by Evie East
Good times.
My boots rap sharply on the marble floors as I walk from my suite, around a corner, and down a massive stone staircase. I don’t spare a glance at the pair of guards shadowing me, but I know they’re there.
They’re always there.
I really need to start interviewing personnel for my Princess Guard. If I’m going to be trailed every moment of the day, it needs to be by people I trust. The only problem is…
These days, I don’t trust anyone.
As I pass through the Great Hall, I avoid looking at the massive throne that sits on the far side of the room on a raised platform, its ornate surface gilded with an obscene amount of gold. Passing beneath a massive archway, I turn toward the ancient part of the castle — the South Wing.
The stones here are older, their construction somewhat cruder. The floor beneath my feet has been worn smooth by thousands of feet over thousands of years. Narrow slotted windows, built to withstand medieval arrow fire, pepper the walls at uneven intervals. It’s not hard to imagine rounding a corner and bumping straight into a corset-wearing courtier from days of yore.
I’ve only been here once before, the day Linus came home, and I didn’t have much chance to look around with Simms on one side and Lady Morrell on the other. Curiosity stirs in my veins as I wind through hallway after hallway, admiring the ornate gas lamps that light my way, peeking subtly through open doors.
Fully aware of the guards at my back, I try not to be too obvious about my snooping as I bypass the King’s private library, what appears to be a billiards room, and a parlor full of ancient weaponry. Eventually, I find myself standing in front of two heavy oak doors at the very end of the corridor. The doorknobs are shaped like lion heads, as is the ornate knocker embedded in the wood.
I lift a hand and rap the knocker against its plate. The door opens almost instantly, a white-gloved servant pulling it wide to grant me entrance into my father’s sanctum. I step over the threshold and take in the room. It’s a gorgeous study — floor to ceiling bookshelves, massive windows overlooking the wooded grounds, a huge desk dominating the space.
To my surprise, Linus isn’t sitting behind it. He’s seated in a maroon wingback chair by the roaring fireplace, an afghan thrown over his knees, a thick stack of papers on his lap.
“Emilia! Come in, come in.”
I try to keep my face clear of shock as I walk toward him, but it’s difficult to contain my emotions. At seventy-three, he’s never been the picture of health… but now, sitting there by the fire, he looks so terribly frail. So vastly changed from the man I met mere months ago.
“I’d get up to greet you, but…” He trails off with a cough.
I sink into the chair across from his, unsure what to say.
His eyes drift toward the door. “Charles, you may leave us. Unless…” He glances back at me. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”
I shake my head.
“Then that will be all, Charles. Please ensure we are not disturbed.”
The door shuts with a resolute click, leaving us alone. For a minute, the only sound in the room is the crackling of wood logs in the fireplace.
I clear my throat roughly. “You’re looking well.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “And you’re a liar.”
“No, I…” I trail off. He knows I’m lying. There’s little point continuing the facade. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a weak old man, if you must know.”
I grimace.
“Don’t waste your worries on me, Emilia. My health has been ailing for a long time. Far before someone decided to spike my champagne with a dose of curare.”
“Still no leads on who might be responsible?”
He shakes his head. “The King’s Guard assure me they are actively seeking answers. But so far, they’ve come up empty.”
“Do they believe there’s any connection between the person who tried to kill you and the person who started the fire that killed King Leopold and Queen Abigail?”
“I think it would be foolish to dismiss the possibility.” He coughs again — a wet, wracking sound that makes his whole body convulse. I try not to flinch as I wait for him to continue. “If it is in fact the same person, I have no doubt they will strike again. The motivations are clear — to extinguish the Lancaster line, once and for all. And I must say… with my brother in the ground, Prince Henry still lying in a burn unit, and my own weakened state… they seem to have an alarming success rate.”
A chill goes through me.
“That’s why I called you here, Emilia.” His eyes narrow on mine. “I’ve spoken to Octavia—“
“Oh, goodie.”
“Emilia. Please. I am not naive enough to believe that you and my wife will ever get along. However, I am hopeful that with enough time, you two will learn to respect each other. Albeit grudgingly.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”
“Despite what you might think, Octavia acts in what she believes is the best interest of this family. She’d do anything to protect the Lancaster legacy.”
“No matter who gets steamrolled in the process?” I shake my head. “The only member of this family she cares about is herself. The things she’s done — to me, to her own children… Don’t you see? She is despicable. A monster. And she wants me gone.”
“That’s simply not true.”
“Oh, okay.” I roll my eyes heavenward. “You’ve convinced me.”
Linus sighs. “She came to me because she’s concerned about you.”
I scoff. Loudly.
“She wanted me to know you feel unsafe with your current security detail. That you’ve insisted on your own unit of guards.”
“And I suppose you think that’s an absurd idea.”
“On the contrary. I support it completely.”
My brows go up. “You do?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “I want nothing more than for you to feel safe in this palace, Emilia. I know my coronation didn’t go quite as planned…”
A snort pops out. “You could say that.”
