I hoped it was a long, long drive and there would be lots of lovely traffic, so we could sit in the backseat and I could marvel at how good his hand felt in mine.
It was no easy job shoehorning everything into the cars. “Gillian, my love,” Lissa’s mom puffed, heaving on a suitcase, “you should let Lissa tutor you on the art of traveling light.”
“She did,” Gillian protested. “You should have seen what I had packed before!”
Gravel crunched in the distance and everyone paused. “Are we expecting guests?” I asked Dad.
“Not likely, since we won’t be here the rest of the day. I wonder who that could be.”
In a few minutes we had the answer. A black limousine the size of a cruise ship nosed down the drive and crunched to a stop behind our two vehicles and all the luggage, blocking our exit.
“This can’t be good,” Shani said.
Carly and I stepped in front of her.
For all I knew, it could be the Prince of Wales coming down from Balmoral to call on Dad. But somehow I doubted it. He always drove himself.
A uniformed driver got out and went round to the passenger side. He opened the door, and a man and a woman got out. Their dusky skin and hawkish profiles gave me my first clue.
“Busted,” Lissa murmured. “How did they find out?”
The driver stood next to the front fender of the limo and straightened to military posture, hands behind his back. “Their Serene Highnesses Sheikh Amir and Queen Zuleikha of Yasir,” he announced in tones you could hear halfway across the valley.
Five hundred years of breeding kicked in once again. Dad bowed, and Mummy and I dipped our very best Ascot curtseys. Behind me, Shani did the same. She at least had the advantage of knowing the royal couple when she was a child. The other Americans didn’t curtsey, but Patricia inclined her head in the closest thing to a bow she could probably manage.
The Sheikh wore a keffiyeh, but instead of the flowing robes I’d always imagined, he tugged on the jacket of a flawlessly cut Italian suit. His shoes were glossy, as though the snow in the drive didn’t dare cling to them. He stepped forward, and he and Dad took each other’s measure.
“I am the Earl of Strathcairn,” Dad said at last. “You and Her Serene Highness are most welcome to my home. Will you do us the honor of coming inside?”
You’d think royal limousines pulled up in the drive every day of the week. It was a lucky thing we’d left plenty of time to get to the airport. We’d only run into problems if they stayed for tea.
“I thank you.” The Sheikh inclined his head, but his black eyes did not leave my father’s face. “But I regret we cannot. Our errand is of a most serious and urgent nature.”
“How can I help you?” Dad asked simply.
The Sheikh’s predatory gaze moved to Shani, and I heard her slow intake of breath. “I have found what I came for.”
Queen Zuleikha put a hand on his wrist. “Remember, my dearest, she once wore the Star of the Desert. Think of our son.”
“It is because I am thinking of our son that I have come all this way in the cold.” He turned to Dad. “Why did you conceal this girl from my agents? They were charged with bringing her to me. I understood she had returned to America until I saw a newspaper photograph of her fleeing in this very house.”
I remembered the flashes going off as Shani and I had dashed into the closed-up wing. Oops.
Dad’s ears began to turn red and I stepped forward before he lost his temper for the second time this decade.
I bobbed another curtsey and looked the royal couple in the eyes. “Your Highnesses, I am Lady Lindsay MacPhail, the Earl’s daughter. This has all been my fault. I took that video of Shani and sent it to a friend by mistake. This friend posted it on the Internet out of spite.”
“I do not care who made it public,” he snapped. “I care that this girl has toyed with the name of my son when she had no right.”
“She meant—”
“Mac.” Shani pulled me out of the Sheikh’s reach. Not that I thought he’d strike me or anything. But she took my place in front of them. “Your Highnesses. For the sake of our families’ long friendship, please listen to me.”
“Your disobedience to your parents has severed the connection between our families,” the Queen informed her coldly. “But for your mother’s sake, you may speak.”
“I don’t know which version of that video you heard, but anyway…” Shani took a steadying breath. “I said I’d been a princess for four weeks.”
“Liar!” the Sheikh snapped. “My son has told us that is not true!”
“What I was saying—what I meant when I said that, was that I had been a Christian for four weeks. A daughter of the King of Kings. Not that I was Rashid’s wife.”
Silence, except for the sound of the wind in the bare trees.
“I do not understand,” the Queen said at last.
“I meant that I was a princess in God’s eyes, not the eyes of the world. When I gave up the Star of the Desert, I gave that up forever. You can ask Rashid, Mama Zazu—I mean, Your Highness.” Shani flushed scarlet and looked at the ground.
The Queen’s gaze softened. “You called me that as a child, when you stayed with us in Greece.”
“That does not excuse—” the Sheikh began.
“You have spoken with our son?” the Queen interrupted.
Shani nodded. “This morning. He understands. We’re still good friends, and a mistake like this can’t change that.”
“You did not mean to embarrass the Prince?” the Sheikh wanted to know. “You were speaking of something else entirely? Of God?”
“Yes, I was,” Shani said. “And as long as you and I and Rashid all know that, I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.”
The Sheikh set his jaw and said nothing. Queen Zuleikha glanced at him and said smoothly, “Then we are satisfied. Go in peace, child.”
