"I need a new Valet," Sage said to his brother as they stormed the grand halls of Pothos Palace. His dark curls bounced atop his head with each step.
"Remind me again, what is a valet?" Oxley asked, jeering up at his older brother with his dark eyes and wiry grin. "I just want to be reminded of how ridiculous the job role is."
"Mother insists." Sage elbowed him. "It's not like you don't still have one when you visit other places."
"I can't believe you still have one full time, and not just when it's required. Isn't it time you started dressing yourself?" Oxley sneered, patting Sage's shoulder roughly before they stormed the hallways.
"I'm too used to one now," Sage mumbled, cocking a brow at his brother's proud smirk.
"I can hear mother now, the future king will not draw up his own shirts, run his own baths, nor pick the cotton off his own shoulders." Oxley scoffed. "Such terror. There's a loose thread on your collar. The Palace will crumble!"
Sage shook his head but didn't hide his smile. "The palace might not crumble, but the news reporters will."
"Why was your valet sacked anyway?"
"He stole my cufflinks and sold them on eBay."
Oxley laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. His laugh was so contagious, even Sage shared a chuckled, despite being the victim of the story. "How much did he sell them for?"
"Almost a hundred grand."
"And how much were they worth?"
"Almost fifty pounds."
Oxley laughed again, this time, he had to lean against the wall until he composed himself, making them even later for breakfast. Their mother was already seated, staring blankly at the door. Her eyes hardened when they entered, even more so when they bowed and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
Their mother was dressed to perfection, just like every day. She wore a red silk dress that trailed the floor, red jewellery to match, and red lipstick to tie it all together. Her dark hair smoothed around her dark skin and pulled together in tight coils at the back. Her hazel eyes were judging for the second day in a row.
She half smiled at Sage when he sat down, never able to show her true emotions with servants close by. Sage remembered what she was like before becoming Queen. His mother had many liberating qualities that were now hidden behind the crown that levelled upon her head. His mother was a beautiful blooming English Rose in a vase too small for her growing roots.
She waited until the servants left them to voice her annoyance. "Sage, I love you with all my heart, but I did not spend years drilling in the importance of punctuality for nothing."
"He's late for breakfast, not his coronation," Oxley sighed, cracking open his egg.
"Bad habits are too easily formed," his mother warned. "Eat your breakfast. We'll find you a new valet soon."
Sage stared bleakly at his fruit. "Preferably a younger one this time, and someone who won't steal from me the moment I turn my back."
"It's hard to find trust when you have the king status hanging over your head." Oxley was Sage's younger brother, only by a year, but he had moved swiftly into the position of his best friend as they grew older, and Oxley was very protective of his friends. "Don't just replace one because Sage is late for breakfast. Take your time to find someone suitable."
They spent the rest of breakfast chatting about what they had planned that day. His brother was going for a walk with friends in the countryside surrounding their city, and his mother was busy with... Queen stuff. Sage should listen more. The crown would inevitably land on his head, and he had to be ready.
But today was one of the few days a week that Sage enjoyed; he got to help the gardener.
He hurried down the long, echoing halls of their palace. The chandeliers above twinkled in the morning sun, the guards in their golden uniforms stopped slouching as he half-jogged past. The sound of his shoes clacking against the red carpet let those who worked in the palace know that a high figure moved through its walls.
Sage stormed onto the grounds and paused to breathe in the fresh morning air. Mrs Beecham, the gardener, wasn't in her usual spot outside the shed, so Sage wandered the neat hedges until he spotted her red hair bobbing along one of the larger hedges. Sage followed her direction, jogging on the gravel to keep up.
Mrs Beecham turned left, and Sage turned right, bumping into her. Sage grinned when the gardener yelped, jumping back and defensively holding a plant to her chest. He towered over the women who had once towered over him. "You're in a hurry this morning," Sage observed. He realised that she was distressed too.
Her unnaturally light green eyes were wide, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing was hard, and her hands trembled as they cradled a rather dead plant. She cleared her throat and smoothed her red curls back. "Yes, uh, I'm a little late this morning." She composed herself well.
Sage narrowed his eyes. "Alright. I won't tell." He pointed to the plant. "What happened here?"
"Um." Mrs Beecham followed his gaze to the plant in the dark purple pot. "I found it this morning sitting by the side of the road. I picked it up and brought it here to uh, well, heal it."
Sage poked one of the snapped vines. The poor plant was rotting at the roots, deprived of soil and curled over its plant pot, not because it was ivy and did that anyway, the plant was extremely dehydrated and curled the way spiders curled up when they died, deformed and unnatural. "Let me look after it," Sage said, reaching out to take the pot, but the gardener was reluctant to let it go. Her bright green eyes stared into his hazel ones, anxious. "Oh, come on, you're always telling me that us Royals need more responsibility. What's better than trying not to kill an already dead plant?"
Mrs Beecham would usually laugh along with him. This time, her lips twitched downwards. "Sage, this plant has to be nursed back to health. You can't-"
"Let me try at least. How hard can it be? Give it more soil, give it some plant food and some direct sunlight."
"Not direct sunlight. A bright room will do."
"Okay, then it can be kept in my bedroom, on my desk where I seem to spend most of my time anyway. I'll look after it." Sage reached out and the gardener handed him the plant. Sage often wondered if people did the things he wanted them to do because they wanted to do them too, or if people obeyed him because he was Prince Sage Green, next in line to be King. "Guide me through it if you're that bothered about keeping the plant alive." Sage lifted the only remaining leaf with a gentle finger. "You once told me that Devil's Ivy is almost impossible to kill. This poor thing has seen brighter days, that's for sure."
"Prince Sage," Mrs Beecham said sternly. He stopped prodding the soil to hold her gaze. "You cannot let this plant die."
Sage's hairs stood on end. He didn't understand the urgency. She had found the plant on her way to work, how had she grown so attached? Bloody gardeners and their plant children. "Alright, I won't let it die. I'll make sure this plant is very well looked after. It'll get the full Royal treatment. Will that please you?"
Mrs Beecham nodded enthusiastically. "Very much."
"Right then, let's give it some soil." Sage marched ahead to the garden shed with the gardener on his heels. The silence in the shed was awkward as the gardener hovered near him, watching his every move. "I'm looking for a new valet," he said eventually. "Do you know of any?" His gardener had worked on the Royal gardens as soon as she was old enough. She came from a long line of those who worked among the palace walls. "I'm looking for someone younger, someone who you trust not to sell my things on the internet."
They smiled at each other. Mrs Beecham relaxed when the plant had soil and water. "Is there a requirement of experience, because I have someone in mind."
Before he could reply, the Queen's secretary, Finley Wainhouse, entered the shed with his piercing blue eyes. "Oh dear," Sage muttered under his breath. Being met by the Queen's personal secretary only ever meant bad news. "What is it?" he sighed, stopping in front of him. "Have the papers made up another huge lie about me?"
"No sir." Finley's shark eyes glanced to the gardener who busied herself at the other end of the shed.
"Then what?" Sage asked when the man stalled.
"We received the news only an hour ago." Finley cleared his throat and straightened his tie. "Your uncle Patrick is dead. He was murdered last night."