Chapter Eleven
After the Owen incident, I thought life at The Lockwood Estate couldn’t possibly get worse.
I was so very wrong.
“Remember: chin up, shoulders back, grip delicate.” Lady Morrell stares down her long, hooked nose with disapproval. “It is a spoon, not a hand grenade. Your index finger should rest on the silver, light as a winged hummingbird taking pollen from a flower.”
She’s full of these flowery, over-the-top analogies. Already today I’ve been instructed on how to glide around a dance floor like a soaring hawk taking flight over a pink dawn sky and curtsy low to the floor like a setting sun sinking slowly toward the ever-fixed horizon.
Whenever I start to question why I’m subjecting myself to this, I focus on the hundred-thousand-dollar light at the end of the tunnel. That’s usually enough to keep me from bolting.
“Very well, Lady Morrell.” I adjust my grip for the tenth time. “How’s this?”
“Wrong. Utterly wrong! Here, allow me to demonstrate again…”
I swallow a scream. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before I give up and race back to my rooms…
Like a swift cheetah crossing the Serengeti!
I snort in an unladylike fashion that earns me a glare from my tutor.
As predicted, princess lessons have been completely insufferable. Six hours a day — three in the morning, three more in the afternoon — of Lady Morrell lecturing on the merits of proper decorum, table manners, royal address, and Germanian customs. By Wednesday, my head is so full of banal information, I’ve reached a saturation point.
Use ‘Your Majesty’ to address a king or queen. ‘Your Highness’ for a prince or princess. ‘Your Grace’ for a duke or duchess. ‘My Lord’ for barons, earls, and knights.
Do not curtsey to anyone of lower rank.
Never cross your legs; always cross your ankles.
Elbow-length gloves are to be worn for all official ceremonies of state.
Manicures shall be allowed in nude or pastel shades only.
No autographs or signatures of any kind.
No unauthorized photographs.
No public displays of affection.
No use of social media platforms.
No.
No.
No.
The word has been thrown around so often, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s anything a princess actually is authorized to do — besides smile and wave during scheduled appearances at boring social functions.
Lady Morrell insists she’s only trying to prepare me for what she calls my first royal test — which, as she frequently reminds me, is approaching at the speed of light. I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of attending the funeral on Sunday with the Lancasters, even flying under the radar, posing as just another aide in their entourage. The mere thought of it sends butterflies bursting into flight in the pit of my stomach.
So many things could go wrong.
I’m not remotely prepared to appear in front of anyone as royalty yet. That much has been made glaringly obvious by Morrell’s ever-exasperated expression when she glances my way, whether I’m stumbling through dance lessons, fumbling royal titles, or using the incorrect cutlery during dinner courses.
I try to avoid looking at the towering grandfather clock on the other side of the dining room, knowing it’s only going to disappoint me, but I can’t help myself. Four o’clock. Still another full hour before I’m free. I readjust my grip on the spoon and attempt to take a sip of my soup without, and I quote, slurping like a teenage boy drinking a cola at the cinema.
I suppose the only blessing to Morrell’s maddening tutelage is that it’s keeping me too busy to think much about Owen… or to bump into Chloe and Carter in the hallways of our shared penitentiary. After five days cooped up in this place, I’m sure they’re both chafing to escape just as much as I am. But the King’s Guard still hasn’t lifted the security lockdown. It’s unlikely they will before the funeral, now that the fire has officially been classified as foul play by the arson investigators.
I spent last night locked in my bedroom, scrolling through news updates on my battered old laptop — which was finally returned to my possession along with my school textbooks, cellphone, and a duffle of clothing selected from my dresser at home. I try not to think too hard about one of the solemn, suit-wearing guards digging through my underwear drawer and touching all my things.
Because…
Ew.
I scrolled through article after article, reading headlines and theories from journalists all over the world about potential motives, likely suspects, possible political implications. The outpouring of grief was immeasurable, bringing the whole world to its knees. The news that it was murder rather than tragedy was a kick to the stomach while we were already down on the ground.
Someone did this. Killed King Leopold and Queen Abigail, along with five members of their staff. Put the Crown Prince in a coma from which he may never wake. And that someone is still at large.
It’s hard to conceive how something like this could happen. Harder still to imagine that there are no witnesses, no leads…
Nothing.
The investigation hasn’t yielded anything concrete — at least, not according to Simms, who I bumped into on my way back to my room after my lessons, yesterday. As for the rest of the household, everyone seems content to avoid each other. I haven’t seen Octavia since the night I arrived, nor have I encountered Linus since our meeting the other day.
Occasionally, I’ll hear Carter or Chloe walking the halls of the wing where all our rooms are located, but I have no idea how they spend the majority of their days. After the incident in the garden, neither of them has tried to make conversation. Frankly, I don’t blame them.
I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.
My eyes press closed with horror, thinking back on it… as well as the massive fight I had with Owen, afterward.
Fight. With. Owen.
I’m fighting with Owen.
No matter how many times I say it, the concept is difficult to wrap my mind around. Before this, there’s never been a point in my life when we weren’t speaking. Sure, we’ve had minor spats over the years… but nothing to this degree. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I walked him to the front gates and asked him to leave.