“But I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here. I want you to feel as though… well, as though this is your home.”
Home?
I almost laugh.
My home is a ramshackle two-story house on Peach Street in Hawthorne, with a fading, painted mailbox that says LENNOX in Mom’s sloping brushwork. My home is a lumpy twin mattress in a blue bedroom barely larger than a closet, with creaky floor boards and bad insulation. My home is one door down from the Harding family, in whose backyard I spent many afternoons sitting in a treehouse with a blond boy I used to call my best friend.
This cold stone castle will never be my home.
Linus must read the emotions on my face, because he sighs again. “I’d hoped you would not be entirely unhappy here. I can see I was wrong.”
Guilt sluices through me. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. Just… a bit lonely.”
“But I’m told you’ve been riding nearly every day with Hans. And you have your step-siblings for company. I thought you were getting along with Chloe and Carter?”
If you only knew…
“I do get along with them, but they’re busy with their own lives. Plus, I’ve finished my coursework for the semester. I suppose I’m feeling rather restless without it.” I chew my bottom lip. “You have to understand — I spent three and a half years working toward one goal. To become a psychologist. And now, I’m not doing anything of consequence. Nothing I do has any purpose or meaning.”
“That is simply untrue.” Linus reaches for the newspaper sitting on the end table beside him. Smiling softly, he extends it toward me. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and grab it. My eyes widen as I take in the bold headline across the front page.
THE PEOPLE’S PRINCESS: HER ROYAL HIGHNESS EMILIA CHARMS CROWDS AT REMEMBRANCE DAY CEREMONIES
Beneath the headline, there’s a color photograph of me crouched on the stre
et, reaching through the partition to set my tiara atop Annie’s head. Below the fold, another frame shows me standing at the podium, mid-speech. The look on my face is one I’ve never seen before — full of passion. Emblazoned with energy and undeniable excitement.
I barely recognize myself.
“So you see,” Linus murmurs. “Your actions do have meaning, to a great many people. You do have a purpose, Emilia. It simply may be different than the one you’d planned for yourself before.”
My heart clenches. I glance up at him, feeling more confused than ever. “But… this? Politics and princess duties? I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”
“Precisely. That’s why they love you.”
Folding the paper, I flip it over so I’ll stop looking at the photos. “Love seems like a bit of a stretch.”
“I think you forget — you are poised to become one of the most influential queens in the world. Many people will admire you for that fact alone. But you could earn more than their admiration. You could easily earn their adoration as well.”
My head shakes, rejecting his words. “I highly doubt that.”
“Then take another look at that newspaper!” His voice is suddenly intent. “You are just starting out and you’ve already captured the hearts of the press, of the public. That proves you have the natural charisma of a true leader.”
“Look, I just don’t think I’m cut out to be anyone’s leader. I’m twenty years old! My life is a damn mess. No one should be looking to me to make decisions.”
“Emilia, even the best leaders doubt themselves. They question whether or not they’re the best person for the job, whether they’ll live up to expectation. That’s only natural. In time, you will learn to trust your own instincts — and your own abilities. You will become the person they believe you can be.”
I glance at the newspaper again, feeling undeniably uncomfortable as I scan the image. All those excited faces in the crowd, undeniably enamored with their new princess…
The People’s Princess.
“They’re giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Linus murmurs quietly. “Why is it so difficult for you to do the same?”
I shake my head, unable to speak. There’s a new lump in my throat made of anxiety and something else — something I don’t want to look at too closely, just yet.
“They believe in you.” Linus’ voice is even softer now. “Why can’t you believe in yourself?”
“I don’t know, okay?” The words are so thick I can barely get them out. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I suggest you figure it out.” He coughs again, sounding wretched. As though he’s drowning on the fluid in his lungs. “Sooner than later, my dear.”
Chapter Six
The next week passes in a blur of press engagements.
I spend a snowy morning reading books to children at a local pre-school. I sip tea with the dull-as-dirt Prime Minister’s wife at a charity fundraiser in Frenberg. I tour our Museum of Natural History with a group of visiting foreign diplomats — before kicking off my heels to race through the dinosaur exhibit with their kids. (Which, for the record, is the most entertaining moment of my entire week.)
Naturally, the press has a field day.
BAREFOOT HEIR! PRINCESS EMILIA DITCHES DESIGNER HEELS AT DIPLOMAT SUMMIT
I thought Simms was going to have a coronary when he saw that particular headline plastered above a picture of me racing around like a lunatic, a fleet of seven-year-olds hot on my heels. That is, until he gauged the reaction from the public.
It seems the so-called commoners don’t share in his disapproval of my heathen-like behavior. In fact… they kind of love it. Every day, when I step out of the Rolls Royce on yet another royal errand, the waiting crowd is a little larger. And a lot louder.
I used to smile cautiously and walk past them without stopping, uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. But it’s gotten easier with time and practice. Now, as I exit the Rosebud Learning Center, the small charity where I’ve spent the morning chatting with teachers and support staff about their newly awarded royal grant, I pause to greet those gathered along the sidewalk.
