by Nell Stark
Sasha leaned back against the vinyl, enjoying its coolness against her shoulders as she took another sip of coffee. Miranda’s attempts to manipulate her were always so obvious.
“And you don’t want to go alone.”
Her lower lip jutted into a pout. “Fine, yes. And that.”
As her internal debate waged, Sasha closed her eyes. She knew exactly what would happen if she kept her promise to her father: she would make some kind of blunder while regurgitating the canned lines she’d been spoon-fed. Outwardly, her audience would remain polite, but later she would hear them murmuring. They would look at her slightly askance, with that nauseating blend of pity and condescension perfected by academics. Word would get back to King Andrew, and he would chastise her for not taking her responsibilities seriously.
Well, fuck it. She wasn’t going to be controlled by anyone. She would either call her father’s bluff, or force his hand in making good on his threat to her company. And if he dared to do the latter, she might be able to spin the story to her advantage. The tabloids were shallow in their interests and fickle in their loyalty, but at least they always listened.
*
The Great Hall at New College was everything Kerry had anticipated from one of the university’s most venerable institutions. Founded in the late fourteenth century, the college’s oldest buildings exemplified the Perpendicular Gothic mode, with their high ceilings, tall windows, and narrow arches. The space gave the impression of an ornate cage, but she didn’t feel trapped. As she occasionally contributed to the conversation that ebbed and flowed around her, a part of Kerry’s mind remained detached and observant, marveling at the intricacies of the ornate vaults high above her head.
Elaborate chandeliers hung down between the arches, and their light cast dancing shadows along the stone floor. The room was nearly filled to capacity with several long rows of tables covered with deep blue cloths, each of which boasted a tall, sweet-smelling candle as thick as the circumference of her biceps. The high table was set perpendicular to the rest and elevated on the stage. Glancing up from her cup of tea, she realized it was beginning to clear.
Kerry wondered where Princess Alexandra was. She’d assumed the princess would be dining with the warden of the college and the members of the Rhodes Trust, but perhaps she would only be joining them for the reception. Harris’s fascination seemed to be rubbing off on her, if only a little. She supposed it was natural. Most Americans couldn’t help but be curious about the vestiges of the system that had prompted the very foundation of their country.
When the butler of New College stopped at the head of their table to ask them to follow, Kerry pushed her chair back, stood, and immediately winced at the soreness in her legs.
“What’s wrong?” Harris asked.
She waved off his solicitousness. “Just a little stiff. I meant to run five miles today. Ended up being closer to ten.”
He gestured for her to precede him as they filed toward the door. “While I took a nap this afternoon, you accidentally went on a ten-mile run? What are you training for, the Premier League?”
Kerry laughed. “No, I just wanted to see the city. It was a good way to take myself on a tour.”
He clapped one hand on her shoulder. “They have buses for that, you know.”
“How on earth did you win silver in the Olympics with your lazy attitude?”
“I’m an entirely different person when there’s a coxswain in my life who will chew me out and get my butt into gear.”
Kerry glanced back at him, incredulous. “I’m not touching that sentence with a ten-foot pole.”
A devilish grin spread across his face, and she only narrowly dodged his attempt to ruffle her hair. When they were forced to wait at the door, she turned warily to face him.
He held up his hands. “Truce. And if you ever want a running buddy, let me know.”
“You can come with me whenever you like. But here’s the catch: I prefer to run early in the morning.”
Harris groaned. “Never mind.”
As they filed outside, Kerry buttoned her suit jacket. The temperature had fallen significantly during dinner, and a light rain began to fall as the butler led them across the immaculate quad. When she turned her face into the wind, the spatter of cold drops against her cheeks mingled with the scent of damp autumnal foliage to stir up a tide of nostalgia in her blood. Soccer weather. This was the first September in memory when she hadn’t been in training, and her insteps ached with longing for the pitch like the pain of a phantom limb.
