by Erin McRae
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said softly.
“Ugh, why?”
“I don’t know.” Amelia looked at her hands. “One day I’m going to be queen. It seems like a thing worth apologizing for.”
“Well if you must apologize,” Priya said, with a grin that told Amelia everything really was okay, at least between them. “Duchies are a nice way to say sorry.”
Amelia did the only logical thing, which was to whack Priya with a throw pillow. “Enough about me. Tell me about Raveesh.”
Which Priya did. In great detail and with a vulnerability Amelia knew she preferred not to display. As Priya related a conversation she and Raveesh had had about their futures — and about what their parents thought of their on-again off-again relationship — Amelia thought that maybe being physically intimate wasn’t just a way to connect with Arthur. Common ground that she could still share with Priya, even when everything else in her life was changing, was incredibly appealing.
Much later, when they’d finished the bottle of Priya’s no-longer-ex’s vodka and retreated from the living room, Amelia lay on her back on Priya’s bed, staring at the ceiling. After days of being surrounded by strangers and nights alone in a bed that wasn’t hers, she craved the familiar company.
“The worst part,” Amelia said quietly to the ceiling. “Was that I wanted more.” Next her, the blanket-covered lump that was her friend stirred questioningly.
“How is that a bad thing?” Priya mumbled sleepily.
“Because he was wonderful. And didn’t treat my body like something he owns. Or that I owe him. Except, it’s like you said. This is a job, and I wish it weren’t.”
*
If Amelia feared that Arthur would, once again, pull away from her now that she was out of his constant sight, she need not have. She woke the next morning to a text message. It was only a simple good morning, but it was an acknowledgement. She smiled in relief as she tidied the living room after last night’s drinking.
“Hey!” Priya interrupted her train of thought, sticking her head out of the bathroom. “Can I try on your rings?”
“Um, sure?” Amelia said. “Just be careful. One of them was his great grandmother’s.”
“I’m already Lady Flip-flop. I’m not going to be Lady Loses the Royal Engagement Rings Down the Sink, too.”
Amelia leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom as Priya fished the rings out of their little glass dish on the counter.
Priya made cooing noises over the rings and rightfully so. They were lovely when one could forget the weight of what they represented. Amelia was not, however, prepared for the sight of them on Priya’s hand.
She wasn’t jealous. Rather, Amelia was confused. Arthur had told her that one of the rings was for the realm and the other for her. But now, seeing the rings on Priya’s hand, none of that felt real. Did these jewels really mean anything? Or were they just a prop, designed to make her something she wasn’t at all suited to be. Amelia doubted she would ever truly be princess — or queen — any more than Priya was in this moment.
“Oi, er, Meels?” Priya said.
“Yeah?” Amelia jolted out of her reverie.
“I can’t get them off.”
“You’re kidding.”
Priya held out an already-red hand; the rings bit in around her knuckle. “I really wish I were.”
Amelia was about to say something reasonable despite the creeping panic clawing up her throat when her mobile rang. She yelped.
“It’s Arthur,” Amelia hissed. She nearly dropped the mobile in the process of trying to answer it.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be angry with me,” Arthur said as soon as she answered and fumbled it to her ear.
“What? Why?” Amelia asked.
“What’s he saying?” Priya asked, still tugging at the rings. Amelia waved a hand at her to be quiet. Priya leaned into Amelia’s space to eavesdrop on the call.
“I’m leaving on a state trip,” Arthur said. “Tomorrow,” he added. He sounded apologetic.
“Oh. All right,” Amelia said neutrally. Arthur was informing her of his plans; this was a step in the right direction. She put her hand over Priya’s to stop her tugging at the rings; they’d get this solved as soon as she got Arthur off the phone. There was just one thing she needed to know first. “Where are you off to?”
Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “Australia.”
“Australia?!” Amelia almost dropped her mobile again. Priya jumped back from the outburst.
“It is a member of the Commonwealth,” Arthur said gently.
“He’s going to Australia, and he’s not taking you?” Priya hissed.
“Shhh!” Amelia flapped a hand at Priya while Arthur made indignant sounds about her shushing him. “No, sorry, not you, Arthur. How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” Amelia fairly yelled.
“It’s some distance, and there’s a Commonwealth to be saved.”
“We’ll have time to get the rings off,” Priya frantically whispered.
“Not the important thing!” Amelia whispered back. She returned her attention to the call. “And you didn’t bother to tell me this before, because why?”
Arthur, Prince of Wales, Duke of Lancaster, and heir apparent to the throne of England, muttered something unintelligible.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand you,” Amelia said crisply. “Say that again?”
“So you are angry with me.”
Amelia turned away from Priya and stalked into her bedroom. “Please don’t make this about my reaction to your behavior.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said contritely. “I just — want things to be all right with us.”
“Before you leave for six weeks to the other side of the planet!”
“I’m a public figure, Amelia. With duties and obligations to the Crown. Whether I want them or not. You’ve had the opportunity to say no. I never did.”
