The Noble Knot

The North Sea winds battered the stone walls of Noordeinde Palace, but inside, the air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and the suffocating weight of three centuries of tradition. It was the thirtieth of May—a date that the Dutch public celebrated with flags and parades, but one the royal family endured like a recurring fever. ​Prince Floris stood before a triptych of mirrors in his dressing room, adjusting the stiff collar of his ceremonial uniform. Today, he was thirty. In the eyes of the State, he was the perfect heir: dutiful, stoic, and singular. But in the private chambers of his mind, he was only half a person. ​"He would have hated the collar," a voice croaked from the doorway. ​Floris turned to see his grandmother, the Dowager Queen Willemijn. At eighty-two, she was a specter of iron and lace, leaning on a cane topped with a silver lion. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, roamed over her grandson. ​"Grandmother," Floris murmured, stepping forward to kiss her weathered cheek. "You should be downstairs. The diplomats are already arriving." ​"The diplomats can wait for an old woman. They cannot wait for a ghost," Willemijn said, her gaze drifting to the empty space beside Floris. "Casper always had a thicker neck than you. Even at one. He would have been pulling at that lace until it tore." ​The mention of his brother’s name was like a stone dropped into a still pond. Casper. The older twin by four minutes. The dark-haired boy who had been snatched from his crib during a summer storm twenty-nine years ago, leaving behind nothing but a shattered window and a family that had never truly healed. Because they were fraternal twins, the world didn't look for Floris’s face on the missing posters; they looked for a shadow that no longer existed. ​"We aren't supposed to speak of it today," Floris reminded her, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Mother’s orders." ​"Your mother is a woman who tries to outrun the tide," Willemijn sniffed. "But the tide always comes back." ​Downstairs, the Great Hall was a masterpiece of gold leaf and velvet. King Willem Hendrik stood near the dais, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. Beside him, Queen Margriet was a vision of sapphire silk, her smile so perfectly practiced it looked carved from marble. ​"Smile, Willem," Margriet whispered through her teeth, her eyes scanning the room. "The cameras are on the balcony." ​"I am smiling, Margriet," the King replied, his voice a low rumble. "I am also wondering why my sister is currently cornering the Prime Minister." ​Across the room, Princess Beatrix—the King’s younger sister and a woman who viewed the monarchy as a competitive sport—was holding court. Beside her stood her son, Bastiaan, a man who wore his royal status like a designer coat he hadn't paid for. Bastiaan was Floris’s cousin and his greatest rival for the King’s favor, always lurking in the periphery of every scandal. ​"The security is tighter this year," Beatrix remarked as she approached her brother, her eyes glinting. "A bit late for that, isn't it? Twenty-nine years too late." ​"Beatrix," the King warned, his jaw tightening. ​"Oh, don't be so sensitive, Willem Hendrik," she waved a hand. "I’m merely observing. It’s Floris’s big day. The big Three-Zero. The age of maturity. Or, as the press puts it: the age where we stop pretending there’s another heir coming back to save us." ​Margriet’s hand flinched, nearly spilling her champagne. Before she could retort, the Master of Ceremonies announced the arrival of the House of Van den Berg. ​The room fell into a respectful hush. If the House of Orange-Nassau was the heart of the Netherlands, the Van den Bergs were its spine. Alexander and Anneliese Van den Berg walked with a regal gravity that rivaled the King’s. Alexander had been Willem Hendrik’s closest friend since their days at Leiden University, the man who had held the King’s hand the night Casper vanished. ​Behind them walked their daughters—the two women who represented Floris’s future and his greatest complication. ​Saskia Van den Berg, the eldest, was the embodiment of a future Queen. She moved with a rhythmic grace, her blonde hair caught in a delicate tiara. She was Floris’s betrothed, a match made in the boardrooms of power and the nurseries of their youth. She looked at Floris and offered a soft, supportive smile—the smile of a woman who knew her duty and accepted it. ​And then there was Elisa. ​The younger Van den Berg sister looked as though she had been dragged to the palace against her will. Her dress was expensive, but she wore it with a calculated sloppiness, her dark hair chopped into an edgy bob that defied royal standards. While Saskia looked at the Prince, Elisa looked at the exits. ​"The golden couple," Bastiaan whispered, sliding up beside Floris. "Look at Saskia. She’s already practicing her wave for the balcony. She’s perfect for you, Floris. Almost as perfect as you are for the role of the Solitary Heir." ​Floris ignored his cousin, his eyes meeting Alexander’s. The older man stepped forward, clapping a hand on Floris’s shoulder. ​"Thirty years, Floris," Alexander said, his voice warm. "Your father and I... we are proud of the man you’ve become. You’ve carried a heavy load." ​"Thank you, Uncle Alexander," Floris said, his eyes drifting to Saskia. ​"Happy Birthday, Floris," Saskia said, stepping forward to take his hand. Her touch was cool and steady. "You look tired. Is the speech ready?" ​"It’s ready," Floris said. "Though I’m not sure I am." ​"You always are," she encouraged. "That’s why we work, isn't it? We do what is expected." ​From behind her, Elisa let out a loud, audible snort. "Good god, you two sound like a brochure for a luxury retirement home. 