Chapter 6
1942 Words
The following week at Noordeinde Palace was a slow-motion collision between two centuries. To the public, the palace remained a silent fortress of stone and secrets, but inside, a quiet war was being waged for the soul of the man who had been Teun and was now legally, if not spiritually, Casper.
Teun felt like a ghost haunting his own life. He had been moved into a suite of rooms that was larger than the entire farmhouse in Achterhoek. The ceilings were gilded, the floors were covered in silk rugs, and the windows were bulletproof. Every morning, a valet arrived to offer him clothes that felt like costumes—cashmere sweaters and tailored trousers that didn't have a single stain of grease or soil.
He spent his days being ushered into rooms where historians lectured him on his lineage and lawyers explained the constitutional implications of his return. He sat through these sessions in stony silence, his mind drifting to the north pasture and the specific way the morning light hit the creek.
The only person who didn't look at him like a museum exhibit or a political disaster was Elisa.
"You look like you’re ready to jump out that window," Elisa said, leaning against the doorframe of the Palace conservatory.
Teun was standing among the exotic ferns, the humidity of the greenhouse the only thing that felt remotely like the outdoors. He turned, a genuine, tired smile finally touching his face. "The glass is too thick. I already checked."
Elisa walked toward him, tossing a small, wrapped object onto a stone table. "Brought you something. Real coffee. Not that filtered water they serve in the dining room."
"Thanks, Elisa." Teun took a sip, the caffeine hitting his system like a jolt of reality. "How’s the world outside? Is it still there?"
"It’s obsessed with you," she said, sitting on the edge of the table. "The press is calling you 'The Farmer King.' My sister, Saskia, is currently in a meeting with the Queen Mother trying to figure out how to 'refine' you before they announce your return to the public. They want to sand down your edges, Teun."
"They can sand all they want," Teun said, his voice hardening. "There’s nothing but grit underneath. I’m not staying here, Elisa. I can't breathe."
"I know," she whispered, her rebellious exterior softening. "That’s why I’m going to help you. I’ve been watching the guard rotations. There’s a blind spot near the old stables between two and three in the morning. If you want to send a message to Aniek, I can get it out."
Teun’s heart was hammered. "I don't just want to send a message. I need to see her. She’s the only thing that makes me feel like I still exist."
"Stay patient," Elisa warned. "The security is tighter than a drum because of the 'Bastiaan Factor.' Your cousin is lurking around every corner, trying to find a reason to prove you’re an impostor so he can stay next in line after Floris."
Outside the towering iron gates of the palace, the "Farmer King" phenomenon was in full swing. A small crowd of supporters and curious tourists gathered daily, held back by a line of stoic Royal Marechaussee guards.
Among them stood Aniek.
She looked small and out of place in her red Polo, her nursing scrubs replaced by a simple jacket and jeans. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Since the night at the gas station, her world had been a whirlwind of police statements and local gossip. But most of all, it had been a void. The man she loved had been swallowed by a mountain of stone.
She approached the gate, her heart in her throat.
"Excuse me," she said to the lead guard, her voice trembling. "I need to see Teun. Teun Van Buren. I mean... Prince Casper."
The guard didn't even look at her. "The Palace is closed to the public, Miss. No visitors."
"I’m not a visitor! I’m his—" she stopped, the word girlfriend feeling too fragile for this environment. "I’m a close friend. Please. Just tell him Aniek is here. He’ll come."
"Move along, Miss," the guard said, his voice a mechanical drone. "You're blocking the pedestrian path."
"Please!" Aniek cried, her desperation breaking through. "His father—the man who raised him—is in jail. His farm is empty. He needs to know what's happening!"
The guard stepped forward, his hand resting on his belt. The message was clear: move or be moved.
Aniek backed away, hot tears stinging her eyes. She realized then that she couldn't fight the monarchy with her bare hands. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a letter she had written in the early hours of the morning, her hand shaking as the ink bled into the page.
It was a desperate note. Her father, a traditional man who saw the Van Buren name as ruined and disgraced by the k********g scandal, had already started talking about "fixing" her future with a wealthy landowner’s son from a neighboring village to save her reputation.
"If you can't come to me," the note read, "I don't know how much longer I can hold on. My father is talking about a marriage... he wants me away from the 'Royal Mess.' Please, Teun. Tell me what to do."
She saw a younger man in an expensive wool coat walking toward the side entrance of the palace. He had a sharp, predatory look and the same blue eyes as the royals, but without any of the warmth. It was Bastiaan.
"Sir!" Aniek called out. "Sir, please! Are you with the family?"