I just need a little time, I told him, avoiding his gaze. I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk.
The truth is, though, I need a hell of a lot more than time. I need to figure out if I’ll ever be able to look him in the eyes again without recalling the stinging lash of his words. Not just the awful ones he directed at Chloe and Carter… the ones he said to me.
Pathetic.
Naive.
Broken.
I’ve always thought there were no lines between us left to cross, no boundaries remaining to push. I see now how foolish that was. The people who love us most are the best equipped to destroy us. After all, we’ve spent years handing over the ammunition, piece by piece, giving them everything they’ll ever need to inflict maximum damage.
The most twisted part of it is that, angry as I am, I still find myself wanting to call him, just to hear the comforting rasp of his voice. Twice today I’ve caught myself reaching for my cellphone — which, as it happens, was mysteriously scrubbed of all social media applications before being returned to my possession. I managed to stop myself before the call connected, but I know it’s only a matter of time before I cave in to the urge.
Owen has always been the person I turn to when I’m hurt; I’m not sure how to cope, now that he’s the one doing the hurting.
Lady Morrell clears her throat, bringing my focus back to the present.
“I think you have finally mastered the soup course,” she informs me, nodding her approval. “Perhaps you are ready to graduate to something more complex.”
“Foreign affairs?” I ask hopefully.
“Not quite.” Her lips twitc
h as she swaps out my bowl for a small plate. “Salads.”
“Joy of joys,” I mutter, resisting the urge to bang my head against the tabletop until I knock myself unconscious.
One more hour.
One-hundred-thousand dollars.
I pick up the damn salad fork.
Later that night, I’m lying in bed attempting to get through one of the dense books Linus sent up for me — a heavy, leather-bound tome called Germania: Honor Throughout History — when someone knocks on my door.
“Come in,” I call lazily, expecting one of the housekeepers — here to stoke the fire or fluff my pillows or deliver yet another plate of warm chocolate-chip cookies, as they have every night since my failed baking endeavor. At first, I thought it was a nice gesture, but now I’m pretty sure it’s just Patricia’s insurance policy, keeping me out of her kitchen by any means necessary.
The door swings inward on soundless hinges. I glance up from the pages and nearly have a heart attack when I see the woman standing there, her perfectly coiffed auburn hair offset by teardrop earrings, an elegant gray dress, and sensible heels.
“Octavia!” I sit up so abruptly, the book tumbles from my grasp. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “Wh— what are you doing here?”
Her eyes narrow as they take me in. Lavender hair in a messy bun on top of my head, makeup smudged beneath my eyes, dressed in a loose t-shirt and a pair of buttery soft yoga pants. I scramble off the bed, nervously tucking a rogue tendril of hair behind one ear. It takes all my resolve not to flinch as she sidles closer, her heels clicking ominously against the hardwood floor.
“I see you are…” She sniffs delicately. “Settling in.”
“Yes, Octavia. I mean ma’am. Madame. Err… Highness?” I fumble horribly. Lady Morrell would be devastated to learn all her careful lessons have gone to utter waste.
“I have not yet been given a royal title.” Octavia’s expression is totally devoid of warmth. “When I am officially named queen consort after Linus’ coronation next month, you can refer to me as Your Majesty. Until then…” Her eyes narrow to pinpricks. “Frankly, I’m not sure you’ll need to address me at all, but if you cannot avoid doing so during a social engagement, you may call me Lady Lancaster or Duchess of Hightower.”
God, she’s so cold. I don’t know what I did to get on her bad side so quickly — besides, you know, exist — but I find myself shivering despite the warmth from the fire.
She looks around at my belongings, scattered over every surface. The half-eaten plate of cookies, the sweater I wore earlier crumpled on the armchair, a hefty pile of Linus’ books on my side table. She traces her finger across the embossed cover of the volume at the top of the stack, a flicker of disgust moving across her face as she digests the title.
Kings and Queens: The Lancaster Legacy
“I assume there’s a reason for this unexpected visit,” I say, voice dripping with false sweetness.
“Certainly.” She turns back toward me, folding her arms across her chest. “Linus has informed me that you’ll be attending the funeral alongside our family.”
I think she’d sound more pleased by the prospect of an impending colonoscopy.
“The seamstresses will be coming tomorrow at noon with a selection of dresses for Chloe and myself. I’ve been… advised… that I must extend this invitation to you as well.” She scans me up and down. “Seeing as you cannot be trusted to dress yourself, we will have something proper selected for you.”
I reel back, but manage to force a smile onto my face. “How very kind. I’ll be sure to pick something…” I pause meaningfully, just to annoy her. “Fit for a queen.”
Her shoulders stiffen with barely-contained outrage. “Wonderful.”
“Well, if that’s all…” I look pointedly toward the door. My message could not be more clear.
Get the hell out of my room.
“Not quite.” Her lips purse in a thin-lipped smile that scares me far more than any of her frowns. “There is one more matter I need to discuss with you.”
My brows lift, waiting.
“You had a friend visit the premises, several days ago. Owen Harding. Is that correct?”
