by Louisa Lo
Except she had a slight limp due to the huge bruise on her right knee. It was all cleaned up and in the early stages of fading, but there was no doubt she had been through some recent trauma. Maybe she had survived an Obsessed attack of her own?
General Roland’s next words confirmed her theory. “Your majesty, meet Sarah Benner, our new protocol officer. We rescued her from Congressman Lee’s office and decided to put her to work right away.”
“Technically,” Benner corrected, “she should still be addressed as Lady Spence until the coronation. But, of course, that’s just semantics.”
She had a shrewd look on her face as she looked Chelsea up and down. Then she looked at the general. “There’s much to be done. I’ll have all the resources as agreed?”
The general nodded. “All except time. The means of communication are breaking down all over the world thanks to the Pretties chewing away at our infrastructures. The faster we do the coronation, the more likely we’ll be able to reach the maximum amount of people.”
“You’re still planning a live broadcast?” Benner asked.
“Of course.”
“Is that… wise?” Benner glanced at Chelsea, the smallest amount of disdain touched the curve of her lips. “It could lead to a lot of mishaps.”
“I can handle it,” Chelsea spoke up, getting sick and tired of being discussed as if she wasn’t in the room. She got where Benner was coming from—her own spoiled bimbo reputation had travelled far and wide. But she knew she could do it. It would be no different than the presentations she did in school, except rather than standing in front of the class talking about the history of fashion, she would be talking about the future of mankind for all the world to see.
“Alright.” Benner was forced to address her. “Let’s get to work, then. There’s much to prepare. I have the perfect outfit in mind. And I must send more shoes to your quarters. Size six, I assume? How comfortable are you in ultra high heels? You’re a tall girl, but every bit of extra height is going to reassure the people more.”
She started ushering Chelsea toward the door, but General Roland held up a hand. “There’s one more thing.”
He gave Colonel Martin a signal, and the latter called to someone beyond the door. “You can come in now.”
Day walked in with a neutral expression on his face. He didn’t glance in Chelsea’s direction, but she was sure that he was aware of her presence.
She had so many questions to ask him. Like, had he managed to rest well? Had Nik and Sonny gotten settled in alright? Had he seen Emma? But she held her tongue as she watched Day salute General Roland.
“Captain Marcus Day, 10th SFG, Fort Carson, Colorado, reporting for duty, sir,” Day said.
General Roland nodded. “At ease, Captain Day. I hear you were quite effective in evacuating the civilians.”
The words themselves would’ve sounded like a compliment except for the tone it was delivered in. Was General Roland annoyed that Day hadn’t taken a harder line with Chelsea when she refused to be extracted? Did the general figure out that Day had told her about the true nature of the Obsessed? At the end of the day, the general’s original order wasn’t carried out as he wanted it, so even just on that level there would be some tension.
“Thank you, sir,” Day answered.
“Now, I understand that most of your team didn’t make it back. I’m sorry about that.”
“So am I,” Day replied softly.
“I’m reassigning what’s left of your team to a new mission.”
Determination gleamed in Day’s eyes. “We’re ready to kick more Pretty asses, sir.”
“That won’t be necessary.” There was a tuck at the corner of the general’s mouth. “I’m assigning you to the personal security detail of Lady Spence.”
A part of Chelsea was thrilled at the thought of having Day and his team around her again. She had gotten used to the sight of them—it was a source of comfort during this changing time. But the other part of her was dismayed because the security gig was obviously intended as a sort of punishment for Day’s good deed.
Which, as good deeds tended to go, never went unpunished.
Day didn’t show his emotions on his face, but his shoulders tensed just the slightest. Colonel Martin, on the other hand, was openly smirking. There was a history there between the men, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out it wasn’t an amicable one. Was the colonel the one who saw through Chelsea’s connection with Day and decided to tell the general all about it? If that was the case, then she had gotten him in trouble, after all.
It turned out Nik and Sonny were just outside the door of the dining room. Together with Chelsea, Benner, and Day, they all went back to her quarters.
