He sold his apartment in Berlin, the rental house he owned in Maryland, and closed out his 401k. With the help of a few shady connections he got a forged papers under the name Istvan Nagy. Despite everything, he was not without a bleak sense of humor. He got a small apartment in Budapest and opened a coffee house, Amerikai Kave, in the Jewish Quarter. Nobody knew who he was. Why should they? The news pouring out of Wakanda's newly-opened borders made his brief marriage to Shuri a sideshow of a sideshow. So he grew a beard, traded his suits for jeans and T-shirts, made coffee for English-speaking expats and a certain hip subculture of young Hungarians, and became known, in a low-key kind of way, as a guy who knew things. He traded in information if the price was right and if the buyer was clean. It was a decent gig.

He hadn't been able to escape news of the royal wedding. The whole world had caught WAKANDAMANIA!, as the self-congratulatory headlines screamed, and had fallen frankly in love with the handsome, dignified king (many a romantic soul sighed over photos of him smiling his shy smile) and his stunning bride-to-be. Nakia's beauty launched a million puff pieces about her style, speculations about her beauty regimen, and how-to pieces on recreating the Nakia 'do. Everett imagined these stories infuriated her (assuming she deigned to read them in the first place). More considered articles about her humanitarian efforts graced the pages of prestigious international publications. But her background as a War Dog appeared to be a closely guarded secret.

He saw footage of the royal wedding ceremony, which included shots of Queen Mother Ramonda and Princess Shuri smiling, Queen Mother Ramonda and Princess Shuri dancing. They both looked happy. Why shouldn't they be? They adored Nakia nearly as much as T'Challa did. She was a happy, long-wished-for addition to the royal family.

One by one, Shuri's desires came true. She met Elaine Welteroth and got her STEM/Wakanda fashion designers issue of Teen Vogue. Science and Nature accepted her papers as quickly as she could write them. The first community center in Oakland thrived and bore fruit. T'Challa and Shuri established others in Chicago's South Side, New Orleans, Flint, Ferguson. The locals who trained under her and her Wakandan lieutenants then went on to different cities to launch new community centers. It was a good system.

The Wakanda Design Group opened their American Nesibindi plants in Michigan and Mississippi. Shuri was there for the dedications of each. Other plants opened throughout Africa, Europe and Asia. The world could not get enough of the affordable hover-scooters. As promised, the number of traffic fatalities and injuries decreased significantly. And due to Shuri's genius and foresight, the vibranium-powered engines were designed in such a way that they could not be dismantled and weaponized. There would be no curse attendant on this blessing.

As for Shuri's private life, the tabloids vomited out gallons of idiot ink about her and her alleged boy-toys. She was paired with actors, athletes, foreign princes, and, in one utterly bizarre story, with a retired security guard in Seattle who collected and exhaustively catalogued bus transfers. None of the stories ever mentioned Everett, or even alluded to her short-lived marriage. That was a mercy, but also rather galling in its own way. He'd been completely edited out of her life.

Everett followed her progress with more interest than he wished he felt. His eye was drawn to her name in print, her face in photos and videos. And if he wanted to break the arms of those actors and athletes, those foreign princes, and even the retired security guard, well, that was his lookout. The barristas who worked for him wondered why there were certain days when he snapped at them like an old grouch, but they never made the connection between his foul mood and the English language tabloids they found stuffed in the garbage.

In this way, three years passed.

And then he heard on the news that Princess Shuri of Wakanda was coming to Budapest.

He considered spending the week getting drunk in his apartment. The idea held a certain symmetrical appeal, since the last time he'd been drunk was the last day he'd spent with her. He also considered leaving for the week, flying to see his mother in Minneapolis, maybe, or hiking in the Scottish highlands. He also considered simply living his life as if it didn't matter where Shuri was. He had, after all, a new name and a new life. Even if he hadn't, he doubted she'd come looking.

So he stayed put

And so it came to pass that on the third night of Shuri's visit to Budapest, after he'd sent Magda and Joe home and was closing up the shop, Everett congratulated himself for being Shuri-proof. Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" came on the radio. He cranked up the volume and sang along at the top of his voice as he wiped down the tables. The music was so loud that he didn't hear the bell on the door. "That's like hypnotizing chickens!" he bellowed with great feeling.

And then he saw her.

An incongruous, Brutalist tiara of blocky vibranium studded with raw quartz crystals that circled her topknot. A pair of tight, thigh-high leather boots a nearly metallic shade of teal, with kitten heels that were somehow even more sexually provocative than an ultra-high heel would have been. A faux fur jacket, snow white tipped with flame red, that fell mid-thigh. Big movie-star sunglasses, despite it being night. Flame-red lipstick to match her jacket.

Feeling like a fool, Everett shut off the radio. In all honesty, he'd imagined a thousand scenarios of meeting her again. This was not one of them.

"Istvan Nagy?" she asked, her voice piquant with irony. "You're a difficult man to find."

"I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Well," she said, taking off her sunglasses, "here I am anyway. I have just come from the opera."

"Hunyadi László?"

"Yes."

"What did you think of it?"

"I prefer what you were just playing. For that matter, I prefer your singing voice."

He laughed, feeling more a fool than before. "Thanks. I think. Make you a coffee?"

"Is it bad manners to ask for a Wiener Melange in Budapest?"

"I'll overlook it this time."

"Then a Wiener Melange, thank you."

"Please." He gestured to a table. "Sit down."

She sat and shrugged off her coat. Underneath it she wore a little silk slip dress, almost identical to the one he tore off her in Birnin Zana their first time, except that it was red ... the same shade of orange-red that she wore in her lab the first time he saw her. No waterfall of beads disguised her nipples. He looked away quickly and went to make her coffee.

