by Leslie North
Simon held up his hands and knelt down so he was at eye-level with the boy. “Hey,” he said quietly, and the boy stopped crying to hear him better. “I loved treehouses as a kid too. I can’t take you up, but how about I take you out to get a closer look at it from the bottom of the tree? Maybe give your mom a few minutes to just sit and rest?”
His mother looked tempted, but shook her head. “Oh, no, I really couldn’t trouble you—”
The boy started sniffling again.
“No trouble at all,” Simon said quickly.
The boy got up and trotted toward the treehouse, and Simon hurried after him, smiling a bit despite himself. He’d always liked kids, even though they made life more unpredictable than he usually preferred. Their sheer energy and enthusiasm, the way they felt everything so deeply and purely—it was contagious. Behind him, the grateful mother sat on a bench to wait as he escorted the boy to the treehouse.
“I’m Simon,” he introduced himself to the child once he caught up.
“My name Ricky!” the kid said.
“So, Ricky, do you live near here?” Simon asked. “Visiting relatives in the palace?”
Ricky shook his head, his chubby cheeks jiggling. “Momma says this our home! Maybe.”
Simon frowned. No one except the Esconian royal family lived at the palace, and Simon had long since memorized all their faces and titles. The only people who were staying here who weren’t Penelope’s relatives were…
Oh.
“You’re… um, you’re Richard?” he asked, remembering that that was the potential heir’s name.
The boy paused, narrowing his eyes. “Ricky,” he insisted.
“Right. Ricky. And this… is your home. Maybe.” If the DNA test proved positive. If Simon couldn’t find some loophole to keep him from inheriting. He felt dirty for thinking the thought—he couldn’t villainize a toddler, or even the mother who seemed more like an exhausted single parent than an evil mastermind plotting to steal the throne. But no one could rule as well as Penelope could. She was born to be a Queen, and he would prove it if it was the last thing he did.
But in the meantime, showing a kid a treehouse couldn’t hurt anything, right? “So, this is it,” he said, sweeping his hand upward as they stopped under the tree. Ricky gaped up at it in a satisfying way, and Simon swelled a bit with pride at having built it.
Then the kid pointed a stubby finger up at it. “Mine?” he asked.
Simon stared at him, suddenly struck dumb. The fact was, the treehouse could be Ricky’s. If a miracle didn’t occur, everything here would be his—including the prototype he and Penelope had built with their bare hands, a labor of love that Simon had thought would last a lifetime. And including the castle, the place where he’d thought he might finally be able to make a true home.
Ricky ran off, squealing, to inspect the ladder. Which was good, because Simon was helpless to answer his question as the realization suddenly struck him:
He’d done it again. He’d built a home on borrowed ground again. And just like when he was seven, it could all be taken from him by the whim of a royal, by a twist of fate.
And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
16
A week later, Simon was surrounded by stacks of books when the lawyer knocked on the door. “Come in,” he called, his voice muffled by the dusty pages of the tome cracked open in front of him. He had to practically stick his nose in the thing’s spine to be able to read any of the old, tiny print, and he didn’t want to lose his place, so he didn’t look up when the other man entered the room.
The lawyer didn’t waste any time. “Nathaniel has been found.”
Simon sighed. “I know.” He’d learned that the prior king had finally been located on a remote island off the coast of Bali a few hours ago, which was why he was in here extra early today. Or it was one of the reasons, anyway. The other was to avoid the fallout of everyone discovering Pen was still in charge at the toy company.
They’d turned their ire on him this morning. It had only been a matter of time, he’d known it—you didn’t practice politics for a decade without being able to predict when a group of your peers were likely to turn on you—but it still hurt. Social climber, they were calling him. Disloyal for giving up his titles and connections to do it. Even worse, they’d branded his constant moves to serve the Crown as the mark of an unstable political maneuverer.
He’d done his best to be gracious about it. He’d avoided the frivolous arguments, the snide looks, the superior comments, and retreated to the library the way he always did in times of trouble. Pen had been feeling ill the last few days—and who could blame her?—which made it easier to hide out in here until the storm passed.
He hadn’t wanted to distance himself from her. He’d wanted to keep on holding her the way he had that night a week ago in the treehouse, being there for her, showing her how much she meant to him. But the tides they were caught in were so strong he was afraid they wouldn’t withstand it—and the fact that he was in love with her only made it harder to stay so close to her, knowing she and his dream of ruling at her side could be ripped away at any moment. He was already starting to feel like an outsider, already being forced to withdraw. At least maybe it would hurt less this way.
He slammed the book in front of him shut, disgusted with himself. It wouldn’t hurt less. Nothing could make it hurt less. But here he was anyway, hiding out like a coward, grasping at anything that might have the slightest chance of saving him instead of going out there and facing down his fate like a man. Or like his wife, for that matter.
Someone cleared their throat, and Simon realized the lawyer was still there. “Sir,” the man said, and dread stirred within Simon. He hadn’t said Your Majesty.