“I know. But,” Amelia said. How could he be so reasonable, so infuriating, and still sound so wounded, all at the same time? She wished he was standing in front of her right now, not on the other end of the line. “We were just starting to figure out how to do this…thing together.” She couldn’t bring herself to say relationship since it wasn't; there was no forgetting what Arthur had said to Charlie. “But now you’re leaving. I don’t know what you want from me, and I don’t know where this leaves us. I don’t know where this leaves me.” Amelia winced. She had said too much and no doubt sounded needy in a way a prince did not need.
“You’ve every right to be upset,” Arthur said. “I meant to tell you, I did. But everything happened so quickly — my father was ill, and I invited you to Gatcombe on a whim. I was going to tell you then, but then I proposed to you, also on a whim, which got very chaotic very quickly. And that’s a terrible excuse, but I rarely know what I’ll be doing seventy-two hours in advance. I know you’re surprised I’m going to Australia but frankly, I’m surprised I’m going to Australia too.”
“You forgot you’re going to Australia?!”
“Yes?”
Amelia laughed; perhaps she was not the least competent person in this whole affair. “No wonder the Commonwealth is falling apart.”
“I’m not going to tell them I forgot.”
And there it was, that note of camaraderie, of shared amusement at everything difficult in their lives. Amelia clutched at it and pressed her mobile more tightly to her ear. “You’re a dubious prince and a terrible boyfriend,” she teased. The sentiment was true and safer than saying anything she really felt.
“I know. I’m a little out of practice. I really am sorry.”
Amelia knew there was nothing for it; she would have to be brave. “I’ll see you when you get back?”
“God, yes. Of course,” he said with a vehemence that startled her.
“I’ll count on it then,” Amelia said, hope flaring in her breast. “Travel safely.”<
br />
“I will. Good luck on your exams.”
“Thank you.”
There was a pause. What else was she supposed to say before she hung up? Good bye? Good luck? I love you? Those last three words would have felt natural, but Amelia feared the result would be her mortification.
Finally, before the silence became even more terribly awkward, she settled for a soft goodbye and clicked off.
Priya was in the living room, dressed now, the rings still on her hand and Googling on her laptop for ways to get them off.
“You have freaky tiny child hands,” Priya declared. Apparently she wasn’t going to ask anything further about the call with Arthur for which Amelia was grateful. She might need to talk about it at some point, but for now they had other things to attend to.
Arthur may have been going to Australia for six weeks, but her rings were stuck on Priya’s hand. Neither of them could leave the flat while this condition persisted. Amelia wanted to cry, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to find a solution.
“I have an idea.”
“Where are you going?” Priya demanded.
Amelia strode to the front door, unlatched it, and stuck her head out into the hall. Thankfully it was Edward, not one of the rotating night guards, who was there at the impromptu security desk.
He stood immediately. “Lady Amelia. Can I assist you?”
“Do you know how to get stuck rings off of hands?”
Edward didn’t blink. “I can certainly do my best.”
Amelia led him into the flat. He entered deferentially, not like a bodyguard who had a right to go anywhere Amelia did, but rather as a guest who had been invited. In the midst of her embarrassment and anxiety, Amelia appreciated it.
Priya was standing in the kitchen, wringing her hands.
“Good morning, Ms. Joshi,” Edward said politely, taking in the situation with a glance.
“Hi, Edward.”
He gestured to her hand. “May I?” he asked Priya. At her nod, he took her hand in his and examined it. “Ah yes. I wondered if this might happen.” He sounded amused and nodded to the counter next to the sink. “Come on, up you get.”
Priya obeyed. Henry draped his jacket over a kitchen chair, rolled his sleeves up neatly, then soaped Priya’s hand.
“We can never tell anyone about this,” Amelia fretted, doing her best not to hover. Edward’s easiness did little to dispel her own worry.
“Are you kidding?” Priya kicked her heels against the counter happily. “I’m getting an amazing hand massage from a royal bodyguard. This is going everywhere. Truly excellent.”
“Priyaaaaaaaa.”
“I can assure you of my discretion, Lady Amelia,” Edward said, though he and Priya exchanged a wink.
He gave the rings one last wiggle, and they slid off into his palm. “There we go,” he said. “Crisis averted.”
Chapter 14
PRINCE ARTHUR WINS AUSTRALIA’S HEART
26 March
Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII
I have a crush on my fiancé who doesn't love me. He is also the Prince of Wales and on a state trip to Australia.
Technically, this a better situation to be in than the one where Gary dumped me and MIT rejected me. But those things still happened, and my comeback plan has downsides. The photographers camped outside — beyond the perimeter security is maintaining — aren’t helping.
Arthur sends me a text or email every few days. Nothing earth-shattering or intimate, but he’s staying in contact, and that’s nice. He even sent me flowers. Rather, he called or emailed someone to send me flowers. I came home from lab to find them on the table. An entire vase of white roses, with one red one in the center. What it’s a gesture of, I’m not sure. An acknowledgment of our scheme? This mutual destiny we’ve given each other? Perhaps it’s a symbol of our friendship, an echo of my rings. Or, more darkly, a reminder of the way Lancaster always spoils everything.