On their way there, Day explained their new duties to his soldiers. Nik and Sonny didn’t say much, not in the presence of Benner anyway, but their dour looks spoke volumes.
They wanted to kick some asses, to avenge their fallen comrades, and they ended up with the babysitting job. Chelsea didn’t know what to say to them. A simple sorry wouldn’t be enough, and at the end of the day, guarding her was an important job.
She was, as the general claimed, the hope of her people.
Wasn’t she?
Chapter Thirteen
Elegance Under Fire
In the next four hours, Benner got busy turning Chelsea’s living quarters into a fashion command center. Chelsea had no idea where the protocol officer had found the people or the equipment, but here she was sitting in a barber’s chair next to her bed, with a hair stylist wrapping her blonde hair in curlers, a manicurist painting her nails a strong Mercedes red, and a makeup artist giving her fake lashes that were so dramatic even people who viewed the coronation through a grainy image on their cell phones wouldn’t miss them. Nik and Sonny had retreated to just outside the door, whether it was to better defend her person at the first sign of an attack, or to flee if the room imploded in a spontaneous combustion of hair products and cosmetics, she knew not.
At this rate, she might be done with makeovers for the next fifty years.
Also, there were tons of decisions to be made. Like, should her hair be in an elaborate bun, or tumble down? Should her make up be dramatic, or nude? All choices sent a different message to the audience.
“Have you seen Emma?” Chelsea asked Day during one of the rare respites she had been given. On their way here, they had passed by the truck convoy that she had talked General Roland into allowing onto the base, but she hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of Emma anywhere. But Day had seen the convoy from another angle and might have had better luck.
Day nodded. “I think so. I saw someone with a pink dress and I think it was her.
Chelsea smiled. “Yeah, those pink ruffles are quite distinctive.”
A thought came to her. “Hey, do you think you could bring Emma here?”
She was nowhere near done, and having someone bring Emma to her might be the best way to see the little girl again.
“I’ll ask someone to,” Day promised.
“What about Ruiz?”
“He was looked over by a medic, and they put him on some dopey painkiller. Looks like he was in worse shape than he let on. Two broken ribs.”
“What? Oh, no…” That must’ve been from when the Obsessed ganged up on him. Guilt gnawed at Chelsea’s insides—Ruiz had been injured because he had been protecting her.
“Don’t worry about it.” Seeing her horrified expression, Day softened his voice, “They got him all fixed up. All he needs is rest. I swear, that old man is too obnoxious to stay down for long. He’ll be on his feet in no time.”
Day’s voice held great affection for the old soldier, and Chelsea relaxed, knowing he was in good hands. Day would check in on the embattled man. She just knew he would.
***
The next hour flew by as Chelsea practiced the speech that Benner had given her, while dodging stabs from mascara wands and trying to avoid getting a mouthful of cheek blush powder
. Benner and General Roland had written the speech together, apparently. It wasn’t the stuff of grand literature, but they did want her to memorize as much of it as possible. She guessed reading out assurances to people from cue cards wasn’t all that reassuring.
“Chelsea!” a voice screamed from the entrance. It was Emma. She ran to Chelsea, almost tripping on the cord to the blow dryer in her haste. The young child was no longer in her soiled pink dress, but was instead dragging in pants and a sweatshirt that were obviously meant for an adult female, though, luckily, a small one at that. At least the clothes were clean, and so was Emma. She had been scrubbed free of dirt and grime, her skin radiant despite the previous rough night, demonstrating a resilience only seen in children.
“Emma!” Chelsea pushed aside the plastic cover that was protecting her body during the styling session so that Emma could give her a proper hug. She waved the beauticians away, wanting a minute with the little girl.
Emma held her for a long time, then pulled away with a gasp. “Oh, no. You’re a queen now, I’m not supposed to do that!”
Chelsea laughed. “I’m not queen yet.” Then she frowned, “How do you know that? It’s supposed to be a big secret.”
