Her guards slammed the door shut, hiding her from my line of sight. Within ten seconds, her guards climbed into the vehicle—some getting into the support SUV a few feet behind—and then they were gone. Wheels screeched against the pavement as the cars ripped away from the curve, headed toward the safety of the palace.
I finally managed to wrench myself free, moving to an area of the market with fewer people. I adjusted the collar of my jacket and then ran a finger through my hair. I knew this wasn’t the last time I was going to see Marina. No matter what, I needed to see her again.
“I forbid you from seeing her again,” snapped my mother.
Nia Sabatino was a strict woman. Always had been. Her mouth was always pinched off, her eyebrows were stuck in a permanent frown, and her head was always tilted up slightly so that she could look down her nose at people—including me and her husband. She came from a long line of wealthy merchants, many of whom had made their mark on Brooklandian history by single-handedly funding construction projects, social welfare ventures, and even wars in the name of the Crown. I was sometimes grateful that my father sent me to Allendes to study, else I’d have to face my mother’s constant scrutiny—something I’d rather live without, thank you very much.
We were sitting in the small apartment parlor next to the red brick fireplace. Flames danced about as they devoured the thick logs and kindling, the scent of sweet wood and a bit smoke filling my nose. This apartment was significantly smaller than the one I grew up in. I supposed it made sense that my parents would want to downsize after sending me to boarding school. What use was a fifth bedroom that no one ever used?
There were only three bedrooms in this apartment: two separate ones for my parents, and one meant for guests—where I would be staying for the holiday season. I had to admit I was disappointed to discover that the maids threw out my old collection of baseball cards I’d had since I was a boy. There was effectively nothing left of my childhood here at home, save for a few family portraits from years past hanging on the walls.
“Why not?” I demanded, utterly confused. “We were best friends. Our families were close. Shouldn’t I at least pay my respects to the King and say hello?”
“Were,” she stressed. “Past tense. Your father and the King,” she said this with so much disdain it was almost tangible, “have been at odds for years.”
“What? Since when? About what?”
“Your father wants to take this country into the future. He wants to put an end to the hostilities with Allendes; he wants to end mandatory conscription of young men and women. But that lazy old King is too grounded in his backward traditions. He’s bleeding this country and its people dry all for the sake of his pride.”
I thought better of rolling my eyes. “You can’t be serious. Disagreements happen all the time. Father’s a Senator, a representative of the people. It’s kind of impossible not to butt heads every now and then.”
Mother shook her head and clicked her tongue at me. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young and naïve.”
“I’m twenty-two,” I objected.
“Young. And. Naïve,” she insisted.
“If things are really as bad as you say they are, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“What could you have done? You hold no power here. That’s why I need you to go back to Allendes and study to become a lawyer. Right now, you’ve only got a bachelor’s degree— hardly anything, as far as I’m concerned.” My mother sighed and patted me stiffly on the shoulder, the most affection she’d ever shown me. “You wouldn’t understand. Let the adults handle things. In the meantime, you’re to stay away from the Royal Family at all costs. I doubt that bastard of a King will even allow you to get within a mile of the Princess.”
My eyes fluttered over the open envelope sitting beneath the serving tray full of pastries on the coffee table. I didn’t have to ask what it was. The cracked red wax seal of the Parisier Royal Family made it quite obvious.
“I see you were invited to the Midnight Magic Ball,” I murmured, picking up the envelope to slip the invitation out. It was a thick cream cardstock, its message written in beautiful calligraphy. There were two cards inside, one for my mother and one for my father. “Are you going to go this year?” I asked.
Mother rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Won’t that be an insult to the King?”
“The only reason that old buzzard invited us was out of a sense of obligation. All of the members of parliament are asked to go because it’s tradition, not because he actually wants us there. I should have thrown it out with the trash earlier.”
“I can toss it for you,” I offered quickly as I stood from the couch.
“Thank you. And while you’re up, tell the maids to make more chocolate-filled croissants. We’re all out, and I know your father will want some for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
I nodded, pocketing the invitations without raising Mother’s suspicions. “I’ll do that.”
“Will you be staying for dinner?”
“I’ve actually got plans to see Oliver.”
Mother sighed, failing to hide the disappointment written all over her face. “I don’t like him.”
I swallowed my frustration down. We’d been over this time and time again. “Why?” I asked anyway because Mother was really starting to get on my nerves. First I couldn’t see Marina, and now she didn’t want me seeing my best friend from school? This was going to end up being a very lonely Christmas if Mother had her way.
“Because he’s...” She curled up her nose. “He’s just so–”
“Gay?”
“Flamboyant,” she corrected instantly, her time as a high profile senator’s wife kicking in. “I was going to say flamboyant.”
“Is there something wrong with being flamboyant?”
