by Emma Chase
I watch him and think of when he was a little lad—all head and glasses and short, skinny limbs.
“Show me, Edward! Show me how to kick the ball like you.”
“Can I sleep in here with you? You’ll keep the shadows away.”
“When you go away to school, Edward, can you take me with you?”
His breathing gets slower and slower, and I know Lenora and Michael see it too.
And I look at his face and he’s not wearing his glasses. They’re folded on the bedside table because he doesn’t need them. Because he’ll never need them again.
And it’s so fucking wrong.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do.
Except sit and watch him go, and feel the fury at the injustice of all of it.
Thomas lets out a deep, slow breath—peaceful—longer than any that came before. And I lean forward, waiting, praying for him to inhale just once more. To stay just a little longer.
But it doesn’t come.
The only sound in the room is the click of the clock in the corner—it’s deafening against the still, perfect silence. The doctor steps forward and checks for a pulse, a heartbeat, with his stethoscope. He lifts each of Thomas’s eyelids gently and even before he utters the words, Michael’s face collapses into his hands and the silence is overwhelmed with his sobs.
“He’s gone,” the doctor tells us.
And it’s over, just like that. But I don’t feel empty or drained. My muscles tighten with a rage I’ve never known. I want to destroy something. I want to tear this damned castle down, stone by stone, for no other reason than because it’s still here and my brother is not.
I pat Michael’s back, trying to channel the seething energy into comfort because I know that’s what Thomas would’ve wanted.
The doctor lifts the sheet and covers him. And still—stupidly—I wait for it to billow with his breath. When it doesn’t come, when the white cotton lies quiet over his features, a wave of crushing disappointment presses down on me. Slowly I get to my feet and move over to the bedside table. With reverence, I pick up those thick-framed glasses, and my vision blurs as I hold them in the palms of my hands. I choke back the burn of wetness that’s drowning my throat and slip the glasses into my shirt pocket, above my heart—where I swear they will stay every day for the rest of my life.
“There, there . . .” I hear from behind me, in a lovely feminine voice. Nothing should be so lovely on such a terrible day.
“It’s better this way,” Lenora tells Michael.
I spin around, ready to attack.
“Better for whom?”
She looks up at me with wide, dry eyes and perfectly composed features.
“It’s better that he didn’t suffer,” she says.
And even that rationale infuriates me.
Lenora stands. “I will go to the chapel and pray for his eternal soul.” She looks to the maid. “I’m not to be disturbed.”
The maid nods.
I have an altogether different reaction.
“Prayers? That’s all you’ve got? My brother’s final days on this earth were filled with concern for you. Your welfare, your future—and all you have for him are fucking prayers? Not even one tear? Or does the Queen not grieve either? Not feel anything for anyone except herself?”
She regards me with as much emotion as stone.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“I think your relationship with my brother was lopsided. I think he cared for you a fuck of a lot more than you ever cared for him.”
Her gaze remains infuriatingly steady. As calm and flat as the surface of a breezeless gray lake.
“I don’t care what you think.”
She turns her back, dismissing me.
“Winston?”
The dark-headed guard who barely takes his eyes off her steps forward.
“I’m here, Your Majesty.”
“Stay with the Duke,” she says. “He shouldn’t . . . I don’t want him to be left alone.”
The guard dips his head. “I won’t leave his side.”
With her shoulders back and head high, like she’s wearing some invisible crown, the Queen walks from the room.
Later, I don’t know how long it’s been, Michael and I sit together in the great room. Drinking whiskey. Lots of it. And staring at the enormous wall of ancient, nasty-looking weaponry hanging from it. The wall of death.
We don’t speak, not yet. That will come later, when we’re strong enough—or drunk enough—to actually form words. But when I hear the door open, and see men walking through the foyer and up the stairs rolling a gurney, I rise to my feet.
“Who the hell are they?”
“They’re from the palace,” Michael explains. “Thomas is to be buried there.”
“What? Why? And you’re all right with that?”
He swipes the back of his hand across his nose. “The Queen says I’m welcome to visit at the palace whenever I like.”
Then he shrugs, and pours himself another glass.
“No—no, they can fuck right off. We have a family plot on our land where generations of Rourkes are buried. He belongs here.”
I don’t know why I care, it’s idiotic—Thomas wouldn’t give a single shit. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling possessive and protective of him. Or maybe I’m just itching for a fight.
I march through the foyer, toward the door. The maid—the one from upstairs; I think she came with Lenora from the palace—intercepts me, as if she’s reading my mind.
“The Queen doesn’t want to be disturbed, sir.”
“Well, we don’t always get everything we want in life. If the Queen hasn’t learned that by now, I’m happy to instruct her.”
I stalk around the maid, out the door and across the courtyard to the family chapel on the northern-most side of the estate near the cliff. There’s no security guarding the door, so I don’t pause before tearing it open and letting it slide closed behind me. The small rear vestibule is cloaked in darkness, except for the dim, red-tinged light that comes from the glow of the late-afternoon sun through the high stained-glass windows.