A wave of homesickness crashed over her as she thought of her teammates, now dispersed to the four corners of the globe. One of them, their star forward, was training with the national team. The others were either employed or had moved on to graduate school. She missed their easy camaraderie—the way they’d protected each other and teased each other and finished each other’s sentences. She even missed her nickname, though she never would have admitted that to them.
But freshman year wasn’t so long ago that she couldn’t remember how it took time to settle in with an unfamiliar group of people. She had a new cohort now, and though they weren’t joined by anything like the ties of shared purpose that bound a team together, some wonderful friendships would surely grow out of their shared experience. She just had to be patient.
“The name may have predisposed you against it, but I didn’t think the spotted dick was that bad.” Harris’s teasing whisper sliced through her reverie.
She jostled him lightly in the ribs. “I liked it quite a bit, actually.”
“So why the long face?”
“Just thinking.”
Up ahead, the butler was explaining to one of her compatriots that the warden of New College had wanted to host this reception in his garden, but that the inclement weather had interfered. As they paused at the entrance marked “Warden’s Lodgings,” Kerry turned to admire the picturesque view of the quad and its surrounding buildings, most of which were at least two full centuries older than anything on Princeton’s campus.
Harris flung one arm around her shoulders. “The only thing you should be thinking about right now is how you’re going to behave in the presence of royalty.”
“You’re the one obsessed with Princess Alexandra. I’m going to leave her alone, and I’m sure she’ll afford me the same courtesy.”
“Oh, bollocks,” he said, and Kerry couldn’t help but smile at how easily he’d appropriated the expression. “Where’s your sense of romance? We’re not talking about the daughter of some media kingpin or dot-com-bubble entrepreneur. This is the British crown!”
Before he could launch into a rapturous ode about “this royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,” they emerged into a rectangular, mahogany-paneled room that smelled of pipe smoke with a faint undercurrent of wood conditioner. Firelight flickered in the far corner, and Kerry moved instinctively toward the flames. When a waiter appeared before them with a tray of champagne flutes, Harris deftly plucked two and handed one to her with a chivalrous flourish.
“Good evening, distinguished guests.” Space cleared around the warden as he spoke. “On behalf of the university, I am immensely pleased to welcome the newest Rhodes scholars to Oxford. I shan’t bore you with a long speech, and I look forward to conversing with each of you individually. I have only one announcement: Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra sends her regrets with the news that she is ill, and will therefore be unable to attend our soiree this evening.” Harris’s face fell even as the warden raised his own glass high. “Now, for a toast: may your time with us be at once challenging and illuminating, and may you bear that light with you when you finally travel hence. Cheers.”
Slipping her arm around Harris’s waist, Kerry lightly clinked her glass with his. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to basking in her presence.”
As she watched, his disappointment gave way to determination. “We’re here for two years at the very least. Plenty of time to have a royal encount
er.”
“That’s the spirit. Oh, look—there’s Julia. Let me go introduce you.”
For the next hour, Kerry made a methodical effort to say all the proper things to all the proper people. Burying her melancholy, she slowly circuited the room, moving from group to group like a honeybee gathering nectar. This performance was one she’d delivered successfully many times before, and it came easily now. She sipped only lightly from her flute as she exchanged pleasantries with her peers, with the warden, with members of the Rhodes Trust. The approval of her superiors washed over her like a drug, blunting her lingering homesickness. She belonged here. She could do this. Already, the pieces were falling into place.
As the reception drew to a close, Brent mustered them near the fireplace. “We’re very sorry that Princess Alexandra was unable to be present,” he said. “But I have some good news. Thanks to one of our trustees, your names have been added to the guest list at Summa, a brand new nightclub in town. If you’re interested in continuing tonight’s celebration, please stop by. Otherwise, I’ll see you at our morning breakfast.”