Mother waved her hand dismissively at me, clearly not wanting to get into an argument. God forbid she ever lost her cool. I’d never say it aloud, but I always thought she was a bit of a walking paradox. How could someone with such politically progressive views be so socially backward?
“I’ll see you later, Mother,” I said, hurrying out the door before she could say another word.
Oliver Smith was actually a semi-famous clothing designer with a shortlist of incredibly exclusive clients. Out of curiosity, I once asked how much he’d charge to make me a suit from scratch, and I was fairly certain my mind couldn’t even register the quote he'd given me. At first, I thought he was joking. But I’d seen his work sauntering down smaller catwalks and even the red carpet. The quality of the fabrics he used and the originality of each of his pieces definitely deserved their high price tag. Haute couture wasn’t necessarily a field that I had a particular interest in, but I could still appreciate the hard work that went into every little measurement and stitch.
He had a shop tucked away in a discreet alley. Everything was made of old brown and red bricks. Brick roads, brick walls, brick fences. There was a lovely planter hanging outside his shop window full of bright crimson poinsettias. The sign hanging on the other side of the shop’s glass door said Closed, though I could see that some of the lights were still on inside. Through the window, I was able to catch a glimpse of several plastic mannequins. They proudly displayed tailored suits and darling evening gowns full of shimmering sequins and crystals. Some of the pieces were still in design, little white chalk marks outlining what needed to be trimmed and where seams were to be applied.
I only had to knock on the door twice before I heard someone stomping in the back of the shop. The second Oliver laid his hazel eyes on me, he broke into a massive smile and exclaimed something cheerfully. I couldn’t hear what he said, but if I read his lips correctly, he must have yelled, Holy fucking shit, you’re here!
The doors flew open, and I found myself trapped in Oliver’s bear-like hug. He was a few inches shorter than me, as well as a lot leaner, so I couldn’t understand where his indescribable strength came from. Ma
ybe the old saying about dynamite coming in small packages was true. His dark brown hair had grown out since I last saw him, almost a year ago after he graduated early from our college’s fashion and design program. He wore it up in a mini ponytail, a braid stringing from his temple toward the back of his head.
“About time you showed up!” he said as he dragged me inside, quickly locking up the shop. “I was about to send a search party for you.”
“Were you really?”
“Well, no. But you know what I mean.”
I chuckled. “I appreciate the concern, Oli.”
“I have a couple of things to wrap up in the back, but then we can stop by Filipe’s.”
“Filipe’s still in business?”
“Best fucking burritos in the whole kingdom, I’m telling you. Of course, they’re still in business. Follow me. Please try not to touch anything.”
“Now I just want to touch everything,” I teased.
Oliver pumped his eyebrows at me. “Oh, my.”
I sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
He laughed, tilting his head back slightly. “Come on, come on. This way.”
I used to live across the hall from Oliver at St. George’s Preparatory School for Boys on the west coast of Allendes. Mother thought the extra sun and sea air would be good for me, so she spoke with the headmaster personally to ensure I had a room with a view that faced the water. I’d been embarrassed at first. Having my mother demand things and make a big deal about the location of my room filled me with so much embarrassment I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide there until she left. But if she hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have met Oliver.
We’d spent a lot of time studying together. I was always the bookworm, where he only wanted to mess around and explore the school grounds. Oliver was pretty much the messiest kid on our floor. His laundry was never done, vibrantly colored clothing littering the hardwood floor. His bed was never made, his desk was a hurricane of homework assignments, and his textbooks were organized by color rather than something sensible like subject or size.
So it wasn’t a surprise to find that his workshop was a complete disaster. I couldn’t even begin to describe the level of disorganization. It was chaotic, cramped, and downright crazy. The room was probably no bigger than Father’s office in the parliament building, but it looked nearly half the size thanks to the massive rolls of fabric that lined the furthest wall. There were silks, leathers, velvet, lace, and crepe in various colors and patterns. It hurt my eyes to look for too long.
In the center of the room, upon a circular platform, was a completed costume gown. The top was bright pink, and it faded into a soft cream toward the bottom. The bodice of the dress was decorated with an intricate pattern of pearls and golden thread, creating a phoenix pattern—the symbolic bird of the Royal Family. Next to the dress on a tall but narrow display table was an equally ornate magenta eye mask, the edges of which were decorated in a hard line of gold glitter.
“That’s for Princess Marina,” Oliver explained without me asking. “She asked me to personally design her costume for the ball, can you believe it? I have to drop it off at the palace for her tomorrow.”
I blinked in surprise. “Marina?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You two go way back.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the invitations my mother told me to toss in the trash. I grinned, an idea suddenly occurring to me. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to see Marina again. I waved the cards before Oliver’s face, like dangling bait in front of a hungry fish.
“Do you think you could whip me up a costume?” I asked. “Mask and all?”
Oliver grimaced. “The ball’s tomorrow.”
