by Nell Stark
“Damn it, Ker.” He smacked his fist on his knee. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t throw a punch.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You stood up for me. Thank you.”
“They just made me so angry. How can they say those things about you? You’re a Rhodes scholar!”
“Not to them, I’m not. To them, I’m some opportunistic trollop who had an affair with their princess.”
When the car pulled into the police station, they were taken to a small, windowless room where they delivered their statements about the incident to the police chief—a graying, stocky man named Watkins—and a detective. When an officer arrived to take Harris to the clinic, Kerry was left alone with the battered, steel-topped table. As the door swung shut, she was swamped by a wave of fatigue. The adrenaline had abandoned her, and she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, mind churning sluggishly. Left alone for the first time since the incident, she finally had the chance to reflect on how quickly the mob had disintegrated from mean and nasty to downright violent. Her very presence here was a menace—and not just to orderly society. She was a danger to herself, to her friends, to innocent bystanders.
The door opened a few minutes later to admit Mary Spencer with Brent in tow. Their presence made the room feel even more cramped. When Kerry caught Brent’s eye and tried out a smile, he looked away. A premonition fell over her, but she forced herself not to betray the sudden surge of anxiety.
“Hello, Ms. Spencer. Brent.”
Brent kept his eyes trained on the floor while Spencer sat in the seat the chief had vacated and rested her hands palm down on the table. Her face was expressionless save for a subtle tightening around her thin lips that, if Kerry had to guess, probably signaled suppressed fury. Mary Spencer had not come to bail her out, but to ream her out.
“Ms. Donovan, do you know why you were selected for this program?”
Kerry blinked, nonplussed by the unexpected question. The word hung in the air between them, before her brain suddenly kicked into overdrive, recalling the language of the Rhodes Trust’s mission. “I…I would hope because of the caliber of my character, commitment to the common good, and leadership qualities.”
“Character, commitment, leadership.” Spencer cocked her head. Her hair had been pulled back into a bun so tight that the corners of her dark eyes slanted ever so slightly. She suddenly reminded Kerry of the ravens in the Tower of London. “Do you believe you have, thus far, fulfilled the expectations of a Rhodes scholar?”
“I do.” Kerry could see where this was going. Clearly, Spencer thought she was behaving abominably. But Kerry refused to give her the satisfaction of saying what Spencer wanted to hear. She had done nothing wrong. Her professors respected the caliber of her work. Her teammates turned to her for guidance on the pitch. But none of that, she suddenly realized, had turned out to be as important as Sasha. Being there when Sasha needed her, making her laugh, proving her loyalty—these were the accomplishments she was most proud of.
“You do?” Spencer leaned forward, her body language menacing. “You have precipitated an international crisis. How is that in keeping with the mission of this Trust? The Rhodes is not a matchmaking agency!”
The obedient schoolgirl in Kerry wanted to vomit, but the rest of her bristled. “My academic work has been exemplary thus far,” she said, trying hard to modulate her voice despite the rising anger. “I am in good standing at Balliol. My personal relationships are none of the Trust’s concern.”
“Surely you can’t be this naïve.” Spencer’s tone was icy. “You cannot have a personal relationship with Alexandra Carlisle. She does not exist. She is always Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra—an office and a title, in addition to a citizen. Quite literally, she belongs to the United Kingdom.”
Beneath the table, Kerry dug her fingernails into her jeans in a vain attempt to anchor herself. “You describe her as though she’s a slave.”
“In some ways, she is.” Spencer shook her head. “I saw so much potential in you, Kerry. I blame myself for not anticipating how someone of your background would react to moving in these sorts of circles.”
Kerry’s mouth wanted to fall open, but instead she clenched her teeth. She couldn’t believe this. “Someone of my background? What exactly are you saying?”
Spencer held out one hand. “Brent?” He stepped forward and placed an envelope into her palm, which she slid across the pockmarked table to Kerry. “I am saying that you are going back to the States. Immediately.”