I go still. “Yes.”
“Mr. Harding did pass the initial security clearance checks, which allowed him access to this estate. Thankfully, I personally insisted the King’s Guard dig a bit deeper into his past.” She takes a step closer, eyes never shifting from mine. “We can’t be too careful when it comes to your safety, now can we?”
My heart is pounding double-speed inside my chest. “Your concern for me is truly heartwarming, Octavia. But I assure you — unnecessary.”
Her smile widens. “Unfortunately, I must disagree. The secondary search uncovered some… shall we say… problematic connections in Mr. Harding’s past.” She shakes her head, feigning distress. “It seems he has ties to several anti-monarchist groups. Perhaps even a radical cell of anarchists, determined to overthrow the crown at any cost.”
My mouth falls open. “What?!”
“It’s certainly a relief we caught wind of it now, before things…” She pauses. “Escalated.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at the utter absurdity of the words coming out of her mouth. “You must be joking.”
“Safety is not a joking matter, nor one we take lightly. Especially in the current climate.” She sighs, as though she’s terribly troubled. “Never fear — only a few more pieces of evidence and we should have enough to take him off the streets. For good.”
I freeze. “No.”
“Oh, yes. It’s merely a matter of whether we choose to keep looking. Do you understand me, Emilia?”
Oh, I understand you perfectly, you heartless hag.
“Octavia, please…” My voice breaks. My heart slams against my ribs, a mad tattoo. “Owen isn’t a part of any terrorist cell! He’s not an anti-monarchist. Sure, he may’ve participated in a few nonviolent protests, a political march or two on the university campus… but he’s never done anything remotely illegal, let alone radical.”
“Nevertheless,” she murmurs smugly, victorious. “You are not to contact him again, either in person or otherwise. I’ve ensured that he’s already been blacklisted from all royal properties and functions. And don’t worry, dear — if he attempts to trespass on any Lancaster land — the Lockwood Estate included — I will personally see to it that he is jailed for conspiracy against the crown.” She leans forward, her voice intent. “You see… I will do whatever is necessary to protect the members of my family. I hope this action proves that to you.”
“You can’t do this,” I whisper, hate blazing from my eyes. “You can’t.”
“It’s already done.”
“I’ll talk to Linus!” I snap, stepping forward. “I’ll get him to reverse the order.”
She laughs — actually throws her head back and laughs at me, like I’m a puppet and she’s the one holding all my strings, making me dance. “You foolish little girl. Did you honestly think, because you caught his ear for a single afternoon, that he cares about you? That, because he sent you a few books and needs a new heir, he’s going to suddenly step in and become a father figure? You’re wrong. The only person Linus Lancaster serves is Linus Lancaster. You will find out for yourself just how little you matter to him, as soon as your interests stop aligning with his own.”
“You’re wrong,” I seethe quietly.
“Am I?” She steps closer. “It may be called the King’s Guard, but everyone in this household answers to one person — me. Not Linus, locked away in his study with his manuscripts and his memos and his quaint meetings over tea. Certainly not you.” She makes a mocking tsk noise with her lips. “So go ahead and try to challenge me, girl. I will have Owen Harding locked up in a royal prison cell so fast, it will make your head spin. He’ll never see the light of day again, unless I see fit to allow it.”
“You don’t have that kind of power.”
“Try me,” she dares
. “If you’re wrong, you’ll have only yourself to blame.” Her mouth twists. “Alternatively… you can make the smarter choice by yielding to my authority. You can set aside the ridiculous notion that, based on the blood running through your veins, you are somehow entitled to anything but the life you already know, in a very small house with a very small future.”
Suddenly, I can see things so clearly. None of this is about Owen. Hell, it’s not even about me.
It’s about the throne.
It’s about power.
It’s about this shrew of a woman, and the lengths she’ll go to take control of the crown.
She wants Germania for herself, I realize, staring at her. It’s not enough to manipulate me, or her children, or her household staff, or her husband… this crazy bitch wants to commandeer the whole damn country.
Steely resolve fills my bones, fortifying me with new purpose. I may not know precisely how yet, but I do know one thing: I am going to stop her before she hurts anyone else.
No matter what it takes.
“Octavia,” I say in a voice I barely recognize. “I suggest you leave. Now.”
She doesn’t move. She’s enjoying this too much.
“Get out of my room!” I shriek, feeling my control begin to unravel. “You sociopathic, narcissistic monster!”
“Happily.” Smiling like we’ve just traded smalltalk, she turns and starts heading toward the door. “The dress fitting tomorrow. Noon, sharp, in the main parlor. Do not be late.” She pauses in the threshold to look back at me. “Or, do, if you’d like to see what happens when you disobey me. I’d be all too happy to give you a demonstration of my authority.” Her head tilts in contemplation. “Owen has two little sisters, doesn’t he? Adorable girls. I saw their picture just this afternoon…”
My inhale is razor-edged, slicing its way down my throat.
“It would be such a shame if anything were to happen to them.”
A hate unlike anything I’ve ever known before boils through my veins. Before I know it, I’m in motion — advancing on her with tears in my eyes and malice in my heart.
Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1) Page 11