Look! It’s Emilia!
Oh my god, it’s her!
Princess Emilia! Over here!
I slow my pace as I move down the line of people, smiling and shaking hands as I go. Occasionally, I pause to ask someone’s name or where they’re from. Most live here in Vasgaard, but some have traveled from the farthest reaches of Germania to spend the upcoming holiday season in the capital city. Places I’ve never heard of, let alone visited.
Uvendon, Jaarlsburg, Hanton, Saalk.
Halfway to the waiting limo, I pause to tell a young boy that I approve of his rugby jersey — the Cavaliers are my team as well. His face lights up with glee. I’ve bent low to ask him about his favorite player when a caustic voice cuts through the crowd.
“Lancaster bitch!”
The harsh words barely have time to register in my head because a second later, something wet hits my cheek.
A gob of spit, I realize, horror dawning. Someone’s spit on me.
“Fuck the crown!” the man yells again, each word suffused with a hatred that stuns me. “You hear me, whore? The monarchy’s days are numbered!”
My eyes lift to search for the source of the vitriol, but there’s no time — my guards have closed rank around me. Their hands are on my biceps, steering me away from the scene. I only manage to catch a fleeting glimpse of my assaulter: a bald, middle-aged man I’ve never seen before in my life, with dark eyes that seem to burn straight through me. Two guards are already surrounding him, their guns drawn.
“Fascists!” The man continues to scream as they pin him to the ground. “You’ll fucking pay! You’ll all pay!”
Numb with shock, I don’t struggle as my remaining security team practically shoves me into the Rolls Royce. As soon as the door slams shut, we pull away from the curb with a screech of tires loud enough to make me flinch.
It takes a full minute before my thundering heart slows; another before I realize Simms is seated across from me, his face pale with shock as we speed back toward the palace. Our eyes meet and I recognize my own horror mirrored in his gaze.
Without a word, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an embroidered handkerchief. I stare at it in confusion for a moment.
His eyes flicker to my cheek. “There’s a bit of…”
Oh.
Ignoring the way my fingers shake, I reach out and grasp the cloth. My eyes press closed as I wipe the stranger’s spittle from my cheek. His words replay in my ears on a loop.
Lancaster bitch!
Fuck the crown!
I shake my head, trying to clear the memories.
“Don’t let him bother you, Princess,” Simms says, sounding rather unsteady. “He was clearly unhinged.”
I try to feel assured by his words. It’s useless. I can’t shake the new vulnerability that’s gripped like a fist around my heart as we speed around bend after bend, sirens blaring in the distance.
“He didn’t seem unhinged,” I murmur, remembering the acute hatred in his eyes. “He just seemed… furious.”
“Dangerous,” Simms corrects.
“If he actually wanted to hurt me, he could’ve pulled out a knife or a gun. One small move, I’d be dead. But he didn’t.” I shake my head. “I think he just wanted to make a spectacle. To humiliate me, not hurt me.”
“I urge you not to waste another thought on the matter, Your Highness. The man is already in custody. By the time we’re back at the castle, the King’s Guard will have dealt with him.”
“Dealt with him?” My brows lift. “And how exactly will they deal with him?”
“That’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
My mouth opens, then promptly shuts again. I want to object, to insist he tell me more… but I’m not even sure where to start or what questions to ask. And even if I did, Simms probably wouldn’t answer m
e.
I turn to look out my window, feeling strangely unsettled — and not just because of the residual spit I can still feel drying on my left cheekbone.
The door to my suite bursts open without so much as a knock. I turn from my spot on the terrace in time to see Chloe barreling through the doors, her face contorted into a grimace of concern.
“Dude! What the actual fuck!” She plunks down on the settee beside me and throws her arms around my shoulders in a bone-crushing hug. She’s surprisingly strong for such a thin girl.
“Hello to you, too,” I say, chuckling lightly as I return her embrace.
“Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
She pulls back to peer into my eyes. “Um, maybe because some whack job attacked you today?”
“How do you know about that?”
“It’s all over the news. Crazed man spits on beloved princess. Country up in arms. They have video footage from the scene and everything. He got you pretty good, from what I could tell.” Her nose wrinkles as she scans my face — presumably for signs of saliva. “You did take a shower afterward, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Your concern is deeply touching.”
“Look, I just don’t want you winding up with some weird spit-related STD. This could be a new form of biomedical warfare. You never know.”
I shake my head, exasperated. “I showered, okay? And I highly doubt the spitter was that sophisticated. He’s probably some disgruntled former Lancaster employee out for revenge.”
“Even so — he never should’ve gotten that close to you. This is exactly why we don’t talk to the peasants, E.”
“You sound like Marie Antionette.”
She grins. “Frankly, I think she got a bad rap. She wanted to let them eat cake! Is that so terrible?”
I elbow her sharply in the side. “I know you’re joking, but it’s still not funny.”
“Just trying to turn that frown upside down.”