Someday, if we both work at it, I think we could love each other, the way family does. Or the way friends do. But loving someone and being in love are two different things. He needs to feel more. And I need to feel less.
I also need to go visit his dead wife.
*
As soon as Monday came, Amelia called Beatrice, the royal public relations head, to ask her several questions, and then she called the household office. This time, when she identified herself and asked for Mr. Jones, her royalty customer service representative was immediately put on the line.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, as sunny and competent as ever.
“I have a question.” Amelia had dozens of questions. Hundreds perhaps, but right now there was only one she was worried about.
“I’ll do my best to find an answer. What do you need to know?”
“Later this week I’ll be traveling to Princess Imogene’s grave. To pay my respects. I want to bring flowers to leave there, but I don’t know what’s —” Amelia flailed for the word. “Proper? Appropriate?”
Mr. Jones hesitated. “I can forward you to the G Branch office; they can coordinate a bouquet or a wreath for you to bring.”
“No. I want to organize this myself. I’m not sure flowers mean very much if someone else does all the work. Please. I want it to be personal. Not just a photo op.”
“I’m certainly happy to help you, but this is rather above my paygrade, and we do have people who are paid to do things like this.”
Amelia wondered if she were asking too much or if Mr. Jones just wanted to make sure she got the best service possible. “I know, but I want it to be you. Everyone else scares me,” she admitted with some degree of shame. What kind of princess was frightened of her own people?
“Hmm, all right, then. Roses are always a good choice. Although maybe not the best, given your circumstances.”
He said it wryly, but Amelia couldn’t help but be stuck on the notion of York as circumstances, as if the place of her birth was a dreadful condition. Though she did see Mr. Jones’s point.
“Hardly appropriate for me to lay a wreath of white roses on my predecessor’s grave,” Amelia said, as if flowers could conquer the already dead.
“Quite. I recommend lilies. And if I can suggest, since you don’t want us to handle them for you — get them somewhere busy enough that you’re sure to be seen doing it. I know crowds probably aren’t your favorite right now, but it’ll make a lovely story.”
*
The day Amelia and Arthur’s sister, Princess Violet, went to Imogene’s gravesite in one of the Crown’s chauffeured cars was unseasonably warm and sunny. Outside, the landscape was beginning to bloom into spring. In her lap Amelia held a bouquet of lilies.
Amelia had been twelve when Imogene died, and she still remembered it clearly: From coming downstairs one morning to find the television on and her mother in tears, to attending the state funeral and watching the hearse make its slow, somber way through the streets. She remembered, too, Charlie’s quiet, awful grief. He and Imogene had been friends before Imogene and Arthur had even begun dating.
Now Amelia was part of that sad, strange saga as well and in a way she could never have foreseen. Not when she was twelve and not even a few months ago. How quickly a life could change. A skiing accident. A bit of clumsiness at the races. A moment of errant bravery.
She and Violet didn’t talk much in the car and not at all on the walk to the grave. They were flanked, as always, by Edward and by Violet’s security. Amelia was grateful for the silence, even as she was aware that Violet was studying her.
Imogene’s grave, alone on a quiet hilltop, was surrounded by a low stone wall with just one gate and a guard meant to keep out the more casual visitors. Violet didn’t even glance at the guard, and Amelia tried to follow her lead. Ahead was a photographer, as had been arranged. For royalty, grief was as public an emotion as any other.
The grave itself was simple, just a white plinth carved with an inscription. As she laid the flowers she’d
brought, Amelia thought of the woman she’d once known only in photographs and from television. Now, she had some slight sense of her from Arthur’s words as well.
She hesitated before she pressed her fingertips to the stone engraved with Imogene’s name and the verses a national poet had written for her. Even in the spring sunshine, the stone was cool. If Amelia had been religious she would have whispered some promise to the dead princess whose place she was taking, some lofty declaration of duty and devotion.
I’m sorry, she thought instead. This life should have been yours. You may not have wanted it, but I never longed for it.
*
Back in the car, Violet turned to Amelia, deliberate in putting the somber mood behind them. “What kind of work do you want to do once you’re married?”
Amelia wasn’t expecting the question. “I thought princesses didn’t work? It never occurred to me that would even be possible —”
“Charity work,” Violet clarified. “Committees and such. To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t a charity you’re involved with now, being an earl’s daughter. Or is that not done in the north?”
Amelia stammered at the ignorance. Of course the north had charity! Without it her people went hungry. But she was a student and had always hoped to help in other ways.
Violet continued, cheerfully oblivious. “George does work, of course.”
Amelia hazarded a guess. “With the swans?”
“And the ravens. She worries about them very much. And, as odd as it seems, rightfully so. They are our legacy.”
Amelia decided not to mention the conversations she’d had with Arthur about the ravens. She was uncertain as to whether she was supposed to know of George’s belief in herself as a witch or the fact that their most recent missing raven had turned up at a pub. Just because Violet was surely aware of her own daughter’s strangeness — and the somewhat prosaic habits of the ravens — didn't mean it was polite to discuss.