999 Pieces

Chapter Eight: Aspen

I frown. “The only thing I can think of is the letter she got from her dad, but I highly doubt that has-”

“Shalom Singer was one of us,” August interrupts. “He was actually the one who confirmed that Gregory Illea’s diaries were in the palace.”

Maxon and I look at each other, eyes wide. 

“Well, I guess that explains it,” I mutter. “He must have told America in that letter. No wonder she was so shocked after reading it…”

“That’s one question answered,” Maxon says. “The main reason I called all of you here at this hour is because I trust you and I need your help. I don’t quite trust my advisors yet, no offense Stavros.”

“None taken, Your Majesty.”

Maxon sighs. “Another thing, in this room I can honestly care less about titles. Call me Maxon.”

Stavros pauses, clearly struggling. “As you wish, Maxon.”

Maxon gives him a grateful smile before turning to the rest of us. “Now back to business. We need to get rid of the Southern Rebels, but the question is how the hell we are going to do that.”

Stavros begins handing out some official looking documents to everyone and I quickly skim over its contents.

“Our guard count is low, especially after the last attack,” Stavros states. “However, if the people are able to band together, and with help of the Northerners of course, we might have a chance.”

August nods. “We have the manpower to assist you, and we would be glad to help. Our main issue is our lack of supplies.”

“Didn’t the Italians’ money help?” Maxon asks.

“Oh yes,” Georgia pipes in. “We’re just not sure how long it will last. We will, of course, take all the support that we can get.”

Maxon nods and sighs. “I planned on getting Nicoletta on the phone tomorrow first thing. I would honestly fly to Italy myself, but with all that’s going on that isn’t possible.”

“And flying Nicoletta in is also out of the question. We can’t risk anymore bloodshed, and the Southern Rebels can and will take the opportunity,” Stavros adds.

I nod, still reading the document. “So the goal is to simply eradicate their forces?”

“Yes. It’s easier said than done,” Maxon grumbles.

“Would making some changes in the government and such help?” Kriss asks, speaking up.

Maxon furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, as Stavros said, we need the people’s support,” Kriss explains. “Yes, there is a large amount of Illea that is happy with you on the throne, but some are still skeptical. If we can win those people over, maybe that will help the people become united.”

“Your little speech about telling them to fight helped, I’m sure,” Gavril adds. “We all saw how the people reacted when America said it, and to hear the same words coming from the head of the monarchy will also make an impact.”

“Probably not a big enough one,” Maxon mumbles. “There must be something else we can do.”

Stavros shifts in his seat, not meeting Maxon’s eyes.

“Out with it, Stavros,” Maxon sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“There's always marriage. The people are normally more supportive of-” he stops talking when he sees Maxon’s expression.

“I don’t think he’s ready for that,” I speak up. “The woman he’s in love with died the day before yesterday for goodness sake!”

Maxon gives me a small grateful smile, but I can tell his mood has suddenly taken a dive downward.

Kriss clears her throat. “Is there anything else we can do? Even if it’s something small?”

Stavros hesitates. “Gain support from other countries, I suppose?”

Maxon glares at him. “Let me guess, France is one of the countries you have in mind.”

“Maxon-”

“Marriage is out of the question! I would sooner marry Kriss than Daphne!” Maxon shouts, abruptly standing from his chair.

Kriss suddenly looks very uncomfortable and I give her a look of sympathy.

“Sorry, Kriss,” Maxon mumbles, running a hand through his hair as he begins to pace.

“I’ll ring for some alcohol. I think we’ll need it,” Gavril mutters, standing.

The room nods in agreement, but Maxon doesn’t respond, still lost in his own world.

When Gavril returns, he’s holding an expensive looking bottle of champagne, a maid with a tray of glasses quietly trailing behind him. The sound of the bottle hitting the table snaps Maxon out of his trance. He suddenly looks guilty and very, very tired.

As the maid distributes the glasses and the champagne, Maxon slowly returns to his seat. We’re all silent as the maid leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Are we celebrating something?” I ask quietly.

As if on cue, the grandfather clock in the corner begins to chime. With a grim smile, Maxon lifts his champagne glass. “Happy New Year, my dear friends.”

I’d forgotten that it was New Year’s Eve. 

“Happy New Year,” we chant back, toasting and taking sips out of our glasses.

“Happy New Year, my dear,” I hear Maxon whisper. Putting my hand on his arm, he looks at me and we share a sad smile.