Her Royal Highness

by Rachel Hawkins

  I smile at that, finally reaching over for my calculus notebook. “Well, that sounds like your kind of thing for sure, then. Can you get away from here for a whole weekend?”

  “They’ll have to let me go,” Flora says with that breezy confidence that’s as much a part of her as her hair color or her long legs. “It’s basically a diplomatic thing. Terrible insult if the royal family doesn’t send a representative when she’s so close.”

  “Is that what you are?” I ask, notebook already forgotten on my stomach. How does Flora always manage to distract me? “A diplomat?”

  “An ambassador,” she says, lifting her nose slightly. And then her regal bearing falls away into those surprisingly dorky giggles she’s prone to. “Anyway, should be a good time, and even if it’s not, it’s better than this place.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” I murmur in reply, and okay, no, now I’m seriously going to start my homework.

  But then Flora says, “But I so enjoy when you argue with me.”

  I look up, not so much at the words, but at the tone of her voice as she says them. It’s . . . soft. Fond.

  Affectionate, maybe.

  But “soft, fond, and affectionate” describes puppies, not Princess Flora of Scotland, and maybe one of these days, I’ll actually start remembering that.

  So rather than smile back, I pick up my pen and say, “Well, don’t worry. You’ll have probably ten million more opportunities to do that in the future.”

  “Could this weekend be one of them?”

  I am just . . . never getting this homework done, I see that now.

  “What?” I ask, eyebrows somewhere near my hairline, and Flora crosses her feet the other way.

  “Come with me to Skye. You’ve never been, have you?”

  I flick my pen at her, and she raises her hands to defend herself, laughing.

  “Okay, stupid question.” Stewpid. Her accent really is the best.

  “I’m just saying, you came to school here to see more of Scotland, but so far, all you’ve seen is, what? A few airports? A train station? And Dungregor, which is just too depressing to contemplate. So come with me and see Skye. You’ll love it.”

  I chew on my lower lip, shooting a glance at my desk. It’s practically groaning under the weight of my books. I’m behind on my reading for history, haven’t even started on my English essay, and my calculus grade is probably slipping as we speak.

  On her bed, Flora flops over to her stomach, pushing herself closer to the edge. “Skyyyyyyye, Quint,” she wheedles. “There will be so many rooooocccckkkks.”

  That shocks a laugh out of me. “There are lots of rocks here, too.”

  Flora’s grinning again, that mischievous one with the glint that always spells trouble. “But not magic rocks.”

  “Now Skye has magic rocks?”

  She reaches over to her side and pulls out her phone, tossing it to me. “Look at my wallpaper.”

  I do. It’s a picture of Flora, but a younger Flora, maybe fourteen or so. She’s standing between her two brothers. Seb isn’t quite as Magazine Handsome as he is now, but the other guy, their older brother, Alex, is definitely chiseled. He’s blonder, like Flora, and all three of them are decked out in what was probably very pricey athletic gear. Flora’s cheeks are red, her smile broad as she looks at the camera, and behind them is this massive rock, jutting out of the ground and into the sky. All around them is a mix of green grass and stony rubble, and with the mist surrounding the three of them, they could be on another planet.

  “That’s us at the Old Man of Storr a few years ago. On Skye.”

  I know she’s trying to tempt me with the rock formation, but it’s Flora’s face I’m looking at when I hear myself say, “Okay. I’ll go.”

  While not as headline-grabbing as the Scottish Royals, the Beauchamp family of Skye is still one of the more interesting clans in the country. Lord Henry and Lady Ellis are known for their gracious hospitality as well as their gorgeous home on the northern tip of Skye. After the restoration of the “Lord of the Isles” titles, the family occupy a space somewhere between the royals and the nobility, although Lady Ellis herself was born a princess in the English royal family.

  Princess Flora is especially fond of the family, having been close to Lord Henry’s youngest granddaughter, Lady Tamsin Campbell, daughter of the Duke of Montrose. There were hopes of a match between the duke’s daughter and Princess Flora’s brother, Prince Sebastian, but they seem to have been scuttled last year, and Flora and Tamsin’s friendship was rumoured to be a casualty of the breakup.

  (“Scotland’s Poshest Families,” from Prattle)

  CHAPTER 24

  “So do I need to bow to these people like I do your mom?”

  Flora shakes her head, pulling out that little mirror with the pink glittery back to check her makeup. “No. Well, yes, sort of, not as deeply. A tiny curtsy will do, and Lord Henry is not all that formal anyway, if I’m honest.”

  We’re in a black SUV, making our way north to Skye. Flora told me that up until the ’70s, the only way to get to Skye was on a boat. Now, thank god, there’s a bridge. Me and boats do not mix well.

  Of course, there’s a chance me and this entire weekend won’t work, anyway. It’s not like I forget Flora is a princess when we’re at Gregorstoun—I couldn’t if I tried—but this is my first taste of the actual royal life. I’ve felt weird in Darcy’s house for years, and she’s just Regular Person Rich. Not this kind of fancy.

  Sighing, Flora stashes the compact again and settles deeper into her seat. “You’re nervous.”