Day, who had just come back in after exchanging a few words with the female soldier who had bought Emma here, replied, “Everybody knows by now. It’s hard to keep something like this a secret, especially when it’s about bringing people hope.”
There it was again, the mention of hope, and Chelsea’s role in bringing it. But she detected a hint of doubt in Day’s voice that hadn’t been in General Roland’s. She filed that under to discuss later in private.
If she would ever be in private with anyone ever again.
“So, tell me what happened after I left,” Chelsea asked Emma.
Emma made a face. “We waited there for a long time. But then they put us in this gym with lots of beds and stuff. I took a shower and washed my hair. But the shampoo smelled funny.”
“Funny?” Chelsea asked.
“It smelled like hospital shampoo.” Emma made another face.
Guess they didn’t have rosemary-mint scented shampoo for everyone. Suddenly, Chelsea was embarrassed about the amount of unnecessary luxury in her own quarters.
Emma, however, was oblivious.
“I was so happy when this lady soldier said that you wanted to see me.” Emma looked around, taking in the large room and the beauty products. “Wow.”
Then her eyes settled on a tin of butter cookies someone had placed on the bedside table, and swallowed with undisguised hunger. “Can I have a cookie?”
“Of course.” Chelsea opened the lid of the tin and presented Emma with its contents. Funny, with everything there was to eat at breakfast, and a hearty lunch of cheese, pita, salami, and grapes, she had hardly touched the cookies. It was as if yesterday hadn’t happened, and she was reverting back to the picky and diet-conscious eater that she had always been. She wondered what that easy reversion was saying about her.
There was, however, no denying the joy of seeing Emma digging in, devouring the butter cookies with great enthusiasm. As the beauticians descended on Chelsea once again, eyebrow pencils and eye shadows in hand, Chelsea closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Emma had wolfed down half the tin of cookies.
There was a large pitcher of lemonade next to the tin, with glasses alongside. Emma, thirsty from all those cookies, gulped down two full glasses of lemonade. Finally, the little girl leaned back onto the bed with a happy sigh, rubbing her belly. “Those were really good cookies. And this bed is so soft.”
Then Emma sat up abruptly, her eyes solemn. “Do you mind if I bring some back for my Mama?”
Chelsea wasn’t exactly crazy about Emma’s Mom, but if it made Emma happy, how could she say no? “Sure.”
The little girl wasn’t looking at Chelsea now. She toyed with her thumbs and stared at the circular motion. “There’s, err, something else I want to ask.”
From the way she hunched herself, whatever it was, it didn’t sound like something that Emma was very keen on.
“What is it?” Chelsea asked.
“I wonder,” Emma looked right at Chelsea, sounding far older than her six or seven years, and asked, “if I could have the job.”
“The job?” Chelsea echoed.
“To be your maid.”
“My maid?”
Emma frowned. “No, not maid. Your waiting lady.”
“You mean my lady-in-waiting?” Those were increasingly arcane positions that modern royals were abandoning.
“Yeah, that.” Emma nodded. “Can I be that?”
Chelsea narrowed her eyes. “Did you mother put you up to this?”
Emma looked at her hands again. “Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Mama didn’t say.”
But, oh, Chelsea had an idea what this was all about, alright. Emma’s Mom wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, social climber she would encounter as queen. What was galling was Emma’s Mom’s willingness to use her own child, who was not much older than a toddler, in such a manner.
Chelsea had been taught all her life to safeguard against people like that, except she didn’t want to safeguard herself against Emma, who was just her mother’s pawn. The kid was innocent.
“I have no use for a lady-in-waiting. I don’t think you want to brush my hair a thousand times every day anyway.” Seeing the disappointment on Emma’s face, Chelsea added quickly, “However, I could always use a companion.”
“What’s a companion?” Emma asked.
“She’s like a friend for little old ladies.”
“You’re not old.” Emma’s face split into a smile. “But I can be your friend because I’m already one.”
