The Royal House of Armaria invites you
to a Midsummer Ball
June 21
Time: 7 p.m. until late
Place: Armaria Castle
Dress code: Black tie
RSVP
LAURENT PICKED UP the sample cream and gold heavily embossed card and turned it over. The other side was blank, awaiting a name. Strange to think that in less than a week this card would be one of the hottest tickets in town. No, not just in town, in Europe.
After all, it had been over twenty years since Armaria had hosted one of their famous Midsummer Balls, enough time for the opulent occasions to become part of myth and legend; rumour whispered that anything might happen to those lucky enough to attend. Film stars fell in love with royalty, maids married dukes and unhappy countesses ran away with stable boys. Every Midsummer Ball was filled with wonder, with seduction, with magic.
At least, if you believed the stories they were. The reality was probably a lot more prosaic. After all, if Laurent’s plans came to fruition, one day stories might be told about this year’s ball, a tale of a midnight proposal and a fairy tale romance. His clasp tightened on the card. Luckily he was too old to believe in fairy tales and he had never dreamt of romance. All a man in his position could do was hope for compatibility and liking.
He turned as the library door opened and his mother entered the book-lined room, relief on her face as she spotted him. Replacing the card onto his desk, he covered it hastily with a blank piece of paper and walked out to meet her in the middle of the vast room.
She held out a regal hand towards him. ‘Laurent, I haven’t seen you since you returned from England. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.’
‘Hardly hiding, Maman,’ he protested as he bent to kiss her still unlined cheek. ‘My aide knew I was in here. As did the maid who brought me my coffee.’ He gestured to the small table set with a coffee service pulled up to one of the sofas dotted around the room. ‘It’s still hot. May I pour you a cup?’
‘Thank you, dear.’ The dowager Archduchess took a seat on the antique sofa with her usual unhurried elegance, her feet crossing at the ankle, back ramrod-straight and head tilted. Even when it was just the two of them she didn’t allow herself to relax. Her hair was always perfectly styled, her make-up fresh, her clothes smart. The message had been drilled into him since he was a small boy; as a member of the Armarian ruling family—the most prominent and important member—he was always on display, always representing his country, and even when alone he could not, must not, forget it.
Pouring his mother a cup of the fragrant coffee, Laurent handed it to her and she accepted it with a gracious nod of thanks. ‘Thank you, Laurent. But you must know, it’s no time to be hiding in the library. The Prime Minister has been looking for you. He’s hoping for an answer...’
‘No, he’s hoping for a different answer. And he won’t get one.’ With practised effort Laurent kept the anger out of his voice. ‘I will not allow him to turn Armaria into some kind of grubby little tax haven. My grandfather and father managed without taking that step; you managed without taking that step. I won’t be the one to sell the country out. Our people deserve better.’
‘Our people deserve new roads and houses, better hospitals, more schools...’
‘Which is why we need a long-term strategy.’ It was as if they were two actors rehearsing well known lines. Lines they had been repeating for the three years since Laurent had finished his MBA and his mother had formally ceded her regency of Armaria to him.
‘And you have one?’ Hope brightened her voice. ‘How was your trip to England? Did he say yes?’
She didn’t need to specify who he was; she knew full well that Laurent had been paying a second under-the-radar visit to Mike Clayton, the tech entrepreneur whose robotic gadgets could be found in households all over the globe. Mike Clayton who was looking for a more sustainable form of energy to manufacture said robots. Energy a small country with a long coastline, windswept hills and mountains and long hours of sunshine could provide...
Laurent walked over to the tall thin windows, staring out at the famous castle gardens full of tourists and sightseers. Tourism was a valuable resource for the small country, but it wasn’t enough to make it as prosperous as it needed to be. ‘Not exactly. But he didn’t say no either and he’s coming out to take a second look at the proposed site and to meet with the university.’
‘That’s promising. But is it enough? I know the Prime Minister is hoping to have a plan approved by Parliament before the summer break. You need something more concrete than a second visit to offer him.’
‘I need nothing. Parliament is merely advisory and the Prime Minister would do very well to remember that.’ Laurent inhaled slowly as he turned to face his mother. ‘You know that my father was determined not to go down the tax haven route, nor did he want to turn the country into a giant theme park of romanticism and cod medievalism. You worked hard to keep his vision alive and I won’t betray his legacy. If we can attract one thriving tech company like Clay Industries then others will be sure to follow. We can turn Armaria into the tech capital of Europe, a Silicon Valley of the north. Create jobs and prosperity without losing our integrity.’ He stopped abruptly, aware he sounded like he was giving a prepared speech to Parliament, and his mother smiled with understanding. After all, she had heard variations on the speech many times before.
‘It’s not me you have to convince, Laurent.’
‘No, just Parliament.’ Advisory they might be, but life was infinitely easier with them on side. ‘If Clay Industries bite then Parliament will capitulate on the tax haven bill, I know it. I just need that first investment...’
‘So you’ll find a way to make it happen.’ His mother was matter-of-fact. This was what they did. Through ten centuries the Archdukes of Armaria had done whatever they had to, to protect their people from invaders and plagues, wars and famine, bankruptcy and poverty. He would not be the first to fail.
‘Yes. I will. Which is why I have suggested that the Claytons are our guests of honour for the newly revived Midsummer Ball. Mike Clayton’s sixtieth birthday falls on the same day, and they have yet to decide on the best way to mark it. What better way than for him to celebrate here in Armaria on one of the most iconic nights of the year?’
‘Midsummer is always special, but it’s less than a month away. And it’s been years since we held a grand ball. Not since your father...’ Her voice faltered, as it still did whenever she spoke