  I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Little bit,” I admit. “But I know I call Lord Henry ‘my lord,’ and Lady Ellis ‘Your Royal Highness,’ because she was born a princess and got to keep that title. And that there are different glasses for water and wine, and there will be a whole bunch of forks to use.”

  Flora gives me one of those smiles I like so much, reaching over to pat my leg.

  “By jove, I think she’s got it!”

  I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are warm, and the place where she’s got her hand feels even warmer.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, I remind myself. A crush on Flora is the stupidest thing I could possibly do, for all kinds of reasons, but ever since the Challenge, things are different between me and Flora. Not just because I know she likes girls, too, but that’s part of it, I have to admit. My brain wants to remind me that sexuality aside, Flora is not a romantic option for me, but it’s hard to remember it when she’s looking at me like that, when we’re tucked away in the back of a fancy car, speeding through some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. The whole princess thing had never really appealed to me as a kid, but this?

  Yeah, this I could get used to.

  Then the car is pulling up a long gravel driveway, and I twist my hands nervously.

  The Lord of the Isles lives in the first Honest-to-God Castle I’ve seen since I got to Scotland. I might have thought Gregorstoun was a palace the first time I saw it, but as I climb out of the back of the car and take in the structure in front of me, I realize Gregorstoun is just a really big school. This?

  This is a castle.

  It’s not like something out of a fairy tale, all lovely and delicate. Weirdly enough, that’s kind of what I’d been picturing. This is more a medieval fortress, with turrets and high walls, slits cut into the rock for arrows.

  “God, it’s beastly, isn’t it?” Flora murmurs at my side, and I look up at the place.

  “It’s . . . amazing,” I finally say, and she looks over at me, lips slightly pursed. I wish I could see her face better, but she’s wearing another pair of those massive sunglasses she likes since, for once, the day is actually bright and sunny.

  Reaching down, she takes my hand. It’s a friendly gesture, one I’ve seen her make with other girls at school,
but when her fingers curl around mine, a little shiver sparkles through me.

  Luckily I don’t have too much time to focus on that because there are two very furry horses suddenly bounding down the front steps toward us.

  I make a sound that is probably deeply unattractive, a kind of “Yeep!” as the animals approach, but Flora drops to one knee there in the gravel, arms already outstretched.

  The dogs—because that’s what they are, not some freak species of pony—happily dance around her, pink tongues lolling, and Flora makes all sorts of high-pitched noises and kissy sounds at them as they bask in her attention.

  Laughing, she rises to her feet, readjusting her bag on her shoulder, and I look at her, feeling weirdly . . . unsettled.

  I have Flora so fixed in my head as prissy and unapproachable, even when I have those moments of wanting to smell her hair, but this Flora? This goofy, “get down in the dirt with the dogs” Flora is new. Or not new exactly, but more like you shifted a drawing another way and suddenly saw a hidden picture inside or something.

  It’s weird.

  But then there are men in khaki pants and gray sweater vests coming out to get our luggage—apparently things aren’t all that formal here—and Flora’s reaching for my hand again, tugging me inside.

  “Come on. If you think the outside is impressive, the inside will floor you.”

  She’s not wrong. We step through the massive stone archway and into a hall that soars overhead and stretches all around us in three directions. Directly in front of us is a massive staircase made of worn stone, leading up to an open gallery. To the right, there’s more ancient stone and a long corridor of doors, and to the left is another stone arch that leads to a long hallway full of suits of armor, all lined up against the wall like they’re ready to defend the house against invaders.

  There’s a boy jogging down that hall. Like the guys outside, he’s wearing a sweater vest, but it looks better on him, clinging to broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair is appropriately floppy for a guy who looks like him, and his eyes are really blue as he gets closer, grinning at us both.

  “Flo,” he says warmly, scooping Flora up into a hug, and she hugs him back, her hands patting his back.

  “Sherbet!”

  I blink, wondering if she really did just call him “Sherbet,” but then he’s setting her down and offering me his hand to shake.

  “Hullo, I’m Sherbourne.”

  Ah, okay. Still not really a name, but not a frozen dessert, either, so I guess I’ll take it.

  “So this is your first time on Skye?” he asks me, and I nod as he gestures for me to step in front of him and head up the staircase.

  “It is, yeah. It’s lovely.”

  Sherbet smiles at me, hands in his pockets as we all walk up together. The stairs are wide enough that the three of us can actually stand side by side, and there’s still room for someone to pass us.

  “What are you doing here, Sherbet?” Flora asks. “I thought you’d be gallivanting in Greece or something.” Flora leans a little closer to me. “Sherbet’s boyfriend is Greek, and we’re all wildly jealous of the trips he gets to take to visit him.”

  Sherbet laughs. “Last time I checked, Flora, dating someone from Greece was not a prerequisite for visiting. You could have your very own Greek holiday anytime you want.”

  Flora mulls that over, tilting her head to one side. “Christmas, then, maybe? After the wedding, of course. I’ll talk to Glynnis.”

  I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it, the way things like “a trip to Greece” get the same amount of consideration I’d give to going camping for the weekend. What is it like not to have any sense of money or limitations or time? How does anyone live a life like that?

