – I started crying from the bottom of my heart. As I remembered my life in Emeraud au Rouge I remembered how much I missed home; how much I missed grandma. Josie held me as I stood there, wailing in the middle of the city. As Mallorie arrived to our punting trip her big green eyes looked, alarmed, into mine. “Tu dois rentrer à la maison, pas vrai, Princesse?”

Happy Birthday, Isabelle!

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Izzy, happy birthday to you”, sang the somewhat drowsy crowd of Isabelle Barker’s birthday party at 24:00 on March 26th 2010. Isabelle was Josie’s older sister, who had now turned 17. Like Josie, she stood with an impecable posture with a megawatt smile on her vaguely Natalie Wood-ish face. Next to her stood her boyfriend, James, and her father, Mr. Barker. Josie envied her immensely, not only because of her never-ending locks of rich brown hair and dazzling smile, but also due to her parents’ irrevocable admiration for everything their first-born did. “From her talent show days at St. Bernard’s to her Northridge acceptance letters, they stood behind her like newborn puppies”, Josie constantly said. I must say, this is one aspect of Josie I really could never understand; I prayed to have a sibling my entire life, and they simply couldn’t appreciate it.

And, at last, it was time for the opening of the presents. The first present was an envelope from the Barkers. As Isabelle opened it she gasped in astonishment, and immediately embraced her father. The envelope contained two plane tickets to Emeraud au Rouge. "Oh daddy, you shouldn't have!", said Isabelle. "Don't worry honey. These tickets were actually the only ones with a discount, as the man at the agency said. He was quite eager that I got tickets for this particular destination, in fact". "Well, thank you dad!". She was ecstatic. Josie, meanwhile, was infuriated. Me? I panicked.

Mallorie Jordaine

“He's all right! Aren't you, cat? Poor cat! Poor slob! Poor slob without a name! The way I see it I haven't got the right to give him one. We don't belong to each other. We just took up one day by the river. I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I'm not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It's like Tiffany's”, Josie said in perfect synchronization with Audrey Hepburn’s lips. After two months in Northridge Josie and I had found several common interests, of which first and foremost was the great “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. Nowadays, Mallorie Jordaine (from my Advanced French class) often joined us in such endeavours to temporarily disconnect from the strenuous life of academia. She shared our love for Audrey, as well as Camus, Tolstoy, Salinger and Dostoyevsky. Mallorie was also new at Northridge International School. She was born into a French family, and lived in eleven countries until the age of 16, namely the Principality of Emeraud au Rouge. She is, hence, the only person in school to know my true identity.

“C’est incroyable, non?” Mallorie said as soon as the movie ended. “Certainement”, my father said as he entered the room. “Look girls, it’s already 7:30 so you might as well stay for dinner, if you like”. Although I still wasn’t 100 per cent comfortable with my living situation with dad, it was somewhat starting to feel like a father and daughter relationship, as opposed to the distant relative relationship we maintained a few months back. “Well, thank you Dr. Hapsburg, but I really must go. My mother is expecting me at home to take care of the preparations for my sister’s birthday party tomorrow”, said Josie. “I can stay, sir. That is, if it is not too much of an inconvenience”, said Mallorie in her unmistakable French accent.

After dad went into the kitchen to prepare our dinner and Josie went home, Mallorie and I were the only ones in our room. Since that day two weeks ago when she told me that she knew about me, mum and grandma Glorie, she constantly bombarded me with questions, mainly about living as royalty. Today, as I looked into her sparkling olive green eyes I could see it coming. Approximately two seconds later it came: “So, let’s say, if you’re out in a café, how many body guards would accompany you. Oh, and do you have your own body guards or do you, comment dit-on, share them? And do you have royal modistes working for you every day, or do you also wear normal clothes ever so often?”. My answer to all of these questions was, as always: “It depends”. Despite Mallorie’s infinite questions and interferences, she had promised me not to tell anyone about what she knew. And, after all, she was, ‘comment dit-on?’, très speciale.