“I’ll take you with me. Haven’t you always wanted to attend?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek and furrowed his brows, appearing deep in thought. I’d personally been to my fair of formal galas and balls when I was younger, but Oliver was the son of a butcher and librarian. He was responsible for designing the clothes that would appear at such events, but never before had enough of a reputation to be invited to attend.
“Think about it,” I urged. “Delicious food, a night of dancing. Maybe you’ll meet your prince charming while you’re there.”
Oliver plucked the second invitation out of my hands and looked it over, running his fingers along the edges as he studied the elegant calligraphy. “Are you going?”
“Only if you agree to make me a costume.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea, though? What if you’re caught?”
“What if I’m caught?”
“Rodrigo,” he said, in all seriousness, “everybody knows that the Royal Family and the Sabatinos hate each other’s guts. If they catch you, they could–”
“What? Behead me for crashing a party? That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think?” I slung an arm around Oliver’s shoulders and pulled him in close. “There’s going to be a lot of eligible bachelors there.”
He snorted, but couldn’t hide his amused grin. “You’re the devil, you know that?”
I smirked. “Do you need to know this devil’s inseam?”
Oliver shrugged me off and laughed. “I already know your measurements.”
“Wait, how do you–”
“That’s not important.” He tugged me by the forearm over to his work desk and quickly whipped out a fresh piece of sketch paper and a pencil sharper then a needle. He shook his head and shrugged. “Well, I guess we can always order burritos in.”
“Thanks, Oli. You’re the best.”
“Bitch, I know it.”
2
Marina
“Has anyone seen the Princess?” asked Brandon, exasperated.
I stifled a mischievous little giggle as I sank even lower into the cushion fort I’d built myself, tucked between two towering bookshelves nearest to the south-facing window. This was one of my collections, filled to the brim with old works. I liked to read anything and everything, from action-adventure fiction to dictionaries to instructional how-to nonfiction. Mother once joked that I’d rather drink words than water.
“Princess Marina?” Brandon called again from the hallway. “Please come out. This isn’t funny anymore. The King will have my head if you’re not ready for the ball.”
I sighed in defeat, closing the thick book of fairy tales I had open on my lap. Brandon was closing in, and I’d been letting him run around in circles for nearly an hour. I was starting to feel bad for him.
Rising from my little nook of blankets and pillows and walls made of tomes, I fluffed up the pink tulle skirt of the ballgown Oliver had delivered earlier that day. We’d been in talks months prior to the Midnight Magic Ball, so I had a sense of what he was going for. The dress was honestly better than I ever could have hoped, and the mask he designed blew me away. I wasn’t one for these costume balls—I’d always had two own feet—but something about the dress and the electric buzz in the air had me hopeful that tonight was going to be marvelous.
“Princess Marina, where the fu–” Brandon came bursting through the narrow doors of the small library, gripping onto the handles like he was hanging on for dear life. His light brown hair was disheveled like he’d been running, his cheeks were flushed pink, and the top couple of buttons on his white chef’s jacket had popped open.
I gave him a tiny wave and smiled. “I’m here, I’m here. No need to get your panties in a twist.”
He huffed. “Don’t panties-in-a-twist me. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! The ball’s about to begin, and the King’s requested that you enter with him.”
I raised an eyebrow as I walked over, quickly combing Brandon’s hair back into place with my fingers. I giggled and said, “And why did Father send the cook of all people?”
“Because he thinks we’re friends.”
“But we are friends.”
“Not anymore,” he pouted. “I had to run all over the palace searching for you. Friends don�
�t do that to friends.”
“You could have just texted me.”
“I did. Me and all the staff on your security team. Why do you never answer your phone?”
I slipped my arm around his and laughed. “You’re not supposed to make noise in the library. Having my ringer on is in clear violation of the posted rules.”
“Posted rules? What posted rules? It’s your private library.”
I ignored him as I instead dragged him to the main dining hall of the palace. “Don’t be so cranky,” I teased him. “The plan to sneak you into the party under my skirt is still on the table.”
Brandon curled his face up. “Yeah, no,” he scoffed dryly.
“Please? It’s going to be so boring without company.”
“You’re literally going to be surrounded by hundreds of people.”
“Hundreds of boring people,” I corrected. “Ugh, I can already imagine all the small talk. Why do politicians always talk about the weather? What’s so interesting about it?”
Brandon shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me.”
“Promise you’ll at least stick close by. This is going to be a long night without you.”
He let out a rare chuckle, the corner of his lip ticking upward into a small smirk. “I’m flattered, Princess Marina. I’ll be by the dessert table should you need me.”
I gasped, playfully smacking him across the arm. “Chef Bonette’s finally giving you a station? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“To be honest, I forgot. Chef told me last night that our pâtissier is out with a broken wrist. I’ve been scrambling all morning to prepare everything. And then I wasted an hour looking for you.”
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