'We do what is expected.' Is that the best you can do on your thirtieth birthday, Floris? No desire to burn the place down just once?" ​"Elisa!" Anneliese hissed, pulling her daughter back. ​Elisa rolled her eyes, her gaze landing on Floris with a strange, defiant pity. "What? He looks like he’s suffocating. Maybe someone should open a window. Oh wait—we don’t open windows in this family, do we? Not after what happened last time." ​The silence that followed was deafening. Even the orchestra seemed to stumble over their notes. Alexander’s face went pale with fury, and Margriet’s glass finally shattered in her hand, the red wine staining her sapphire dress like a fresh wound. ​The dinner was a blur of silver service and hushed whispers. Floris sat between Saskia and his mother, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking about the baby monitor. ​In the archives of his memory, there was a story his nanny had told him before she was fired for speaking out of turn. She said that on the night Casper was taken, the monitors hadn't just gone silent. They had picked up the sound of a lullaby—one that neither his mother nor father knew. ​"Floris," Saskia whispered, leaning in. "You're staring at your steak like it's a map. Eat something. People are watching." ​"I saw a man in the square today," Floris said quietly, not looking at her. "Before the gates closed. He was wearing a dark coat. He looked just like the sketches the police made twenty years ago. The age-progression ones." ​Saskia sighed, a sound of weary patience. "Floris, we’ve talked about this. Every year, you 'see' him. Every year, the police investigate a dozen 'sightings' that turn out to be tourists or conmen. It’s a trick of the mind. Your brain is trying to find balance." ​"It’s not a trick, Saskia. I felt it." ​"What you feel is the pressure of the engagement," she said, her voice firm but kind. "And the pressure of the thirtieth year. Once we are married, and the succession is secure, the ghosts will stop calling. I promise." ​Across the table, Elisa was pointedly ignoring her father’s lecture, sketching something on her linen napkin with a smuggled eyeliner pencil. She caught Floris’s eye and mouthed the word: Run. ​After the dinner, the family moved to the Balcony Room for the traditional birthday toast. The King stood before the tall French doors that led out to the public square where thousands had gathered with lanterns. ​Willem Hendrik raised his glass. "To my son, Floris. A man who has lived his life in the service of a crown he did not ask for, but has earned every day. You are the pride of the House of Orange." ​The crowd outside erupted into cheers, their voices muffled by the thick glass. ​"And," the King continued, his voice cracking slightly, "to the one who is not with us. May he be under the same stars tonight. May he be safe." ​Margriet sobbed openly then, leaning into Alexander Van den Berg’s shoulder. It was the one moment of the year where the royal mask was allowed to slip, where the grief was given its tithe. ​But as the King moved to open the doors to wave to the public, a security detail rushed into the room, their radios crackling with a frantic, distorted noise. ​"Sire, stay back!" the lead officer shouted. ​A drone had flown into the palace airspace. It wasn't carrying a bomb or a camera. It was carrying a small, weathered bundle. The device hovered just outside the balcony glass for a heartbeat before dropping its cargo and zipping away into the rainy night. ​The bundle hit the balcony floor with a soft thud. ​The King pushed past the guards, his face a mask of terror and hope. He opened the doors and stepped into the rain, reaching down to pick up the object. ​It was a small, hand-knitted baby bootie. It was stained with age and damp from the rain, but the pattern was unmistakable. It was dark blue with a small, embroidered lion on the toe. ​It was the pair to the one kept in the King’s private safe. The one Casper had been wearing when he was taken. ​Inside the bootie was a small, handwritten note on modern paper. It didn't ask for money. It didn't threaten the throne. It simply said: ​The half-prince is thirty. The whole prince is waiting. ​Floris stepped out onto the balcony beside his father, the cold rain soaking through his uniform. He looked out into the sea of lanterns in the square. Somewhere out there, among the thousands of faces, was a man who shared his blood but not his name. ​He felt a hand on his arm. He expected it to be Saskia, pulling him back into the safety of the palace, reminding him of his duty. ​But it was Elisa. She was looking out at the crowd with a fierce, burning curiosity. ​"Well," she whispered, her voice the only one that could be heard over the wind. "It looks like your birthday finally got interesting, Floris. Are you going to be a Prince, or are you going to be a brother?" ​Floris looked at the blue bootie in his father’s trembling hand. He looked at the perfect, terrified life he had built inside these walls. ​"I’m going to find him," Floris said, and for the first time in thirty years, the weight of the crown felt lighter than the weight of the truth. ​The Duty of the Bloodline had just changed. The hunt for the Lost King of the Netherlands had begun. ​