Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  Nina looked over. The moonlight gilded Ethan’s profile, tracing the curve of his upper lip, the straight line of his nose.

  “You can tell me about it, if you want.” She reached for his hand. Ethan didn’t answer, but squeezed her fingers. She took that as a sign to keep going.

  “I know what it’s like to grow up with a nontraditional family,” she said quietly. “To be the person hiding in the nurse’s office with a fake headache on Bring Your Dad to School Day. To have people look at us like we’re somehow missing a piece. I know what it’s like to grow up knowing that your family is different, and sometimes feeling ashamed that it’s different, and then hating yourself for being ashamed, because you love your family more than anything, even if it doesn’t look like everyone else’s.”

  She dared a glance at him. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said all that.”

  Probably because there was no one else she could say it to, except maybe Sam. And while Sam would have given her unconditional love, Nina also knew that Sam wouldn’t have understood, not really.

  “No, I’m glad you did.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse. “My mom is the best, no question. She’s got more energy than anyone I’ve ever met. But I always worried about her, too. I used to think that it was my fault that my dad left, since…well, my mom is so amazing, so there’s no way he could have left because of her.”

  “Ethan, you can’t blame yourself for your dad’s leaving,” Nina whispered, her heart sore.

  “Yeah, I know that. But…” He sighed. “I guess it’s one thing to know it, and another thing to actually believe it. To actually feel like it’s not my fault.”

  Nina’s hand tightened over his. She realized how rare it was for Ethan to speak with such raw honesty.

  “I don’t know who my dad is,” he said clumsily. “The only thing my mom ever says about him was that they loved each other a long time ago, but that he couldn’t be part of my life. She doesn’t seem to resent him for it.”

  “I don’t know anything about my biological father either,” Nina admitted. “Except that he was a medical school student who donated sperm for extra money. Oh, and that he didn’t have any family history of disease.”

  “You don’t wonder about him?” Ethan asked.

  No, Nina was about to lie, but bit it back. “Sometimes, but I try not to. I know who my parents are. That man is just a stranger who helped them find their way to me.”

  Ethan’s gaze was fixed on the horizon. “When I was little, I had all these outlandish theories about who my dad might be. I thought he was a superhero, or an astronaut—that he was off saving the world, and would come back for us eventually.” He sighed. “I think I was in middle school when I finally realized that he wasn’t coming.”

  He leaned forward, the lines of his body languid and weary.

  Nina turned toward him. “It doesn’t matter who your father is. You know that, right? His choices don’t determine who you are. Only your choices do that.”

  “I don’t always make the best choices,” she thought she heard Ethan mutter, so softly she couldn’t be certain.

  “Look at me.” She grabbed his head with both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You are not defined by your father. Neither of us is, okay? You are you, and you are a complete person, and you are good.”

  “But I wonder sometimes…if I found him, if I knew who he was…would I feel like I belong?”

  Nina was silent. She’d lived around the royal family long enough to know how it felt, standing on the outside of something, peering in with lonely eyes.

  “But you do belong,” she said adamantly. “You belong with me.”

  Ethan’s weight shifted. For an instant Nina thought he might kiss her—but instead his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close.

  Nina turned her head to the side, resting it on Ethan’s shoulder, and breathed him in. She thought about childhood dreams and grown-up dreams and wondered how and where those two things might collide. She thought about the feel of Ethan’s heart, beating steadily against her own.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, hugging on the top of the Statue of Liberty, but it was long enough for her to realize one very important thing.

  This was the same Ethan who, for years, had convinced Nina that he was snarky and arrogant. Maybe he still was those things. But now she appreciated the wicked edge to his humor, knew the arrogance was just a defense mechanism. She knew the real Ethan, the one behind all the emotional armor.

  Ethan stepped away, looking a little sheepish. His eyes flicked curiously around. “I wonder…”

  “What?” Nina demanded, as he marched over to the back of the viewing platform, where the spikes of the statue’s crown rose sharply overhead.

  “I can’t believe it’s still here,” he said with a grin. “I must have done this when I was ten.”

  “What’s still here?”

  He pointed, and suddenly Nina saw it: EB, scratched out in blocky letters on the metal’s surface.

  “You delinquent! You defaced a national monument?”

  “Your surprise is rather insulting.” Ethan reached into his pocket for a key, holding it on an outstretched palm.

  Nina hesitated, then smiled.

  “Give me a boost,” she requested. Ethan obediently picked her up, holding her around the waist so she could scratch out NG on the furled sheet of copper, right below his EB.

  When he put her down, the two of them stood there staring up at their initials—binding them together, here on this landmark, for all eternity.

  Normally Beatrice dreaded invitations. She received thousands per year, and while she hated letting people down, she simply couldn’t say yes to them all.

  But for the past few months, she’d been waiting desperately for an invitation that never arrived.

  She knew precisely what it should have looked like, because she’d seen them before, back when they used to arrive for her father: a scroll of heavy parchment tied with a red ribbon. Most Gracious Sovereign, it would begin, your dutiful and loyal subjects in Congress assembled do entreat you to attend our gathering….