“What?” Kerry was on her feet before she realized she’d moved, her gaze flickering from the envelope to Spencer’s impassive face. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth seemed deeper than they had at the beginning of the term. “But—”
“If this ruckus has blown over by next spring, you may petition to return for the following year.”
Kerry blinked hard as her vision blurred. No. She would not lose it. Not here, not now. “Petition to return?”
“Submit a written request to the Trust to be reinstated as a Rhodes scholar.”
Reinstated. At a rush of dizziness, Kerry grabbed hold of the edge of the table. She was being…what? Suspended? Expelled?
“Your tutors have already been informed,” Spencer said as she stood. “That envelope contains your travel information. Your flight leaves very early tomorrow morning. I suggest you return to your room to pack. Immediately.”
She exited the room without a backward glance, Brent trailing in her wake like a puppy. Kerry watched the door slowly close behind them, and when it finally clicked shut, she felt it in every cell. Gone. Just like that. The goals and dreams that had been dangling within her reach…gone. Stripped of her fellowship, vilified by the media, unable to reach the woman she loved—all she had now was the plane ticket in that envelope.
Suddenly unable to catch her breath, she sank back into the chair and rested her head in her palms. Her head spun, thoughts and memories scattering like autumn leaves before the brisk wind outside. As she tried to gather her composure, one question finally emerged like a refrain. What was she going to do now?
The door opened to readmit Chief Watkins. He didn’t smile, but his gaze was sympathetic. She wondered if he had watched the entire showdown between her and Spencer on the surveillance equipment.
“We have a car to drive you back to your residence, Ms. Donovan,” he said.
Kerry tried to speak, failed, and swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
They walked down the hallway in silence. Around them, the station was a beehive of activity. Guilt joined her despair. How many resources had she personally caused to be diverted? The price tag of all this turmoil had to be immense. But was Spencer right? Should she really feel culpable? Had she actually done something wrong, or was the public to blame?
The thoughts were a barrage against the wall of her brain. Blinking hard against tears that threatened to fall, she focused on her feet. She had to hold it together until she was in the privacy of her own room. Where she would have to start packing. Immediately.
Kerry swallowed hard against the sharp flare of grief in her chest. When Watkins finally led her out into a small parking lot where a nondescript black car was idling, its back door ajar, she turned toward him.
“I’m sorry. For all the trouble.” It wasn’t enough, but she had to say something.
Not waiting for a reply, she ducked into the vehicle to begin the first leg of her journey into exile.
Chapter Nineteen
“I can’t believe you’re not fighting this.” Harris sat in Kerry’s desk chair, gesticulating with the ice pack that was supposed to be pressed to his jaw. “They can’t just…just banish you!”
“Yes, they can.” Kerry’s suitcase was open on the floor. As soon as she had entered her room, she had thrown every piece of clothing she owned onto the bed, mostly to stop herself from collapsing on top of the covers and venting the tears of frustration still building behind her eyes. A fe
w had escaped while she neatly folded her sweaters and slacks, but she had stubbornly let them fall without acknowledging their presence.
Harris had arrived a few minutes ago bearing a bottle of Jack Daniels. He hadn’t needed stitches, thankfully, but the skin around the bandage on his face was already showing signs of discoloration. He had waved off her concern with a lame joke about how she should see the other guy.
“But—”
“Harris.” Kerry paused in the act of picking up one of her collared shirts. “What do you want me to do? Bring a lawsuit against the Rhodes Trust? With what money?” The thought suddenly occurred to her that this suspension would mean she couldn’t claim student status any longer. Would she have to begin paying back her college loans? With just over two thousand dollars in her savings account, how on earth was she supposed to do that?
“I have to find a job,” she said, hearing the anxiety in her own voice. “Like, now.”
“Ker. Relax. If you can’t somehow resolve this, the jobs will come knocking on your door. You’re a Rhodes scholar.”