“Yes?” Simon asked, turning in his seat, forcing himself to keep his spine straight and his chin up even though he suspected the news the man was about to deliver.
“They’ve done the paternity test. The heir is legitimate.” He shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “I tried to tell… ah, Miss Penelope… first, but she wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t seeing visitors.”
“Of course. Thank you for letting me know,” Simon said, his voice sounding distant and dreamlike in his own ears.
Legitimate. It meant Simon was no longer the King. His dream, his home, gone just like that. It was everything he’d feared, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
An hour later, after taking the longest possible route, he found himself outside the door to his and Penelope’s apartments. He reached for the doorknob but hesitated and knocked instead for the first time ever. The wood felt all wrong against his knuckles: hard, abrasive, alien. Soon, this would no longer be their apartments. Had it ever truly been his home?
“Come in,” called Pen’s voice, and he opened the door. She eyed him, surprised but smiling. “What are you doing knocking, silly?”
He shrugged, miserable, unable to put his feelings into words. She would understand soon enough. He closed the door. “Could we talk for a second?”
She sat on a couch and motioned at him, still grinning. She had a sort of glow to her this morning. It was wonderful to see her so happy, but in this attitude she had to be so unprepared for what he was about to tell her. How could he break it to her gently?
While he was searching for words, she leaned forward and spoke first. “I actually wanted to speak to you too.”
He exhaled. Maybe whatever she had to say would give him enough time or an opening to let her down gently. “Okay, you first.”
She looked down and twisted her ring, but only once before she met him eye-to-eye again, her smile widening. “Simon, I’m pregnant.”
The words hit him and bounced off. He blinked at her while he called them back, tried to comprehend them. She couldn’t be pregnant. A week ago it would’ve been amazing news, but now it was impossible. So he said the first thing he could think of, the only thing that had been on his mind for the last hour. “Nathaniel’
s been found. The heir is legitimate.”
Her smile dissipated. At first he thought it was because she realized the weight of his words and why her news had hit him so hard, but then he recognized the spark of fire in her expression. She was furious.
She leaned away. “I tell you I’m pregnant, and that’s your first response?”
He spread his hands, helpless. “Penelope…” Couldn’t she see how mixed-up everything was? If he was going to be a father, the child would be homeless, title-less. How would he provide for it? Where would they go? What kind of unfulfilling, purposeless life would he be stuck leading because of all of today’s developments?
He wanted to hit himself the second he thought it. His child was not a development, and regardless of what kind of life he’d be living now, he wanted nothing more than to live it with his and Pen’s baby in his arms. He was just so shell-shocked—everything was happening so quickly, and his brain was reacting by analyzing and predicting and trying to reason out the problem to a logical conclusion, which was the most unhelpful thing possible at the moment.
Pen saw his thoughts play out across his face and stood up with a sharp movement. “Heir apparent or not, our baby is legitimate right now too,” she said. The hurt in her voice mingled with fury. “Is the Crown all you wanted me for?”
Simon stood up too. “What? No, of course not, it’s just that—”
She whirled around, retreating into a sitting room. “Go spend the night in your damn treehouse,” she growled, and slammed the door.
17
Penelope sat on the couch as far from possible from her husband while the lawyer explained what would happen now that she was no longer about to be Queen.
“You’re lucky,” said the droll little man, and Pen restrained her urge to slap him. Lucky? Nothing about this was lucky. She was losing everything she’d never realized she’d always wanted. “You won’t have to abdicate,” the lawyer went on, “since the coronation never had the chance to happen. You’ll still be in line for the throne, though your baby won’t be.”
She put a hand on her stomach. It was still flat, for now. But soon it would round out with new life, and her baby—her and Simon’s baby—would be common knowledge. Just in time for the divorce.
She refused to look at Simon and she could feel him doing the same from the opposite end of the couch. He’d been polite throughout the last few days as the shitstorm swirled around them, and she hated him for that. How could he stay so distant? Was it so easy for him to part ways with her, as if they’d never been lovers? She’d been angry when she’d hurled that accusation about him only wanting her for her crown the other day, but he hadn’t defended himself, and he’d barely talked to her since then. She couldn’t help but start to believe that maybe she’d hit on something. Maybe that really was what he’d wanted. He was a good guy, sure, always doing the right thing—but at his core, he needed to feel important. And since Penelope was no longer important to Escona, she was no longer important to him. Or at least, that was all she could assume, judging by his willingness to go along with the divorce without so much as a single complaint.
Her heart ached. She shored herself up against it, tried to hold herself together. He’d made his choice. All she could do now was face her future with dignity.
“You and Simon are free to work for the Castle in an alternate capacity,” the lawyer went on, “though you would of course still need to find alternate housing.”
“No,” she said before Simon could respond. “I’m leaving.”
Simon turned at that, finally looking at her. “What?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’ll, ah, leave you to discuss.” He half-bowed before remembering they were no longer royalty and scurrying out of the room, embarrassed.