Bastiaan stopped, his lip curling in a slight sneer as he took in her red Polo and her distraught face. "I am Prince Bastiaan. Who are you?"
"I’m Aniek. I’m... I’m Teun’s—Casper’s friend. The guards won't let me in. Please, could you give him this? It’s important. It’s a matter of life and death."
Bastiaan looked at the note, then back at the girl. He had spent the last week watching his mother, Beatrix, fume over the "dirty farmer" who had jumped the queue to the throne. He hated Teun before he had even met him. To Bastiaan, this girl was a symbol of the common life that was threatening the dignity of his house.
He reached out and took the note with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. "I shall see that it reaches the appropriate hands," he said smoothly.
"Thank you!" Aniek breathed, a spark of hope lighting up her face. "Please, tell him I’m waiting."
Bastiaan nodded and turned away, walking through the private pedestrian gate.
Bastiaan didn't go to the conservatory. He didn't go to Teun’s suite. Instead, he walked into the long portrait gallery, the same place where Teun had stood the night before.
He stood beneath the painting of King Willem Hendrik, the man whose legacy he had hoped to inherit. He unfolded the note and read it. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"A marriage," Bastiaan whispered to the empty room. "How perfect."
If Teun knew the girl was being forced into a marriage, he would surely leave. He would cause a scene, break protocol, and prove to the King that he was nothing more than a peasant with a pedigree. But Bastiaan didn't want Teun to leave on his own terms. He wanted Teun to feel isolated. He wanted Teun to believe that the world he came from had already moved on without him.
He wanted Teun to lose his anchor.
Bastiaan looked at the note one last time. Tell me what to do.
"I’ll tell you what to do, cousin," Bastiaan muttered. "You’ll stay here and wither in this palace while your little milkmaid marries someone else. And by the time you realize it, you’ll be so broken that the Council will have no choice but to declare you unfit."
With a sudden, violent motion, Bastiaan tore the note in half. Then again, and again, until the desperate words of a girl in a red Polo were nothing more than white confetti.
He walked over to a large, ornate porcelain vase near the window—a gift from a Ming emperor—and dropped the scraps inside.
"Lost in the mail," he chuckled.
Later that evening, Teun sat on the edge of his massive four-poster bed. He had refused to let the staff unpack his things, so his flannel shirt and the wooden box sat on a velvet chair like a protest.
He had been waiting all day for a sign. He had asked the guards if anyone had come for him. They had lied, instructed by Lord Chamberlain to "minimize distractions."
There was a knock on the door. It was Floris.
"Teun? I brought some files on the farm’s legal status. My father is... he’s trying to figure out how to handle the land. He wants to keep it in trust for you."
Teun didn't look up. "Did anyone come for me today, Floris? A girl? A red car?"
Floris looked pained. He had heard the rumors of a girl at the gate, but the King had forbidden him from mentioning it. "I haven't heard anything, Teun. But you have to understand, the press is everywhere. It’s not safe for people to just show up."
"She isn't 'people,'" Teun snapped, standing up. "She’s Aniek. And if she’s not here, it’s because someone is keeping her away."
"We’re trying to protect you," Floris said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
"Protect me from what? My life?" Teun walked to the window, looking out over the city lights. "I’m the first-born, right? That’s what they keep telling me. The 'Older Twin.' The Heir."
"Yes," Floris said quietly.
"Then why do I feel like a prisoner?" Teun turned back to his brother. "Bastiaan was at the gate today. I saw him from the balcony. He was talking to someone. He looked like he was taking something from a girl."
Floris frowned. "Bastiaan? He didn't mention anything at dinner. He said he’d spent the afternoon at his club."
Teun’s eyes narrowed. He knew the look of a dishonest man; he’d seen it in the cattle markets of Achterhoek for years. Bastiaan was a snake, and Floris was too decent to see the venom.
"He’s lying," Teun said. "And if he’s lying, then Aniek was there."
Teun grabbed his old work jacket from the chair.
"What are you doing?" Floris asked, an alarm rising in his voice.
"I’m going to find my own answers," Teun said. "If this palace wants a Prince, they’re going to have to learn that this one doesn't stay in his stable."
Teun pushed past his brother, his mind set on the old stables and the blind spot Elisa had mentioned. He didn't know about the torn note in the Ming vase. He didn't know about the marriage his father-by-blood was preventing and his father-by-choice was causing.
He only knew that the "Blue Blood" was starting to boil, and for the first time since he arrived, the Lost Prince didn't look like a victim. He looked like a King.
- Writer