The excited hum began as soon as she walked away. Summa was Latin for “highest.” Kerry knew that much. But her peers had far more specific information. Anna informed them that it was owned by the same person behind one of the most exclusive clubs in London. Tonight was the grand opening, and she’d heard that someone famous was giving a private concert. The event was nearly impossible to get into, and yet they’d all just been given a free pass.
“This is so exciting!” Harris linked his arm through hers as they reemerged into the misty night.
Kerry didn’t answer right away. She’d never been inside a club of Summa’s caliber, and part of her wanted very badly to witness the dazzling spectacle. The rest of her was fatigued and needed to do some recharging, far away from crowds and noise. Harris must have sensed her hesitation, because he stopped and grasped her shoulders.
“You’re coming with us. No excuses.”
“But—”
His eyes reflected the wet lamplight. “Once classes have started, Kerry Donovan, I’ll let you sequester yourself all you like. But not tonight. Not when we have the chance to pretend we’re VIPs already.” The serious set of his jaw gave way to a smile. “Besides, what if I need a wingman?”
Kerry threw up her hands in surrender. Harris was right. Tomorrow would come soon enough. She had done well at the reception. She was on the right track. She could indulge just a little, and enjoy this unexpected perk. After all, how often did the name of a blue-collar kid from Pearl River appear on an exclusive guest list anywhere?
“All right. I’ll come along.”
Twenty minutes later, she was riding an elevator up to the penthouse level of a sixteenth century tower near the southwest corner of the city. This building had likely once served as a guard post of some kind, perhaps during the English civil wars. Now it served the desire of the elite socialites for a gathering place where the rabble couldn’t interrupt them. She wondered what Cromwell would have thought.
Kerry followed Harris into the club, which fused the original early-modern stone architecture with translucent partitions and a transparent ceiling. She wished fleetingly that the stars were out, before her attention was drawn to the stone bar topped with frosted glass. Colored lights embedded into the ceiling playing across its surface in shimmering, almost psychedelic patterns.
“Epic!” Harris shouted over the throb of the DJ’s electronic beat. “Let’s get a drink.”
Kerry followed him to the bar and ordered a Sazerac. Her college friends had poked fun at her for her love of what they called “old man” drinks, but the bartender seemed excited to mix something that required a bit of skill. As they waited, Kerry angled her body to get a good view of the dance floor. Some of her new friends were already out there, grinding against both strangers and each other. Idly, she wondered if their group had missed the band, or whether it would be performing later.
And then the crowd parted to reveal a woman in a shimmering, open-back silver dress, her wavy dark hair brushing against her delicate collarbone as she swayed in time to the music’s rhythm. She was surrounded by a ring of admirers, but she had made the beat her own. She danced with none of them for more than a few moments before turning, always turning, in search of her own space. Kerry’s breath caught at the sway of her hips and the light sheen of sweat at her temples and the brilliant emerald color of eyes that were suddenly locked on hers.
Harris cursed beneath his breath and gripped Kerry’s arm hard enough to bruise. She wanted to ask if he knew the identity of the woman, but the words stuck in her throat. Fortunately, he had become adept at reading her mind.
“That is Princess Alexandra. And she’s checking you out.”
The princess turned away. A light tap on Kerry’s shoulder heralded the arrival of their drinks, and she closed her hand tightly around the glass as though it might be able to anchor her to reality. She took a deep breath followed by a long sip, and finally, logic kicked in.
“She was not checking me out. She just glanced this way.”
Harris’s drink remained untouched on the bar, his attention riveted to the crowd.
“Oh, really? Because she just ‘glanced this way’ again.”
Steeling herself, Kerry looked back to the dance floor. “What are you talking about? I don’t even see her now.”
“To my right. Near that cluster of tables.”