Penelope’s fingers were still splayed across her stomach. She dropped her hand and pulled herself up, examining the suitcase on the bed. She’d been in the middle of packing when the lawyer had come for their briefing. She resumed the job now, sweeping open her underwear drawer and dumping it into the bag. She paused—the corset she’d worn on her wedding night lay on top of the pile. She was tempted to pull it out and toss it in the trash, remembering how he’d kissed his way up her calves that evening, how he’d looked at her like she was priceless and beautiful. In the end she just dumped some more pajamas on top of the garment, unable to bear throwing it away but also unable to look at it any longer.
Simon stood up behind her. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“I want to get away from this place,” she replied, not looking at him. “I’m going back to my toy store, my old life. Or maybe I’ll leave Escona entirely. Travel the world.” She laughed, a bitter sound. “It’ll get me away from my mother, anyway, now that I won’t be able to send her to America.”
Simon took off his reading glasses—he’d been looking over the paperwork involved in this whole mess all day—and rubbed his temples. “Must be nice to have a safety net,” he said in a low, vicious tone. “What am I supposed to do, while you frolic off across the world? I gave up everything for you. For Escona. I let myself be used by you and now I have nothing to show for it. It’s easy for you to just run away, to give up. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”
Oh hell no, he was not going to go there. She whirled on him. “I might have kept some connections to my old life, I might have not been completely ready to be Queen, but I was always more ready for romance than you!” she declared, stabbing a finger at him. “I didn’t use you for anything, and I’m done letting you use me for things now.” She yanked open her last drawer, scooped up an armful of jeans, and dropped them into the suitcase. With a savage motion, she slid the zipper shut.
“So that’s it? We’re doing this? Divorcing, moving out?”
“I’m moving out. I don’t care what you do.” She didn’t look at him when she said it. She didn’t want him to know how untrue it was, didn’t want him to see her so vulnerable. She hated what was happening, what it had done to them, but it was over. She wanted this whole chapter of her life behind her. Someday, she would heal. The faster she got away from this man and this castle the faster that would happen. “We’ll do the divorce quietly, before the baby is born. You can go back to Danovar if that’s what you want.”
He scoffed. “There’s nothing for me there now.”
“Then you can stay here and serve the new King.”
He hesitated. “What about the baby?”
“What about it?”
“Will I…” he didn’t finish.
She sighed, all the fight going out of her. “I don’t want the baby confused,” she said softly. “We’ll have different lives. Maybe… maybe it’s best if you pretend none of this ever happened.”
“You don’t want me to see the child?” His voice sounded strangled.
She put her hands over her face. That tone of his nearly did her in. But if she let him be a part of her life, if she saw him on a regular basis, if she let him help raise their baby—would she ever stop wanting him, ever stop missing what they’d had? Would she ever heal? He’d made his priorities clear, and they weren’t her. She wasn’t sure if it would be better for a child to grow up with a father like that, or no father at all. “I don’t know,” she said, miserable. “I need time to think.”
He walked out without a word. She sat on the bed for a long time, head in her hands, trying to imagine a future where she didn’t feel as completely shattered as she did in this moment.
18
Simon was starting to hate the library.
He leaned over the desk, pen at the ready, staring down at the legal brief in front of him. The words on the document might as well be random ink blots. He’d been sitting here for over an hour already this morning and still hadn’t been able to focus enough to read the damn thing, much less make notes on it, even though he’d promised one of the senior lawyers he was working with that he’d get them his thoughts on it by this afternoon. Truth was, he hadn’t been able to
focus for days. Not since he’d realized what a complete and total ass he was.
It hadn’t taken him long. The day after Pen had left, one of the castle lawyers had come to ask him to stay on as a consultant, and Simon had thought maybe this would give him a sense of purpose again. He was serving the Crown, after all. Not in a public, exalted way like last time, but glory had never been what he was after anyway. He just wanted to be a part of something bigger than himself. He just wanted to belong. So he’d accepted the job offer, hoping it might give him that.
It hadn’t.
He’d woken up in the middle of the night last night and finally had to give in and admit what he’d known for days now. He didn’t feel fulfilled. He was serving the Crown, had even been offered a new set of small apartments nearby, but this place still wasn’t home. Nowhere would be, not without Penelope.
But he’d lost Penelope. Because of his complete, total ass-ness.
He shoved the brief away with a disgusted huff. Ass-ness? Had he really fallen so far as to make up words now? This was just pathetic. He needed to stop moping around feeling sorry for himself and make a plan. He knew what he needed to do: find a way to get Pen back on the throne and into the life she needed and deserved, and ask her if she could find any way to let him into her heart again. But not only did he have no idea how to do that, he also had no idea how to do it without making it look like he was using her to fulfill his own needs. He could find a way to get her on the throne without asking her to be with him again, of course, but he didn’t trust himself to be able to follow through on that, because he’d been without Pen for exactly one week now and he already felt adrift and broken without her at his side. Plus, the image of her marrying someone else—which she would have to, in order to have a secure reign—made him want to put his fist through the nearest wall.