Her Majesty The Queen of Emeraud au Rouge

That day I didn’t call Josie. I called nobody, in fact. I locked myself in my room all day. As I slept I dreamt of my grandmother’s bright blue eyes, like my mother’s and mine, her light blonde hair and her porcelain skin. Her Majesty Queen Glorie Hyppolyte. I remembered her bedtime stories about Princess Madeleine, a princess who did everything to save and bring victory her country. Princess Madeleine would hike to top of Mont-Blanc with nothing but a nightgown in the middle of the night; she would win the women’s Decathlon at the Olympic Games; and she would stand in the middle of a battlefield courageously yelling for peace. “And all with good manners and perfectly groomed hair”, she used to say. Really, my grandmother was Princess Madeleine. She fought for her country until the very end; when a horrendous, vile, depraved small vermin took her life. She was 61-years-old.

Distractions

“Good morning, Charlie”, said Josie, who had by then become my closest friend at Northridge. “Hello”, I answered back whilst searching for the history room. “Did you finish your homework? What a bother, wasn’t it?” I smiled in silence for I couldn’t of a more different opinion. The homework Mr. Johnson assigned us yesterday was a 700-word newspaper report covering the events at the Munich Beer Hall Putsch, and hypothetical predictions of its impact in Weimar German politics. Of course I did have sentence-flow problems due to having to write in English, rather than French (or German, for that matter), but other than that it was good fun. As a matter of fact, I was beginning to find several fun aspects of living in this very orthodox, very prestigious University City. Without my mother’s daily parties I’m able to devote more time to my Romanov biographies collection and go boat sailing in the Thomeson River with Josie.

As I got home after eight long hours of school and briefly glanced at the small, deep brown coffee table in the entrance hall, I saw what I was now getting quite accustomed to: my father’s note. This note read: “I won’t be able to make it to dinner. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, Charlie”. I only had a biology handout and an economics data response for tomorrow. What else could I do today? I loved boat sailing, tennis, swimming, but it was snowing quite intensely. I thought I’d call Josie to go to the movies. However, when I was just about to dial Josie’s number I heard the distinctively loud ring of the phone. It was my mother. “Charlie, how are you, bijou?”, she said in a sad, dry voice. “Mum, is everything okay?”. “Well, honey, grandma’s murderer was found, at least we have extremely strong suspicions. But, dear, it's a group…”. And, as she finished the sentence, the phone fell out of my hand. I had promised that I would not think of this ever again, not for one second! I had to get out of here! It was too late: the tears were already streaming uncontrollably down by face. I reached for my cell phone to call Josie – I needed a distraction.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The First Day

The day was February 1st. The hour, 06:58. I would start my new school in one hour and two minutes. Now I was merely lying in bed, staring at the light blue ceiling of my father’s house, counting the minutes until my alarm clock rang. Surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous at all. I was very much enthusiastic about starting anew. For the first time in my life everyone around me would not know me as the Hippolyte princess, but as Charlie, the normal, new 15-year-old girl from the 11th grade. At least I hoped so.

As I walked out the house in my deep red rain boots and large, dark-blue coat I dashed to my father’s Jaguar, in a desperate attempt to avoid the infinite tunnels of rain falling from the deep grey sky. My father was going to drop me off at school today, from where, I would then learn, I was going to meet Mr. George Baltimore, the Principal, and Mrs. Fleming, my form tutor. And I’ll admit, at this point I was a bit nervous.

When I arrived at my classroom, classroom number 2 at Stonefield Hall, I met 16 gazes of excitement and, in two particular cases, of utter boredom, following me as I passed all four rows until I got to my desk. Although I was dreading the possibility of profiling myself before the entire class, as is so often seen in television, now I somewhat regretted not having that opportunity. As I sat down a wave of whispers rushed through the room. Was it about me? Oh please, please, please, let it be about something else! “She’s beautiful” said a boy in the row in front of me. He must have been referring to another girl; there were seven other girls in this room alone! “Her face is familiar, but I don’t quite know where from”, said a black-haired young girl I would later know to be Josephine, or “Josie” Barker. I was extremely nervous now. I wanted no one to recognize me. As the day passed it seemed Josie Barker’s brief intervention was totally forgotten, replaced by an incomprehensibly large interest in my l"ong, reddish brown hair and blue eyes".