"You look well," she said. "Your beard is very handsome."

"Thank you. You took well, too. How long are you here?"

"Until Tuesday. I am overseeing the opening of the new tech center at O.P.N.I. On Wednesday I'm touring the Nesibindi plant in Debrecen and then going back home. Speaking of which, is that your vehicle parked out front?"

"It is. I bought it second-hand last year from an expat going back to the States."

He brought her the cup of espresso on a saucer and a small glass of water, then went back for a bowl of sugar cubes.

"You should not have sent back the one I gave you."

He sat down opposite her. "That was a wedding present. You don't keep those after a divorce. As my mother would say, it ain't etiquette."

He watched as she dropped two sugar cubes into her melange. She stirred her coffee carefully. She didn't look at him. Perhaps she felt the situation to be as surreal as he did.

"You should not have lied to me," she said at last, still gazing into her coffee. "The noble idiot? So not a good look on you."

"Excuse me?" he said, feeling somewhat nettled.

She looked up at him. "You hurt me very badly."

"More badly than allowing you to live in exile?"

"That. That word. 'Allowing.' Who were you to 'allow?' As if I were a child, or an underling. You lied to me, and you hurt me, and I ought to hate you for it. I did for a while."

"Why did you stop?"

She sighed and rested her chin in her hand. "Oh, Everett. It was just so exhausting to hate you."

He smiled sardonically. "You had better things to occupy your time?"

She gave a short laugh. "What do you think?"

"I've followed your career," he said. "You're doing incredible things. You're actually making the world a better place."

She sipped her melange. "So good. I'd forgotten how much I love these. You, too, are making the world a better place, one melange at a time."

"Gee, thanks," he said. "A man likes to have a purpose in life."

"Let us shake each other's hands in mutual congratulations," she said, holding out her hand. They shook. He didn't want to let her hand go. He did anyway.

"Why did you come here to see me?" he asked. She gazed at him in silence for some time. Then she shook her head, as if shaking off an unwelcome thought, and smiled.

"You told me, back then, that you had brought me to Budapest for a reason. You had something to show me, but you never got the chance."

"You came to see me for that?"

She shrugged. "It was something important to you, at least back then. I want to see what you had to show me. Tomorrow morning I have a bit of time."

"No, it's something you need to see at night."

"Would now do?"

"Yes."

"Then show me."

The two Dora Milaje who stood sentry outside the coffee house door came inside for coffee and cake, and to await their princess's return. Everett was glad Shuri didn't want them along. The thing he wanted to show her was too close to his heart to allow for witnesses. He threw on a coat and helped Shuri back into hers, and they went out and got on his Nesibindi. They rode smoothly through the streets of Budapest, Shuri's arms clasped about his waist, her head resting against his back. In five minutes they were at the foot of the Chain Bridge. Everett parked the Nesibidi and they got off.

"Do you trust me?" he asked her.

She looked at him askance. "Are you actually asking me that question?"

"There's a certain element of surprise involved in this. I need you to close your eyes and keep them closed until I tell you to open them. Can you do that?"

"Oh, all right," she said, in a tone of play exasperation.

"Then give me your arm and close your eyes. And keep them closed!"

She closed her eyes and he led her up the steps to the pedestrian walkway of the Chain Bridge. Auto traffic was light on the bridge, and the breeze from the Danube was cold. Yet along the bridge, lovers huddled together, walking, kissing, talking.

"All right?" he asked.

"Mmm."

"Good. Nearly there."

He took her to the center of the bridge, the halfway point between Buda and Pest, and turned her to face the Parliament Building.

"All right. Open your eyes."

She did. He watched her reaction closely as she took in the sight of the Parliament Building, its spires and dome ablaze with golden light, looking like a priceless jewel box on the bank of the Danube.

"How beauti-"

Her voice caught in her throat. She clutched the bridge railing with both hands and leaned forward. She had seen the birds. Lit by the same golden light that shone from below, that turned the buildings into burnished gold, they circled and circled the spiked dome like slow sparks from a fire, like dancing stars, like spirits.

"Oh," she said. Eyes wide and hungry, she watched the circling birds, and seemed unaware of the tears that slid down her face. Everett let out his breath. He lay one hand gently over Shuri's. She turned her palm up and linked her fingers with his, and held on tightly.

They watched the birds in silence for a long time. Then a passing pair of lovers bumped them by accident, and apologized, and continued on their way. Shuri looked at Everett. She drew his hand to her heart and held it there.

"I cried the first time I saw it, too," Everett said. "I'm not a crier, you know. Or maybe you don't."

"Thank you," Shuri said. "Thank you for showing me."

"Thank you for letting me."

She touched his face, his beard. "We are still married in Wakanda, you know," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are still married. You and I. In Wakanda, the ceremony of divorce involves cutting the rope of beads that the Priest of Bast used to bind us to each other. I have not cut the rope of beads. Therefore ..."

Everett sighed. "Now what the hell am I supposed to do with that piece of information?"

"Whatever you like," Shuri said. "You can do nothing with it and stay here as one of countless Istvan Nagys. Or you can come back with me and make me one perfect Wiener Melange every day. Stop. Did I say whatever you like? Allow me to amend. You may not use it to lie to me, including by omission, or to eavesdrop on me when you are supposed to be asleep, or to play the noble idiot."

"Shuri ..."

"It has been three years. The world is older and wiser now. So, I presume, are we. Can we please try to love each other without breaking each other's hearts this time?"

"The tribal council -"

"They, too, are older and wiser, individually and as a body. It happens. What can one say?"

"I need time to think this over."

"Of course," said Shuri. "In the meantime, I believe we are the only pair of lovers on this bridge who are not kissing each other. Are you able to think and kiss at the same time?

And Everett showed her that he was.