“It’s settled then.” Here she was, not even beginning her job as queen yet, and already making her first royal hire. How about that for efficiency?
***
An hour later, just about when her makeup was done and her curls had been set with an entire bottle of hairspray, Benner ushered in the delivery of three boxes. There were two large boxes, and a smaller one that was a jewelry box.
The first large box contained an Alexander McQueen gown, a stunning long-sleeved creation of cream-colored lace that was figure-hugging at the top and flared out from the banded empire waist. It had a rounded neckline and came to just below the ankle. It was classically elegant, yet chic and stylish. Unlike the day dress she was wearing, the gown looked like it would fit her to a tee.
The jewelry box contained a necklace that was likely inspired by Elizabeth Taylor. It was a thick rope of emeralds, each gem as big as a newborn’s fist, and encrusted with sparkling diamonds.
Chelsea’s heart pounded as she gasped at the hideous piece. Aside from looking like “grandma jewelry,” it probably weighed a ton. How was she going to get through the coronation, nerve-wracking as it was, while worrying about her neck snapping under the weight of all those rocks on live broadcast?
Misunderstanding her stricken expression, Benner said, “My apology. This is the best we can do. We cannot retrieve the crown jewels from the Tower of London, for obvious reasons.”
The crown jewels. Right. Now that was one way to put things in perspective. The royal collection would’ve included the crowns, the scepters, the orbs, and the swords, among other things. She could’ve been significantly weighed down, much more so than by a little emerald necklace.
And yet, it wasn’t a fair comparison. If the crown jewels were indeed accessible, they wouldn’t have been hers to access in the first place.
The gown, the necklace…General Roland really intended on putting on a production, didn’t he?
But the people needed hope. And I needed to stay alive. This circus would serve us both.
Chelsea was almost afraid to open the second large box. Would it be yet another item to make her even more uncomfortable? Perhaps another pairs of shoes, with even higher heels? With a deep breath, she flipped the box’s lid off.
It was the Royal king’s cape, the coronation robe. Except it wasn’t.
The robe should’ve been in yellow, not blue. Instead of ermine fur as per tradition, the trim of the robe was made of faux fur, with black strips of velvet glued onto the fabric in an overly symmetrical diamond pattern.
“This is a Halloween costume.” Chelsea choked.
“A theater costume, actually,” Benner corrected. “One of the general’s teams came across a warehouse for a local community group who were doing Gilbert and Sullivan’s Iolanthe last summer.”
Chelsea winced. Her daddy was a huge Gilbert and Sullivan fan, so she knew the show Benner was talking about, and the lyrics of the song that was sung when this robe first appeared on stage:
Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!
Bow, bow, ye tradesmen, bow, ye masses!
Blow the trumpets, bang the brasses!
Tantantara! Tzing! Boom!
Yeah, just the message she wanted to convey for her first appearance as queen.
“Try it on,” Benner encouraged. “It might not look like much in this light, but under the camera lens it would be beautiful.”
She lifted the robe and was rewarded with the musky smell of dust and stale sweat. She nearly choked. Whoever was responsible for the production wardrobe hadn’t done a very thorough cleaning of her charge.
Her inner germaphobe protested with a vengeance. Not to mention, the faux fur would make the sensitive skin on her neck itch.
“No,” she said firmly.
Benner paused, then put the box away, and that was that. Thank heavens Chelsea had a final say in these things. In fashion-related stuff and up to a certain extent, anyway.
With butterflies in her stomach, Chelsea put on the Alexander McQueen gown. She had put on many beautiful evening gowns in her life before, but this was the first time she would be expected to actually do something in it. Something other than looking like the spoiled princess, that was.
As she suspected, the dress fit her like a glove. The cream-colored lace complimented the loose half-bun that the hair stylist had made of her blonde hair, while the see-through long sleeves added an air of allure. The lace-covered shoes, although they were a no-name, one-wear-only kind that were meant for bridal use, were nevertheless classy looking.