Houses of worship each have a distinct scent, depending on the faith and country. Sometimes spice or incense, sometimes clay or earth. Here, I’m enveloped in the scent of my childhood—the perfume of burning candles and the heavy flora of lily of the valley. I close my eyes and breathe it in, and the memories that come with it are not exclusively unpleasant.
My eyes spring open when I hear a muffled sound. I move to the double doors that lead into the chapel and open one slightly. And the sound is louder. Clearer.
It’s pain. Heartbreak. Devastation. Raw and inconsolable.
Lenora is prone before the altar, on her knees, her spine curved, her face in her hands, crying so hard she trembles. And the sounds that come from her—sharp, stabbing, wrenching sobs over and over again. I can feel her anguish, even from across the room—her sadness and sorrow and terrible loss.
It’s the same for me. Those same feelings rip through my chest and echo in my heart.
I close the door, gently so she won’t hear. And I lean my back against it and sink to the floor. Though she’ll never know, I stay there with her. And the Queen cries her heart out, for both of us.
One month later
Palace of Wessco
“NOW TELL US, Your Majesty, what do you and the Duke do in your leisure time?”
I forgot about this part. The fakery and arse-kissery, the etiquette and protocol. I forgot about the boredom. The hours of mundane pageantry and useless tradition.
“We discuss literature, art, politics,” the Queen says pleasantly. “We go to the museum and take long horseback rides on the estates.”
This is exactly how I imagine hell. Hot artificial lights and glaring cameras and sniveling wankers who call themselves journalists asking stupid questions.
“And picnics?”
“Of course. I love picnics.”
Hel
l is a thick, itchy suit and a necktie so tight it might strangle me.
“Now, on to the topic viewers really want to know: the wedding dress.”
And at this point, I hope it fucking does.
“I’m afraid that’s top secret.” Lenora smiles like a professional charmer.
She has a dozen different smiles—the tight frustrated smile, the sarcastic I think-you’re-a-goddamn-idiot smile, the patient persuasive smile. All of the them are beautiful, but none of them are real.
None of them light up her eyes.
Well . . . except for maybe her pretty, vicious, victorious smile—the kind a cat wears after swallowing a mouse. That’s one of my favorites. When it slides onto her lips, I can’t help but imagine how pretty that rosebud mouth would look when she gasps.
Or moans my name.
“And will you be taking a honeymoon?” the reporter asks. “Any hints you can give us as to the location?”
“There’s too much work to be done to go for long, but we’ll be taking a brief honeymoon after the wedding,” the Queen replies. “Somewhere tropical.”
“Ah, an island holiday,” the tool croons. “How romantic.”
I reach over and take Lenora’s hand, threading our fingers together, even though I know it may irk her. Have to do my part, after all.
“Romantic is practically one of our middle names.”
She digs her nails into my hand, where the camera can’t see, and I have to swallow a laugh. Because this is the dance we’ve fallen into, two fencers circling each other—lunge, parry, lunge, parry. Prodding and poking and feeling each other out.
“And how are you finding palace life, Your Grace?” the reporter asks. “Politics must be very different from the mountain climbs and deep-sea dives you’re known for.”
“Not so different. In each case it’s important to watch your step, and keep a mind out for sharks just waiting to strike.”
He nods. “It seems almost kismet that you were brought together by the untimely illness of Lord Thomas, your dear friend and your younger brother.”
Immediately, the bite of Lenora’s nails disappears. And I slowly stroke the pad of my thumb back and forth across her knuckle, the way I’d calm a skittish horse.
“Our falling in love was a comfort to Thomas, knowing we would have each other after he was gone,” she says. “We are grateful that something so wonderful could come from something so tragic.”
On that note, the interview ends. The journalist gives us his farewells, and we’re barely able to take a sip of water before a new one sits down and it begins all over again.
Repeating the same thing over and over and hoping for a different result isn’t insanity. That’s hell too.
“You’re very good at that.”
The final, eighty-seventh interview on the royal betrothal tour has concluded, and it’s just the two of us now, out on the balcony waving and smiling like idiot mannequins to the crowd below.
“Good at what?” Lenora asks.
“Lying.”
She gives a little shrug that doesn’t disrupt the rhythm of her wave.
“I prefer to think of it more as . . . performing. And it wasn’t all a lie. I do enjoy picnics.”
I glance down at the crowd—at the cheering, elated expression for the slip of a woman beside me.
“They adore you.”
Her face softens, like a mother gazing at her newborn.
“Yes. I’m quite fond of them as well.”
Then Lenora glances toward my waving, waving palm—because this is what I do now.
“You shouldn’t have held my hand during that interview. The Palace frowns on physical contact between members of the royal family. I’ve told you this.”
“I won’t be dictated to. If I want to hold my fiancée’s hand I’ll fucking hold it.”
My fiancée. Still not used to that.
I’ve seen firsthand how life can turn on a dime, but this has got to be the damnedest turn of all.
“What does that mean, anyway?” I ask. “The Palace frowns? Who is The Palace and why do we give a shit that they’re frowning at us?”
Lenora’s gentle brow furrows, like she hasn’t considered it before. “The Palace is the advisors, the ministers and secretaries, sometimes Parliament and the Prime Minister.” She shakes her head, throwing off the thought. “In any case, you should also stop swearing. We’re being photographed, filmed, and there are lip readers.”