A father of mine

As I arrived at Northridge Central Station I saw before me a familiar, yet distant, face, like the ghost of a Christmas passed. It was a handsome face, with, like me, a dark complexion, and a mane light brown hair. “Charlotte!”, he said as he approached me. “Hello dad”, I responded in a lethargic tone. I had been thoroughly exhausted by the trip and more-so by the vision of my father, the man that abandoned me and my mother when I was but three years old. “Oh my, you’re just as beautiful as Blanche! You must be a hit at your mother’s parties, and with all the young men, I expect?”. I smiled politely but really I was saddened by how this man didn’t know me at all. My own father didn’t know about my timidity, my irreverence to my mother’s socialite parties or my abhorrence of being called by my full first name.

In an effort to end the infectious silence that invaded the Jaguar XF (which by the way, was nothing but a lame endeavour at pretentiousness), I started: “So how is work at the university, father”? “Well, it’s very much the same; students are getting brighter each year. It is quite a thrill to teach the most brilliant students in the world; a true pleasure. I say, do you already know what you wish to study at university, young lady? It’s about time to start thinking about that, no?”. At this point at stared at him in disbelief. Surely mum would have told him about my dream to study Ivy League Modern History? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Mother said again and again that was the only aspect of my personality inherited by my father. Although I never knew whether this was a compliment, she and grandmother seemed utterly content when divulging my academic success to Lady Countenor, who, correspondingly, inflated in jealousy (her twin daughters, Eleanor and Sophie, weren’t exactly the best of role models).

My mother, Blanche Hippolyte, was never at all dedicated to academia. She was, nevertheless, one of the most revered professional tennis players in history. In fact, mother won the 1991 Rolland Garros tournament and many other well respected institutions (hence naming me after Rolland Garros winner, Charlotte Cooper Sterry). After my birth, mother suffered from a severe spinal hernia, completely destroying her career. Mother truly loves me more than anything; however I do notice her occasional, swift, infected glances at me, screaming that it was my fault…

As we reached my father’s house after half-an-hour of silence I entered what would be my home of many years.

The Beggining

It’s hard to say I would not want to be an average 15-year-old girl; a stranger to the blinding flashes of the paparazzi and the hummed whispers of the crowd. It’s hard to say I would not like to be named Mary Jones or Chloe Brown, as opposed to Charlotte Hippolyte-Hapsburg, the heiress to the Hapsburg Empire and second in line to the throne of Emeraud au Rouge. However life, dearest friends, is simply hard.

As I woke up this morning and swiftly glanced at my calendar, I had an uncanny realization. But three weeks had gone by since the tragedy. The tragedy that will mark me forever; an event that has crushed and stabbed the deepest of my being: my grandmother’s murder, on January 2nd 2010. I could have sworn at least two months had gone by... Two grueling months, delightfully marked by hourly visits by the Secret Services and the ever so charming presence of hundreds of men in black carrying 1 meter sniper raids around the palace. But there was nothing I dreaded most than what came next, one warm yet cloudy afternoon: “Charlie”, my mother began, her deep blue eyes disguised by their new-found redness, “I’m afraid I cannot endanger my daughter like this anymore – I want your safety more than anything, you know that… That is why I have no other alternative but to send you to Richard”. “Mother, no please! I’m fine here, I’m perfectly safe! I must stay here with you!”, I said. As I looked at my mother I saw two crystalline tears run down the pearl-like skin of her perfect face: “I can tell you one thing, Charlotte – as the second in line to the throne you are safe nowhere! You are my child, for goodness sake! I will do everything it takes… And now, unfortunately, that means staying with your father”.

And so, on the cold and rainy morning of January 24th 2010, I embarked on Air-Emeraud flight 41, at 6:00 am. Destination: Northridge.