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.