“And you, too.”
“Will you stay for tea?” I had the presence of mind to ask.
“No. Our plane is waiting for us. We must return to Yasir at once to set the hearts of the people at rest. Good-bye.”
We barely had time to straighten out of our curtseys before they had climbed back into the limo. The driver wheeled it in a circle and they sailed away down the drive.
“My goodness,” Mummy said faintly. “That was worse than being presented.”
“Well done, Shani,” Dad said. “And Lindsay, too. Very brave of both of you.”
Shani blew out a long breath and slipped one arm round me in a hug. “That’s the nice thing about my friends. No matter how bad it gets, they’ve got my back.” Her eyes met mine. “And you know what Lissa says about the armies of angels.”
I did, indeed. But angels are beings of spirit, and I’m a concrete sort of girl. The best kind of angels are the ones you can share clothes with. And experiences. And your deepest thoughts and fears and hopes.
The best kind of angels are your friends.
about the author
Shelley Adina wrote her first teen novel when she was thirteen. It was rejected by the literary publisher to whom she sent it, but he did say she knew how to tell a story. That was enough to keep her going through the rest of her adolescence, a career, a move to another country, a B.A. in Literature, an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction, and countless manuscript pages.
Shelley is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends and loves writing about fun and faith—with a side of glamour. Between books, Shelley loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies.
IF YOU LIKED
tidings of great boys,
you’ll love the final book in the All About Us series:
the chic shall inherit the earth,
available in January 2010!
Turn the page for a sneak peek…
Excerpt from Th
e Chic Shall Inherit the Earth
chapter 1
LET ME PUT IT right out there: I’m no sports fan—unless you count surfing, which is more of an attitude to life than a sport. I used to think that there were some things you just knew. But if God were a major league pitcher, he’d be the kind of guy who threw curveballs just for the fun of it. To catch you off guard. To prove you wrong about everything you thought you knew.
Which is essentially what happened to us all during the last term of senior year at Spencer Academy.
My name is Lissa Evelyn Mansfield—yes, I’m back again. Did you miss me? Because seriously, this last term of high school before my friends and I graduated was so crazed, so unpredictable, that I had to write it all down to try to make sense of it. Not to mention the fact that no one else would touch it with a ten-foot pole, so the job fell to me.
But hey, let’s take a moment, here. The words last term of senior year deserve some respect, not to mention celebration. They need to be paused over and savored. Excuse me.
Okay, I’m back.
The term began in April, and by the time our first set of midterms (or thirdterms, as Gillian Chang calls them, since we get three sets of exams every term) rolled around at the beginning of May, it was just beginning to sink in that there were only seven weeks of high school left. Seven weeks until freedom. Adulthood. Summer vacation. Adulthood. Home.
Adulthood.
Eek.
“Sarah Lawrence is stalking me,” Gillian moaned from where she sat on her bed in our dorm room that day. “Here’s another letter.” She fished an envelope out of the pile of mail in her lap and waved it.
I looked up from my MacBook Air, where I was checking e-mail. “Don’t let Emily Overton hear you. She got turned down, and her roommate has had to keep her away from open windows for the last month.”
“But I already told them no twice. What’s it going to take?”
“You could fail some exams.” I’m always willing to offer a helpful suggestion. “They can’t help it if they covet your fearsome brain.”
“So does Harvard. And Princeton. Not to mention Stanford and Columbia and Juilliard.” She threw her hands in the air, and the letter flew over her shoulder and bounced off the headboard. “Don’t forget them.”
“I’m glad I don’t have your decisions to make,” I told her with absolute honesty. “If all those schools were after me, I’d run away and hide.”
“I’ve got to figure out what I’m doing with my life.” She glanced at me. “Or maybe I should say, what God wants me to do with my life.”
“There’s the kicker.” I nodded sagely. “The Lord knows about acceptance deadlines, doesn’t He?”
“Oh, yeah. He knows. I keep asking Him, and He keeps thinking about it. Maybe He wants me to figure out what I want first. But that’s the impossible part.”
Poor Gillian. She has the kind of brain schools fight over for their research programs. But she’s also a music prodigy—hence the acceptance into Juilliard. Then, to complicate things even more, she also has quite the talent for drawing, and ever since she met my friend Kaz Griffin, her dream has been to create a graphic novel starring a kick-butt Asian girl with a secret identity. Kaz, in case you haven’t met him, is my best friend from my old high school in Santa Barbara. He’s been trying to get his graphic novel published for, like, years, with no success. But I have to hand it to him. He never gives up hope.
Anyway. Gillian.
“You could always do pre-med at Harvard and minor in art or music,” I suggested. “You know you’re going to need a release valve from all that scientific pressure. It would be good to have those to turn to.”
Gillian pushed the stack of mail off her lap and leaned back against the stack of colorful silk pillows. The letter from Sarah Lawrence crumpled somewhere underneath. “But then how will I know if I’m any good?”
“Um, your grades? Not to mention if you got an acceptance from Juilliard, you’re good. Full stop, as Mac would say.”