Princess Alexandra had retreated to the periphery and was engaged in a tête-à-tête with a blond woman who was wearing high heels so tall it was a wonder she didn’t topple over onto her face. Kerry was struck by the disparity between the two women. On the surface, they were similar. Both wore sleek, form-fitting dresses that probably cost at least ten times more than Kerry had ever had in her bank account. But while the blonde was elaborately coiffed and made-up, the princess seemed wild around the edges. More unrestrained. Kerry couldn’t tell exactly why she got that impression—her hair, perhaps, or maybe her posture—only that it was very strong. The more she looked at Princess Alexandra, the faster her heart raced.
“You and the rest of the world,” she murmured.
“What?” asked Harris.
“I guess she lost interest.” Kerry made her tone light. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
He shook his head as he reached for his drink. “Believe me, Ker. She was checking you out. I know attraction when I see it.” He leaned in closer. “And you seemed pretty gobsmacked, too.”
Kerry could feel the flush crawling up her neck, but she refused to act flustered.
“Of course I was. She’s beautiful.”
“Who is?”
Kerry didn’t have to turn around to know whose lilting, soprano voice had spoken the words; Harris’s expression betrayed all. His back went ramrod straight, his thick eyebrows shot into his hairline, and his hand visibly trembled as he set down his glass. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.
The sudden roar that filled Kerry’s ears made her feel a little dizzy, and she kept one hand on the bar as she turned. Alexandra looked even more striking now than she had from a distance. Her full lips held the hint of a knowing smile, and Kerry did the only thing she could think of. She confessed.
“You, Your Royal Highness.”
The bridge of her nose crinkled adorably as her smile broke free. “Please. It’s Sasha. And you are?”
“Kerry Donovan.” Kerry wasn’t at all sure about whether commoners were encouraged—or even permitted—to shake the hands of princesses. Fortunately, Sasha solved her dilemma by reaching for her hand and squeezing briefly as she grazed her thumb across Kerry’s knuckles.
“Hello, Kerry.”
As Sasha introduced her friend, Miranda Howard, Kerry focused on taking slow, steady breaths. She had just told a British princess that she was beautiful, and now they were chatting. Subtly, she dug the fingernails of her free hand into her thigh. She wasn’t dreaming.
“A
nd this is Harris Whistler.” Kerry didn’t know how she was managing to keep from stammering.
“We missed seeing you at the reception earlier this evening,” Harris blurted.
In the ensuing awkward silence, Kerry fought not to smack his beefy shoulder. For someone so bright, he could be incredibly dense. Why had he called attention to her absence? Clearly, her illness had been a convenient excuse. Could he think of nothing better to say?
Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re both Rhodes scholars, then?”
Kerry hurried to speak before Harris could shove his other foot into his mouth. “We are.” She flashed what she hoped was a charming grin. “I’m smarter, obviously.”
Sasha laughed—a hearty sound that wasn’t at all what Kerry would have expected from a princess. Endearing and infectious, it lightened the mood considerably.
“And what are you studying?”
“Sustainable architecture,” Kerry said, thankful that by now she could explain her chosen profession without even having to think. “Specifically, I’m interested in developing techniques for modifying historical buildings in order to make them more environmentally conscious.”
“That’s fascinating. I hope it goes well for you.”
She seemed genuinely interested, but Kerry had no doubts that Princess Alexandra was adept at bluffing. As Harris chimed in about his focus on colonial history, Kerry snuck another glance at Sasha. This close, she could appreciate the finer details of her beauty—the curl of her long lashes, the light flush dusting her cheekbones, the elegant curve of her lips. For several surreal minutes, they chatted about superficial topics—where Kerry and Harris were from and how they were liking Oxford. And then the DJ put on a new, popular song that roused a cheer from the crowd.
“Let’s dance.” Sasha slipped her hand back into Kerry’s grip. Her fingers were warm and smooth, and as they entwined with Kerry’s, a spark kindled low in her belly.
Before she could reply, she was being led out onto the dance floor. When Sasha let go and began to move with the beat, Kerry felt the strangest mixture of relief and regret. In an effort to calm her racing mind, she tried to focus on finding and maintaining some sort of rhythm instead of simply flailing about.