  Beatrice knew it would be unprecedented, for a monarch to show up at Congress without an invitation. But no Congress had ever failed to invite the monarch to its closing session, either.

  How could Beatrice fulfill her duties as queen if her own legislative branch didn’t treat her like one?

  And so, this morning, she’d invented an errand that sent Robert far from the palace. To her relief, he’d left without protest.

  Now she was in a town car, headed toward Columbia House, the meeting place of both bodies of Congress.

  Outside her window, the city rushed past in a blur of gray stone and brightly colored billboards. People in suits streamed up and down the stairs to the metro. Towering over two city blocks was the bulk of the Federal Treasury Building, topped by an enormous copper eagle. Several minutes later, the car turned in to Columbia House’s back entrance.

  Beatrice’s muscles tightened in fear. She wanted to throw open the car door, yet she forced herself to wait until her driver came around to open it for her. She reached up to touch the gold chain of state that hung around her neck. It was so heavy, its weight pressing into the top of her spine—but her father had never bowed his head beneath it, and neither would Beatrice.

  She was decked out in the full regalia of her position. The ivory sash of the Edwardian Order, the highest of America’s chivalric honors. The heavy, ermine-trimmed robe of state. And, finally, the massive Imperial State Crown. It was all too big for her—especially the crown, which kept falling off the back of her head, or slipping down to catch on her nose.

  The trappings of state were heavy and clunky on Beatrice’s slender frame because they had all been designed for men.

  A young man in a suit, most likely some kind
of congressional assistant, sprinted forward. When Beatrice stepped out of the car in full ceremonial attire, he went pale. “Your Majesty,” he exclaimed—then seemed to recall himself, and swept her an abbreviated bow.

  “Thank you for coming to greet me.” She passed him with a few crisp steps, trying not to think about how utterly wrong this all was. She should have been stepping over this threshold with fanfare, not stealing through the back door of her own government like a thief in the night.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” he breathed, rushing to catch up with her. “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you.”

  Beatrice’s heels made sharp clicks on the polished granite of the floor. She drew in a breath, summoning every last shred of her confidence. “Will you lead the way…” She trailed off, waiting for the young man to provide his name.

  “Charles, Your Majesty.” His eyes drifted to the crown, and his resolve wavered. “I—that is—it would be my honor,” he stammered, and fell into step behind her. Of course, he couldn’t actually lead the way, since no one was permitted to walk ahead of the reigning monarch.

  Beatrice started down the long hallway of Columbia House, past various wooden doors, all of them shut. She had to walk with agonizingly slow steps; the robe of state dragged behind her like an enormous velvet rug. It felt like someone had grabbed hold of her hair and was yanking her backward.

  At the entrance to the House of Tribunes—the lower chamber of Congress—Beatrice looked expectantly at Charles. “Please knock. Do you know what to say?”

  His throat bobbed, but he managed a nod. Then he sucked in a breath and pounded on the door—once, twice, a third time. “Her Majesty the Queen requests the right to address this gathering!”

  Utter silence followed Charles’s words.

  Except it was worse than silence, because Beatrice realized she heard a soft chorus of sounds from within: uneasy whispers, the rustling of robes, hurried footsteps. Everything except what she should have heard, which was a shouted response to Charles’s statement, welcoming her inside.

  The heavy wooden door swung inward. Beatrice took an instinctive step forward—but when she saw who stood there, she went still.

  Robert Standish slipped through the door, his steps surprisingly light for such a ponderous man. “Your Majesty,” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”

  Beatrice had to remind herself to keep breathing—inhale exhale inhale exhale, over and over in succession.

  “I could ask you the same question,” she said carefully. “Are you trying to close Congress yourself?”

  Through the sliver of open doorway, she could just see a glimpse of the House of Tribunes: several hundred seats arranged on either side of the aisle, and at the far end of the room, a carved wooden throne.

  Three hundred and sixty-three days a year, that throne sat empty. It was purposefully left so: perhaps to remind Congress of the silent presence of the monarch, or perhaps to remind the monarch that they had no say in the legislative branch. Only when the monarch ceremonially opened and closed each session of Congress could this throne be occupied.

  And now Robert was trying to keep her from it.

  “Of course I am,” the Lord Chamberlain replied, without an ounce of contrition. “In any case when the monarch is not able to preside over the opening or closing of Congress, the monarch’s designated representative shall do it.”

  Anger swelled in her chest. “I didn’t designate you! And if I did designate a representative, it should traditionally be my heir,” she added, remembering a time when she was much younger, when her grandfather had been ill and her father had presided over Congress in his stead.

  The chamberlain scoffed. “You can’t honestly mean that you would have sent Samantha.”

  “Her Royal Highness, the Princess Samantha,” Beatrice corrected.

  She was dimly aware of Charles, watching this exchange with unconcealed fear. But Beatrice couldn’t worry about him. She had much bigger problems.