Lady Lindsay MacPhail, aka Mac, was a student here at Spencer for two terms, and was one of our little group of friends. She’s gone back to live in her castle in Scotland, though, and she has none of these questions about her life. She knows exactly what degree she’s going to get, when she’ll get it, and what she’ll do with her life after that.
I envy people who have their future in a laser sight. I’m still trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow.
“What do teachers know?” Gillian asked. I don’t think she was looking for the answer to that one. “If I’m going to find out whether I’m really any good, I have to try to get into an art program and give it everything I’ve got. Try to get an exhibition. Or a publisher. Live in a garret and try to make it as an artist.”
“That sounds scary.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Medical school is the easy path, grasshopper.”
Only Gillian Chang would say something like that.
I turned back to my notebook and saw that while we’d been talking, a message from Kaz had popped up in my inbox.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: May 3, 2010
Re: Ow
I am so regretting pushing off Physics until senior year. My brain hurts. What was I thinking? Instead of grabbing my board and heading for the beach, I’m stuck down here in my room writing equations I don’t know the answers to.
Does the Jumping Loon tutor over the phone? Can you ask her? I’ll give her anything she wants, including full use of my studly body, if she’ll just say the magic words that will unveil the meaning of x and y, not to mention z.
Life, I’ve got a handle on. X is a mystery.
xo,
Kaz
I looked over my shoulder. “Kaz wants to know if you do Physics tutoring over the phone. He says you can do what you want with his body if you help him.” I paused when she didn’t look up from a Neiman Marcus catalog. “I didn’t know you were interested in his body. Does Jeremy know about this?”
“That sounds like a jealous remark.” She flipped a page. “Ooh, nice dress. Chloe does summer so well. Which reminds me, if we’re going on a Senior Cotillion dress safari, we’d better start soon.”
I was not to be sidetracked, no matter how tempting the bait. “Is there something going on with you and Kaz?”
She put the catalog down and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Yes. Yes, there is.”
I sat there, as stunned as if someone had upended a bucket of seawater over me.
Kaz and Gillian? What? How is that possible? When did—
What is the matter with you? Kaz is your friend. We aren’t… like that. If he’s interested in Gillian, it’s none of your business.
Poor Jeremy.
“Lissa. Lissa, come back to me.”
I blinked at her. My face felt frozen.
“For crying out loud, get a grip.” She was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “He’s teasing you. He’s helping me with a 3-D mold of his hand for my art project, okay? That’s all.”
“A mold. Of his hand. And you don’t have guys’ hands any closer than Santa Barbara?”
“He has interesting hands, which you’d know if you ever paid any attention.”
Of course he did. And of course I did. Pay attention to him, I mean. He was my best friend. We e-mailed each other, like, twenty times a week.
“And Jeremy’s hands aren’t interesting?”
She picked up the catalog and flipped another page. “Write him back and tell him of course I’ll tutor him. We can start tonight if he’s desperate.”
Hmm. Poor Jeremy, indeed. What was going on here? “He wants to know the meaning of x.”
“Don’t we all. Some of us wait for the universe to reveal it to us. And some of us wouldn’t know if the universe dropped it on our heads.”
“What’s your point?”
But my friend, who usually has all the answers, didn’t reply.
IF YOU ENJOYED
Tidings of Great Boys
CHECK OUT THE BOOK THAT STARTED IT ALL:
It’s All About Us!
Tall, blonde Lissa Mansfield is used to being one of the “in” crowd, but being accepted by the popular girls at posh Spencer Academy boarding school in San Francisco is turning out to be harder than she thought. And then there’s her New-York-loudmouth roommate, Gillian Chang, who’s not just happy to be a Christian herself—she’s determined to out Lissa, too! If Lissa can just keep her faith under wraps long enough to hook Callum McCloud, the hottest guy in school, she’ll be golden.
But when Callum pressures her to go all the way with him, Lissa has to decide for herself how far is too far. How can she see that line when he’s so gorgeous and popular and she’s so dazzled? And besides, she’s too busy shopping for a Valentino and booking the hottest celeb for the Benefactors’ Ball. Who knew finding a place at Spencer Academy would be so complicated?
AVAILABLE AT BOOKSTORES NOW!
BE SURE TO PICK UP BOOK TWO IN THE ALL ABOUT US SERIES:
The Fruit of My Lipstick
New Yorker Gillian Chang starts her second term at Spencer Academy prepared to focus on her studies, her faith, and her friends—Lissa Mansfield and Carly Aragon. She plays half a dozen musical instruments and can recite the periodic table of the elements backward. She’s totally prepared for everything—except love!
She’s falling hard for Lucas Hayes, a junior who is already aiming at a PhD in physics from Stanford. The problem is, she never seems to be able to measure up and be the girlfriend he wants. He’s under a lot of pressure to achieve—maybe that’s why he’s short-tempered sometimes. But even a thick-skinned girl like Gillian can only take so much.
With her heart on the line, Gillian conceals more and more from her friends. When she’s accused of selling exam answer sheets, even Lissa and Carly wonder if it’s true. Gillian will need the power of honesty—with herself, with Lucas, and with God—to show what she’s really made of.
Tidings of Great Boys Page 20