by Vivian Wood
“Shall I see you and your… guest… upstairs?” Darian asks, giving Charles a once-over.
“Oh! My manners. Darian, this is my almost-fiancé Charles. Charles, this is Darian. He worked in my household when I was growing up.”
“Nice to meet ya,” Charles says, sticking his hand out.
Darian glances at him, glances at me, and then gives Charles a polite bow.
“It’s improper to offer a staff member a handshake,” I remind Charles.
Charles rolls his eyes, but he shrugs. “Whatever. Nice to meet you anyway, Darian.”
“We’ll see ourselves upstairs, Darian,” I tell him. “I’m home for good, though, so I’m certain we will catch up.”
“Yes, Lady Katherine,” he says with a smile, waving us toward the stairs.
Watching my footing every step of the way, I lead Charles up those familiar palace stairs, determined not to embarrass myself on the night of my not-quite-triumphant return to Valencia City. The King and Queen aren’t going to be at this ball, but the Crown Prince will be.
And his son will, too….
Taking a deep breath, I put on my most dazzling smile as Charles and I emerge onto the dais and head down the hall to the right. We stop before a pair of open doors; on the other side is a ballroom full of glimmering, elegant people in gowns and tuxes.
A ball, just like in fairy tales. But there’s no Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty here. Just me, and I’m quaking in my six-inch heels.
Still, I step forward and give the footman at the doorway a respectful nod, though I don’t know this young man; unlike some of the royal family and guests, I always do my best to be friendly and polite to the servants. I hand the footman a card bearing our names and vital information, then wait for him to announce us.
Charles was astounded when I told him that I was having cards made up, just for this purpose.
Yeah, Courtland is a little… old world. After all, we’re almost as old as our western cousin, England. Welcome to royal life, Charles Ford!
“Lady Katherine Alice Marinn Saville, daughter of Countess Eulah Elizabeth Mariselle Saville,” the footman announces. Not even a mention of my father. How tactful. “And her escort, Mr. Charles Evan Ford.”
No elaborate description there. The lack of title has people’s heads turning to look at Charles.
Or maybe I’m the spectacle. After all, this is the first time most of the people in this room have seen me since my graduation from high school.
High school, I think with a smirk. I’ve been in the States too long. Upper forms is the term in Courtland.
There’s a moment of silence as we take our first step into the glitzy ballroom, like the feeling of your ears popping as a plane lands. Then people turn back to their conversations, murmuring, and all is normal again.
There’s a tasteful jazz band playing in the far corner. Glasses clink, waiters circle with polished silver trays. Here, there, and everywhere are stunning custom gowns and bespoke suits.
Each of the two hundred or so people in this room are special, important, and probably famous. At least in Courtland, though some of the princes and princess are infamous all over the globe.
That thought has me glancing around, looking for the one prince I seriously hope isn’t in attendance…
“Kit! Oh my god, is that you?”
I turn and find Lady Marjorie Eleanor Jackson Tumberidge barreling into me, arms wide. She’s almost six feet to my five foot two, and for a moment I worry she will crush me with her exuberance.
“Oof,” I say as she gives me a hard hug. “Marj, nice to see you!”
She pulls back with a grin, giving a toss of her long copper hair. She’s a gorgeous ginger giant, as we used to joke in school.
“And you, sly girl,” she says. Her northern Courtland accent is so thick it’s almost a Scottish brogue. Damn, I’ve missed that accent! “You thought you were going to come home and not even tell me?”
“I swear, we’ve barely settled in,” I wave her off. “We’ve a flat full of boxes and a week’s worth of overdue sleep!”
“Liar,” she accuses. “You’ve been here a month. Call that settling in, do you?”
“I… alright, busted. I’ve been hiding out,” I admit.
Marj laughs, leaning back, and I realize how much I’ve missed her. Of everyone in Courtland, she was the only one who really stuck by my side no matter what happened, through the whole scandal of my father’s downfall.
“Is that a ring on your finger? Marj, did you and Craig get married on the sly?”
“Yeah, hey, we’re not really telling anyone yet, but I think everyone probably already knows. You remember how the gossip is here, right?” She sticks her hand out to Charles, looking curious. “Marjorie. And you are?”
“Charles Ford,” he says as he shakes her hand.
“Oh, sorry, sorry. I’m terrible at this tonight. This is my beau, Charles.”
“An American, hey?” she asks, looking more than a little surprised. “Well, I’ll be gashed.”
I chuckle at her Courtland slang, then nod.
“Yep, got an American. We met our first year at Brown and we haven’t been able to get rid of one another since,” I joke.
“She’s desperately in love with me,” Charles teases.
I flush, but not because I like his ribbing. It’s because I know that’s distinctly not true, and I think Charles knows it, too. We’re more of a practical match, as I prefer to think of it.
Courtland royalty rarely marries for love, I remind myself. And… it’s ever so complicated.
Of course Marj smashes the house of little white lies I like to tell myself by taking me by the hand, like we’re still seven year-old best friends, and towing me over to shake hands with her husband Craig. Her husband is bigger than Marj by several inches, and his hair is even redder than hers. They’re quite the matched pair, really.