“Am I?”
He swore, set down his ice, and reached for the bottle. They’d already had two shots each, but the liquor had yet to dull Kerry’s panic. As soon as he handed her the glass, emblazoned with Balliol’s crest, she knocked the whiskey back.
“Besides,” she said a moment later, “even if I had the money and inclination to sue, that would be the quickest way never to be invited back here. Don’t you think?”
Harris looked away to stare gloomily out her window. “Probably. Fuck. I can’t fucking believe this!”
A knock came at the door before Kerry could reply. Frowning, she went to the peephole, wondering if the paparazzi had somehow made it past security. When she saw Brent waiting on the other side, a spike of anger trumped her surprise. But that wasn’t fair, was it? Brent was just Mary Spencer’s aide. He hadn’t made the decision to send her home. Taking a deep breath, she turned the doorknob.
“Kerry. Hi.” Before today, she had never seen Brent look nervous. He shifted his weight back and forth, and couldn’t seem to look her directly in the eyes. “May I come in?”
“Sure.”
“Brent?” Harris’s voice carried a clear note of distrust, and Kerry felt warmed by his loyalty. When she had told him of Brent’s presence at the station, Harris had immediately called him a turncoat.
“Hi. I sent you a few texts…”
“All of which I ignored.” Harris’s bandaged face was grim. He looked to be spoiling for another fight.
Brent raised both hands in a gesture of placation as he looked between them. “I feel awful about what happened today. Kerry, I hope you don’t think I agree with that decision. Because I don’t.”
“Thank you.” It felt oddly relieving to hear of his support. If he didn’t think she deserved Spencer’s sanctions, then perhaps there were others out there who didn’t believe all the negative press.
“I could probably lose my job by telling you this, but I think you deserve to know.” Brent leaned against the wall near the desk, as though he needed the physical support. “Shortly after the…incident on campus this afternoon, the Secretary received a call. From King Andrew.”
Kerry felt her jaw drop. “What—what did he want?” she asked, though she suspected the answer already.
“He wants you gone. Plain and simple.”
“I take it Spencer didn’t even try to change his mind?” Harris’s tone was still belligerent.
“Of course she didn’t,” Kerry said. “He’s the King of England. His son is in a coma, and the next in line to the throne is embroiled in controversy. Would you argue with him right now?”
“I sure as hell would.”
Kerry rolled her eyes. “No, you wouldn’t.” The news made her feel better. Spencer had been put under enormous pressure, and she had done what she had to do to keep the peace. The last thing Kerry wanted was for a disagreement about her to spark any kind of political tension that could potentially affect her peers. “It helps to hear this, Brent. Thanks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” Kerry moved back to the side of the bed and resumed her folding. “I’ll go back to New York and stay with my brother Declan until I figure out a next step. Apply to some architecture firms in the city, maybe.”
“And then petition for next fall?”
“Maybe.” Kerry had been thinking about this ever since climbing into the unmarked police car a few hours ago. Given everything that had happened, would she really want to come back? Even if they let her?
“Maybe?” Harris was looking at her as though she had grown two heads. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that against my better judgment, I fell in love with Sasha. And it didn’t work out. I mean, of course it didn’t, right? How could it have?” She forced her lips into an approximation of a smile. “But the thing about Sasha is that she’s a British princess. She’s always going to be here. Maybe it would be easier if I stayed away.”
“You can’t mean that.” As he spoke, Harris poured another shot. “God damn it, Kerry, you belong here!”
“I don’t know where I belong anymore.” She plunked her empty glass down next to the bottle. Mercifully, the haze was finally starting to encroach on her fevered brain. “But I do know I want another.”
He poured; they clinked; the whiskey burned. After downing the shot, Harris looked to Brent. “You need one?” When he nodded, Harris glanced around the room before refilling his own glass. “Here. Share mine.”