  “Your Majesty, you’re not welcome here,” Robert said firmly.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to—”

  “If you don’t leave, you could incite a serious constitutional crisis.” When she still didn’t move, his lips thinned into a frown. “Now is not the time for this.”

  “You keep saying that!” Beatrice burst out. “I’ve been queen for months now! When will it be time?”

  “When you are married!”

  She drew herself up to her full height, wishing she’d worn taller heels. “I am the Queen of America,” she said again. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m married.”

  He raised his eyes heavenward, as if silently cursing her stupidity. “Beatrice. Of course it matters. Having a young, single woman as the figurehead of America—it makes the entire nation feel unsettled, and juvenile, and emotional. God, most of the men in this room have children older than you.”

  She hated that he’d referenced the men in this room, as if all the female members of Congress didn’t even bear mention.

  “Just…wait until you have Teddy by your side,” he added. “Maybe then it will be easier for people to take you seriously.”

  Robert wasn’t smiling, but his eyes gleamed as though he was. It reminded Beatrice of the girls who’d made fun of her in lower school, who’d spoken cruel words in deceptively kind voices, their faces underlit with malicious delight.

  Until this moment, Beatrice hadn’t realized just how adamantly Robert was working against her.

  He didn’t do it openly, like the people who booed her at rallies or left nasty comments online. No, Robert’s way of opposing her was far more insidious. He’d been systematically undermining her: whittling away at her confidence, distracting her with the wedding, twisting the Constitution’s intention to keep her from acting as queen.

  And her own Congress had let him. Beatrice didn’t know what had happened—whether they had withheld her invitation on their own, or whether Robert had asked them not to invite her—but did it matter? Either way, the invitation hadn’t come.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered.

  “I’m not doing this to you. I’m doing it for America,” Robert said stiffly. “You should know that there is no room for personal feeling in politics.”

  The Imperial State Crown slipped backward, and Beatrice hurried to grab at it before it could clatter loudly to the floor. Seeing the gesture, Robert bit back a smile.

  Shame rose hot to her cheeks. She felt suddenly foolish, like a glassy-eyed doll dressed up in a paper crown.

  At least the closing session of Congress, unlike the opening session, was never televised. Otherwise, this image would have been all over the newspapers tomorrow: Beatrice, knocking at the door of her own Congress, being told that she couldn’t come in.

  * * *

  Later that night, Beatrice sat up with a weary sigh. Moonlight poured like cream over the hardwood floors, making everything feel deceptively peaceful.

  Restless, she threw back her covers and walked barefoot to the window.

  Earlier, when she’d confronted Robert Standish, her body had been flooded with white-hot adrenaline. Yet now…Beatrice just felt exhausted, and unsettled.

  And she missed Teddy. It felt like he was the only person she could talk to, lately—the only person rooting for her, instead of rooting for her to fail. But he and his brothers were spending the weekend at their Nantucket house, which, true to her word, Beatrice had quietly repurchased.

  She hesitated a moment, then pulled out her phone and dialed the palace’s air traffic control line. “I need the plane,” she said smoothly. “How soon can it be ready?”

  The life of a queen had plenty of restrictions, but it had its perks, too. And for once, Beatrice intended to use them.

  When she reached Eagle III—the smaller of the royal family’s priv
ate planes, much smaller than the massive Eagle V—the pilot didn’t ask why she’d insisted on leaving in the middle of the night. He didn’t even protest when Beatrice opened Franklin’s crate before takeoff and pulled him onto her lap. She sat there like that, letting the puppy nuzzle her face with his wet nose, for the entirety of the ninety-minute flight to Nantucket.

  Finally her car pulled up the secluded driveway, and the Eatons’ beach house came into view. It was a large home, yet unassuming, with traditional cedar shingles and a white sloping roof. And there was Teddy, waiting on the wraparound front porch, wearing jeans and a Nantucket red hoodie.

  The sight of him broke whatever threads remained of Beatrice’s self-control. She flung open the car door and ran forward to throw her arms around him, to lean her head against the solid plane of his chest.

  When she stepped back, Teddy didn’t ask any questions, just grabbed two mugs from the railing of the porch. “Coffee?” he offered, in a normal, upbeat tone. As if it weren’t strange of her to have shown up like this, without warning.

  She curled her hands around the mug, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Sorry to wake you up so early. I just—I needed to talk to you, and it couldn’t wait. Or at least, it felt like it couldn’t wait.”

  “I like getting up early. Sunrise is the best part of the day here, you’ll see.” Teddy glanced toward the ocean. “Should we go for a walk?” He whistled for Franklin, who bounded forward from where he’d been exploring the muddy grass beneath the porch.

  When they reached the beach, Beatrice kicked off her shoes. The sky was a dusky purple overhead, stars scattered over its canvas like frozen tears, though at the edge of the horizon she saw the first pearly hints of morning.

  Franklin raced ahead to the dark line of the surf and splashed gleefully along its edge. Beatrice and Teddy followed. They sat down in the sand, their feet planted before them, so that the foam-kissed waves just barely brushed their toes.