“Craig, hi,” I say as we clasp hands. Of course we know each other; everyone who marries in Courtland’s noble classes pretty much know one another from birth.
Except me. Apparently I like making myself an outsider.
Marjorie and Craig have been an item for ages, but they always refused to be rushed into anything. I grin at Craig; he is one of the most likeable people on the planet, and I love him and Marj together.
“Cheers, Kitty!” he says. His cheeks are flushed and he smells of liquor, but he’s in wonderfully high spirits. Craig’s just… happy. I don’t know many people like that.
“Oh, where’s your mum?” Marj asks me.
“Uhh… you’re the only one I’ve talked to tonight, so far,” I admit.
Marj’s eyes widen.
“You’d best move along, then. You’re supposed to start at the top of the social ladder and work down, not the other way around.”
I smile and roll my eyes.
“I haven’t forgotten, for god’s sake,” I tell her. “You just got to me first.”
“Go on, then, see your mum.” Marj gives me a hard sort of look. We slip so easily into our old patterns, her the practical and brash one, me the silly dilettante.
It’s strange, feeling that way about someone whom I haven’t kept up with in any way except Facebook. Still, it’s Marj, and her advice is perfectly sound.
As always.
“Right you are,” I tell her. “I’ll be back soon enough for a celebratory glass of… well, not bubbly, but cider or something.”
Marj pats my cheek and smiles. I give her another hug and then turn to find Charles standing behind me, looking annoyed.
“You forgot to introduce me. Again,” he says, his mouth creasing into a frown.
“Oh, damn,” I sigh. “I’m the worst.”
He doesn’t disagree. Instead he turns his head sharply, staring across the room. For a moment, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. He literally goes a little pale, which is unusual for brash, headstrong Charles.
“What is it?” I ask, craning my neck to see what he’
s seeing.
Charles doesn’t respond. All I see is ball gowns and tuxes.
“Someone famous or something?” I ask, confused.
“No, nothing. I, uh… I thought I saw someone about to fall over drunk, but he looks fine now.”
I narrow my gaze at Charles, who doesn’t flinch.
“Right…” I say, but really I’m about launch into a full-scale interrogation.
Lucky for him, a footman steps in between us.
“Lady Katherine,” he says, bowing. “Countess Saville awaits your presence.”
I feel my cheeks heat. At twenty four years of age, my mother still knows how to scold me and make it sting.
“Please,” I say, gesturing. “If you’ll show us to where she’s standing…”
The footman is already moving away. I follow him, a nervous knot in the pit of my stomach. So many of these people were so cruel before I left Courtland, when the truth came out about my father. When I was at my lowest, they were deeply unkind.
And now they’re all turning to look at me as I push into the crowd where my mother stands. Judging me, trying to see how much I’ve changed or stayed the same since last they saw me.
Trying to see if I survived, after the scandal.
I put on a big smile, refusing to be cowed. The crowd clears a little path for the footman as he leads me over to mum, who is…
…standing next to HRH Prince Archibald, holding his hand.
What the hell? Unexpected isn’t even the word for this. My mum finds Prince Archie distasteful, and as far as I know he’s never so much as glanced in her direction.
Clearly, I’m not the only one who’s changed.
“Um, hi Mum,” I say, glancing back and forth between her and Prince Archie, trying to take it in.
“Katherine, darling,” my mom howls, gleeful. She’s thrilled to see me, like it’s been a lifetime. She’s also a little tipsy. More than a little, maybe. She’s all done up in a clingy white gown, her platinum blonde hair woven into a complex braided updo.
I count backward in my head, calculating. It’s only been four months since she came to visit me in the States. How long has this been going on, and why am I only finding out now?
She leaves Prince Archie and comes over to hug me, which makes me go stiff; we’re not a hugging family. I can count the number of times my mother has hugged me in public on my fingers.
We’re the Savilles, I think. It’s simply not what we do.
Except, of course, there is no Saville family anymore. Dad’s gone, mom’s gone bonkers, and I ran off to the States to get away from my life.
“Oh, Katherine, honey. Now that you’re here…”
Before I can flinch, Mum grabs me by the hand. Beckoning to Prince Archie, she tugs me forward to the small stage that’s set up in the corner.
Oh god. What now?
Someone hands Mum a microphone, and I feel a fine sheen of sweat break out over my body.
“Can we get all the appropriate parties up on the stage, please?” she murmurs into the microphone.
I look down and Charles is standing over to the right, and he looks pissed. Like I’ve left him out, again. Except I’m not the one in charge right now, not by a long shot.
I see three more people step onto the stage with us, and my eyes widen. Her Royal Highness Princess Camille Westwood-Connley, her husband Duke Bernard Connley in tow. A shy blonde with her handsome but awkward financier husband.
And then there’s… God, he’s here?
I try not to stare, I really do.
But Prince Magnum is here in full effect, and damn if he isn’t even hotter than he was five years ago. He’s the very picture of suave, come to life: tall, tan, and built like a tank. His blond hair is cut high on the sides, but it’s left a little long on the top.