Brent’s answering smile was tinged with relief. “Thanks.”
Kerry barely stopped herself from telling them to get a room. They would eventually, she suspected—one of the perks of a normal relationship untainted by the spotlight of celebrity. For now, though, she wanted them to stay and distract her from her own thoughts until she was intoxicated enough that her demons would never be able to find their way into her dreams.
*
As the sky outside her window began to brighten, Sasha finally gave up on sleep. She sat up slowly so as not to aggravate the dull ache in her temples that had been her constant companion for days. Ever since hearing the news that Kerry had returned to the States, she’d been plagued by insomnia. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, gritty and rough. Her stomach churned sluggishly, perhaps in protest that she’d barely eaten anything the night before.
She slid out of bed and walked slowly into the bathroom. If she was going to be awake, she might as well get herself to the hospital. Tomorrow would mark a week since Arthur’s accident, and despite the assurances of his physicians that he could still make a full recovery, everyone was growing increasingly desperate.
Traffic was light at such an early hour, and she and Ian arrived at the hospital just as the shift was changing. The crowd outside had dissipated after the first few days, but the hospital staff had roped off a small area of the courtyard where well-wishers could leave flowers and other tokens of support. Every morning, royal guards collected the items, but by nightfall the space had filled again.
Inside, the halls were mostly deserted. The doctors and nurses whom they passed all greeted her with sympathetic murmurs of “Your Royal Highness.” Here, at least, she wasn’t a disgrace. Not only did the specter of death make all humans level; it also had no patience for trivial matters.
As she approached the nursing station, she recognized the head nurse as the one who had charge of the morning shift. She knew all their names by now.
“Hello, Robert.”
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness.”
“May I see him?”
He made a few clicks on the computer, probably consulting Arthur’s chart. “Your brother is scheduled for another CT scan at nine o’clock, but until then, certainly.”
Sasha reached for the desk as alarm skittered along her already frayed nerves. “Another?”
But Robert smiled gently at her. “Not to worry, ma’am. It’s ro
utine. I’ll take you to him.”
Near the end of the corridor, he ushered her into Arthur’s room. It was dimly lit and very quiet, save for the soft whoosh of the ventilator and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Almost immediately, she felt her breathing align with Arthur’s heartbeats.
As the door shut, leaving her alone with him, she pulled up one of the nearby chairs to his bedside and reached for his left hand. It was warm to the touch, but entirely limp. She pressed it between both of hers and cleared her throat. His head was swathed in bandages, but most of his face was clear, and she focused on the prominent cheekbones he had inherited from their mother. Despite how frightened it made her to see him helpless like this, she had to be strong. He might be able to hear her.
“Hi, Artie. I know—you hate when I call you that.” Her laugh was strangled. “I couldn’t sleep, again. I’m so worried about you. All of us are. Practically the whole world is praying for you. How does that feel?”
She kissed one of his knuckles, still slightly bruised from the accident. “But there’s something else on my mind, too. Something I can’t talk to anyone about, except you. It’s something rather selfish, and since everyone already thinks the worst of me, I’d rather not have this getting out. You’ll keep my secrets, won’t you? You always have.”
The memories came rushing back, then: Arthur conspiring with her on pranks of their childhood nanny, Arthur taking the blame for the window she’d broken at Kensington playing cricket, Arthur refusing to tattle when she had drawn some rather inappropriate cartoons in permanent ink all over the fine Easter linen tablecloth. He had been the first person she told about her sexual preference—even before Lizzie or Miranda—and she couldn’t imagine making this confession to anyone else.
“I’ve met someone. A woman. Her name is Kerry, and she’s a Rhodes scholar. She’s extraordinary, Arthur.” Sasha felt herself smile as Kerry’s handsome face crossed her mind’s eye. “You’d like her. She’s a footballer—quite brilliant at it, actually. And even smarter than you. She’s kind and generous and passionate. She told me she loves me, and I think…”