  But then, as Sherbet guides us onto the landing, I remind myself that I’m spending a weekend in a castle, so hey, maybe that life isn’t as remote as it seems.

  “Flora, I believe you know where your room is,” Sherbet says, and Flora slings her bag over her shoulder, grinning.

  “The Fruit Punch Room, yes, thanks, Sherbs.” With that, she wiggles her fingers at me and says, “I’ll come by your room once I’ve unpacked and freshened up, okay?”

  “Sure,” I reply, still wondering what “the Fruit Punch Room” might entail, but then Sherbet is opening a door to his left and ushering me into the bedroom.

  It’s all done in shades of mint green with the occasional darker green accent and a few splashes of deep, rich purple. My bed has an honest-to-god canopy, plus little curtains held back against the massive posts with purple velvet ribbons.

  A giant window dominates one wall, and when I walk over to it, I see I have a view of a little garden plus, in the distance, the ocean.

  I glance back over my shoulder at Sherbet, who’s grinning, hands in his pockets. “It’s something, right?” he says, and I figure if a boy like this is impressed by this room, it really is something.

  “I can’t . . .” I say, trailing off and shaking my head before laughing. “Something, yeah,” I finally say before turning back to look at the view again.

  “It’s one of the prettiest rooms in the whole castle,” Sherbet tells me, “which I guess is why Flora always picks it.”

  Turning back, I look at him, surprised, and he winks at me.

  “She insisted you have it.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Flora is as good as her word, coming back to my room after about twenty minutes, wearing an entirely different outfit. I’m still in the black pants and sweater I wore here, but I actually put on some mascara and a little lip gloss, and Flora notices immediately.

  “Look at you, Quint,” she says, teasing as she tugs me out the door and into the hallway.

  “Figured I should bring it if I was going to hang out with lords and stuff,” I tell her. “But I still have no idea what I’m going to wear to dinner tonight.”

  Flora waves that away. “I told you, I’m handling that.”

  “That’s what scares me,” I mutter, and she flashes me a sly grin.

  “Do you doubt my taste?”

  “Not doubt so much as fear,” I say, and she gives a bright laugh.

  We make our way down the hall, past portraits and little alcoves with small marble statues, and as we head for the stairs, I ask, “Why is your room called ‘the Fruit Punch Room’?”

  Without answering, Flora walks to a door a little way down the hall and opens the door, gesturing for me to come over.

  I look inside, then almost immediately take a step back. “Whoa.”

  The walls of the bedroom are so red it almost hurts my eyes, and the bedding is covered with a pattern of fruit trees and grape vines.

  “Makes sense now,” I say, and she nods.

  “When Lord Henry was made Lord of the Isles, the former owners of this house had to hand it over to him. Allegedly they were so pissed that Lord Henry was taking over, they tried to redesign the entire thing before he could get here. But they only managed this one room, making it as ghastly as possible. Lord Henry thought it was funny, so he kept it as is.”

  “Interior design as revenge,” I muse. “I like it.”

  Smiling, Flora closes the door, and we continue along the hall and down the stairs into the main foyer again. Sherbet isn’t there, but there is a man standing in a tweed suit, a cane in one hand, tapping impatiently on the marble floor.

  “Uncle Henry!” Flora calls, and the man turns to look at her, his wrinkled face splitting into a grin as he spots her.

  “Ah, there’s trouble,” he says affectionately, and Flora steps off the stairs to give him a hug.

  Lord Henry is in his seventies, but moves and stands like a much younger man, his shoulders back, his hair thick and white. And when he looks at Flora, there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it,” he says, bending down to kiss her cheek, and Flo
ra squeezes both his shoulders before pulling back.

  “I wouldn’t miss one of your dinners for anything, Uncle Henry,” she says, then waves at me. “And I brought my roommate, Amelia.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “She’s American.”

  “Ah,” Lord Henry says, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “As are some of my grandchildren, so I have a lot of affection for your countrymen.”

  “Lord Henry’s daughter, Maggie, married an investment banker from New York.”

  “She did indeed,” Lord Henry confirms. “He’s terribly boring, but I won’t hold that against all Americans.”

  With that, he winks at me, and I relax a little. So far, my first look into Flora’s World isn’t too scary. Sure, we’re in a castle, and yes, I’ve just met a lord, but he’s still just . . . a person. A nice person who likes Flora and is welcoming to random Americans in his house.

  Then he asks Flora, “You haven’t seen Tamsin yet by any chance, have you?”

  Flora’s smile dims a bit, and she straightens her shoulders, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “No,” she replies. “I actually didn’t know she’d be here. It’ll be nice to see her again, though.”

  “Ellis wanted the house full of young people for the weekend,” he replies. “Says it keeps us young. In any case, if you see her, tell her my wife was looking for her, won’t you?”

  Flora nods, her expression pleasant enough, but I can tell something is up as Lord Henry wishes us a good afternoon and heads up the stairs.

  “Who’s Tamsin?” I ask once he’s out of sight, and Flora tosses her head, moving toward the front door.

  “Lord Henry’s granddaughter,” she replies, and as two footmen open the heavy doors for us, I trudge after her onto the steps. “Not one of the American ones.”