His tux is cut to emphasize every muscular inch of his six and a half foot frame. He’s got those high, sweeping European cheekbones and the kind of sharp jawline that makes male models jealous.
And when he turns those killer ocean blue eyes on me, I flush all over.
Yep, His Royal Highness Prince Alasdair Magnum Augustus Rex Westwood is only getting better with age. In upper forms he was a heartbreaker; now he’s fucking devastating.
I have a weird flashback moment. Me giggling and trying not to moan aloud, Rex kissing my ear. We’re in a crowded movie theatre, but he doesn’t care. His hand is up my skirt, his tongue tracing my ear, and if he doesn’t stop soon I’m going to… going to…
Back in the present, I start to blush about ten shades of red. Could there be anything less appropriate for me to remember right now? This is neither the time nor the place for thinking about how Rex used to make me come, how he used to fuck me until I saw stars.
The solution is easy enough: I think about all the bad things that happened later, what led up to my running off to the States for college. Rex was a big, big part of that whole mess.
Which is one of many reasons why I wish like hell he wasn’t standing on this stage, why I wish he would stop glancing over at me, like he’s wondering if I’m real.
I should never have come back to Courtland.
For a panicky second, I start to wonder if my mum is about to announce something about me and the younger prince. A surprise engagement, a royal connection to redeem the Savilles once and for all?
But… that doesn’t make any sense.
And in the next moment, mum taps the mic and chuckles, bringing all eyes back to her.
“Yes, hello everyone. His Royal Highness Prince Archibald and I have a bit of an announcement to make, everyone,” she says, giving Prince Archie an affectionate glance. I get goosebumps, watching her dote on him. It’s… unnatural.
Everyone applauds politely; I wonder whether most of the people in this room already know what the announcement is going to be.
“We are betrothed!” Mum says, and my mouth goes dry. “Just three months from now, we’ll be married here in the Palace, with full honors. Mark your calendars for the first of May, everyone! It will be an event to remember.”
I am… absolutely, completely shocked…
And everyone in the room is watching my reaction.
Great. Thanks, Mum.
Everyone cheers and claps, and I’m just standing there in shock.
Why? Why would she want to do that? Prince Archie is a complete asshole; mum’s said that herself, hundreds of times.
I realize that I’m glaring at my mother. Once I force myself to blank my expression, I glance over at Prince Archie’s side of the stage.
His son and daughter are both glaring at him with the same degree of rage as I was just showing moments before. So… maybe this is a surprise to them, too?
Or maybe neither of them wants to be tied to the Savilles. I mean, who would? I don’t, and I am one.
I bite my lip and try not to look in Rex’s direction.
“Thank you, everyone. Enjoy the party!” my mother announces at last.
And then I’m free. The crowd breaks up and I can’t get off the stage fast enough, ignoring my mum calling after me. I need something. Champagne. Maybe something harder.
It’s everything I can do not to run to the closest waiter. I snag a glass of champagne and give him an exasperated smile.
“I’d like something a little stronger. Could you bring a champagne cocktail out to the terrace?” I ask, pointing to the wide double doors that lead outside.
“Ma’am,” he says, inclining his head.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
I escape onto the terrace, walking out over the mosaic floor to the white marble balcony railing. I stand there and gulp deep breaths of air until I feel calm enough to turn and survey the guests milling around inside the ballroom.
I freeze.
I see a man with dark hair and an outmoded suit, and for just a second I think…
“Daddy?” I whisper into the night air.
2
Kit
Six years earlier
…
I don’t know a thing about my father’s troubles until the Crown Police show up at the door of Auberge House. They throw open the big oak front doors, the headlights of their cruisers spilling in.
The small reflective patches on the officers’ midnight blue uniform jackets keep flashing, and from my hiding spot on the second floor landing, it’s a bit like watching lightning bugs winking in a darkened summer field.
I blink, and the lovely thought is gone.
The only thing left now is the apparent truth, and it is ugly indeed.
There I am, standing on the polished wood stairs in my bare feet, looking down into the foyer as the officers put my father in handcuffs.
My teenage gawkiness and lack of dress keeps me from stepping forward and saying all the things that are on the tip of my tongue:
Where are you taking him?
When will he be back?
Do you know where my mum is, then?
He hasn’t done it, you know. He can’t have done anything so bad as this.
There’s a moment, as they’re leading Daddy out into the chilly night, where he glances up and our gazes meet.
He looks… penitent.
He looks… broken.
Daddy doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t call out to me. Instead he lets the officers jerk him toward the front door, not uttering so much as a word.
Treason, my mother tells me when she gets home from the gala she attended. Her last hurrah, she calls it.
She’s drunk, breath hot with vodka as we sit in the gleaming, newly remodeled kitchen. She’s still in her black velvet ball gown, her shoes lying on the floor behind her. She’s pulled a crate of oranges out of the refrigerator, proceeding to peel them all and break up their segments.
She doesn’t eat any of them, she’s just mournful and flustered.
Unsure how to tell me what’s happened.
“What do you mean, treason?” I ask.
I pick lint off my Babar pajamas, careful to pick up all the bits of orange that my mother keeps dropping on the floor.