“So many rules. Your whole life is a list of shoulds and shouldn’ts.” I lower my arm and drift closer to her, close enough to smell the lilac in her hair. “Don’t you ever have the urge to chuck them all out the window and just do what you want, Lenny?”
“No, I don’t.” Her lips part, and she seems a bit flustered. Breathless. “And I’ve told you—you should address me as Queen Lenora or Your Majesty.”
Another should.
I hover over her.
“But you’re not, are you?”
She lifts her chin to look up at me.
“Not what?”
“My Majesty,” I say softly. I drop my eyes, dragging them over every inch of her, all her delectable swells and valleys. And she is glorious to look at.
“At least . . . not yet.”
After the balcony, we have tea on the back terrace with the Palace’s head press secretary—a middle-aged man with milk-white skin, orange hair, a nasally voice and a habit of sniffing after each sentence he speaks.
I take my tea with a heaping helping of whiskey.
“Now, as I was saying, I’d like to schedule a photo shoot for you, Your Grace.” Sniff sniff. “At your family estate.” Sniff.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to have another photograph taken of me gazing off into the horizon, like an utter arse.”
The secretary glances down at his notes. “But we need to give the establishment press something to counter the stories circulating in the tabloids.” Sniff.
“What stories?”
He passes me a folder. “Several are reporting that the Rourke fortune has been squandered and you’re only marrying the Queen for money and title.” Sniff, sniff, sniff.
“That’s ridiculous. Lying bastards.”
“You can’t let it bother you, Edward,” Lenora says.
“It doesn’t bother me; it pisses me off. There’s a difference.”
The butler, Jonathan, announces that the press secretary has a call—the man sniffs his apologizes for the interruption—and heads inside.
When it’s just the two of us, Lenny runs her finger along the handle of her teacup thoughtfully. “My very first front-page headline was the announcement that I’d begun menstruating.”
I freeze and my eyes dart to hers.
“You’re joking.”
Lenora holds up her hands like a banner. “‘Palace staff confirms: Crown Princess Is Fertile.’”
“Christ, you’re not joking.”
And I’m furious. For her. For the innocent, trusting girl she must’ve been, once upon a time.
“Your father should’ve burned the paper’s offices to the ground.”
She looks up, surprised by my answer. But after a moment, she shrugs. “You have to learn which headlines to pay attention to—which ones can do you damage and which ones you should pretend aren’t even there. If you take them all to heart you’ll go mad. Believe me, I know—I had an uncle who went out that way. My mother’s brother—batty as a loon.”
I laugh because Lenny can be very funny . . . when she’s not trying so hard to be a pill.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, where did you get that?” I gesture to the egg-sized diamond surrounded by a dozen blood-red rubies sparkling on Lenora’s right ring finger.
“The Palace requested it from the conservator of the Rourke family jewels. It was your mother’s.”
“I’m aware. You should toss it in the river or bury it on consecrated ground. My parents couldn’t stand each other.”
Esp
ecially not after my father caught my mother boffing the chauffeur and tossed her out. He was never a pleasant fellow, but after that he worked very hard at making everyone around him every bit as miserable as he was.
Lenora stretches out her hand, tilting her head and examining the jewel.
“It’s tradition for the bride to wear the groom’s mother’s jewelry.”
“It’s bad luck, is what it is. I’ll get you a new ring.”
Whether she’s going to argue or agree, I don’t know—because suddenly, the double doors to the terrace open like a whirlwind is coming through.
A whirlwind named Princess Miriam.
“The Prodigal Princess has returned!” she announces. Then throws herself at the mercy of the Queen—literally. She falls to her knees and hugs Lenora around the middle, almost climbing on top of her. “Don’t hate me!”
I watch Lenora’s face. She lets her sister accost her for a moment, then she sighs and hugs her back, before finally rolling her eyes.
“Oh, get up. I don’t hate you. Stop being dramatic.”
I don’t think Miriam knows how to be anything else.
They stand and Lenora holds out Miriam’s hands, examining her little sister’s wild, curly light brown hair, her bright beaded pink dress, her sparkling wrists and ears and neck that are laden with jewels, her hopeful, robin’s-egg-blue eyes.
“Where have you been, Miri?”
The young Princess shrugs and plucks a tart from the plate, popping it in her mouth and answering around it.
“Rome, Venice, you know . . . around.”
“And your husband?” Lenora says it lethally, with a smile to match. “The footman. Is he with you? I’ve so been looking forward to meeting him.”
That meeting will not go well for Miriam’s husband.
“Dmitri? Oh, I left him.”
Lenny is confused.
“Left him where?”
Miriam reaches for another tart. “I was sure Dmitri was the one—that I would love him to bits forever and ever. It was so fun at first. But once we got to Italy he became so boring! All he wanted to talk about was ‘the future’ and ‘children.’ I don’t know what I was thinking marrying him. But, it’s all right now—I’ve had the whole thing annulled. Well . . . almost annulled. I was hoping you could speed things up a bit and put in a good word with the Pope?” Miriam wags her finger. “He always liked you.”