And I can’t lie — a few moments later, as a brass band plays the Germanian national anthem, as they hoist our navy and gold flag high in the bright morning sky… I stand with my hand over my heart, my eyes stinging with tears that are surely smudging the makeup Lady Morrell’s fleet of stylists worked so hard to perfect, and find my heart swelling with an unfamiliar surge of patriotism.
Crowns and thrones and blood rights aside…
This is my country.
These are my people.
And I’m proud as hell to be one of them.
Today.
Tomorrow.
All the days to come.
Chapter Seven
“That speech was not what we discussed,” Simms mutters in a tight voice as he ushers me into the waiting Rolls Royce two hours later. The deafening sound of the crowd’s cheering is muffled slightly when the chauffeur closes the door behind us.
“Sorry, Ger.” Cheeks aching, I let the smile fall off my face and settle back against the seats with a sharp exhale. I’m suddenly exhausted beyond measure. “I did warn you I wasn’t going to follow your scripts.”
He stares at me for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his portly face.
“What?” I ask, not recognizing the look.
“You. You were…”
My brows go up. I’ve never seen staid, serious Simms so tongue-tied before. And… is that a blush I see coloring his cheeks?!
Impossible.
“What I mean to say is…” He clears his throat. “You were quite good with the crowd earlier, Your Highness. Natural. Charming. A bit unpolished for my liking, of course. And then there’s the matter of your profanity usage… But, all things considered, it could’ve gone worse.”
“Wait a minute — did you just compliment me, Simms?”
“Don’t be absurd. I was merely pointing out the facts.” He adjusts his bow-tie and avoids my gaze. “You seem to possess an innate talent for this. With a bit of practice, you could easily endear yourself to the public.”
Hell must’ve frozen over. That’s the only explanation for this man — one of Octavia’s chief allies — actually approving of something I’ve done.
“However, I must say, you giving away an antique diadem to a child who will only have occasion to wear it during games of dress-up…” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Most inadvisable, Your Highness.”
And, with that, the universe rights itself. Simms is back to regarding me with his typical air of pompous disapproval, and I’m back to being the reckless, ill-mannered heir he cannot abide.
I smile to myself as we speed toward Waterford Palace, my mind occupied by happy thoughts of the poor little girl who lives in my old neighborhood, playing make-believe princess with her mom in a priceless tiara. Simms may not approve, but…
That’s my kind of happy ending.
The drive takes about twenty minutes. We spend it in silence; Simms scrolling through emails on his phone, me staring absently out the window, playing back the past two hours in my head.
Despite my initial reservations about attending the Remembrance Day ceremony, it wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it would be. In fact, once the public speaking portion was behind me, I actually enjoyed chatting with active duty military members, meeting wounded warriors in the cutting-edge prosthetic and robotics lab, walking the halls of the new trauma outreach center with the Minister of Veteran Affairs.
Two semesters ago, I did a PTSD and suicide prevention rotation for my clinical psychology internship. So I’ve seen firsthand how important it is to treat mental scars along with physical ones. To give our soldiers access to emotional support systems, group therapy sessions, coping strategies… everything they need to strike back against the demons that all too often accompany them home from the battlefield.
It felt remarkably good to see the crown’s money being put to good use, rather than pissed away on needless pomp and circumstance. It also made me wonder what other causes I could fund with my newfound position as the Crown Princess. Because I may’ve been put in this position against my will… but now that I’m here…
I might as well do some damn good.
The wheels in my mind are turning with radical ideas when our motorcade slows to a crawl, then stops altogether with an abrupt pump of the brakes that gives me whiplash and sends Simms’ phone flying to the carpeted limousine floor. I think we must already be back at the palace… until I look out my window.
We’re parked by the perimeter of the grounds, on the narrow roadway just outside the main gates. Startled, I crane my neck to see what’s happening through the tinted glass.
“Why on earth have we stopped—”
Simms’ question trails off with a soft hiss of air. I feel the breath leave my own lungs as I digest the scene unfolding around us. Galizia and several other guards are out of their armored black SUV, attempting to clear the roadway — which appears to be blocked by a group of protesters.
My heart kicks up speed.
There must be two dozen of them. Faces half-covered by bandanas, they’re all dressed in black. Their shirts bear some kind of white symbol on the front that I can’t quite make out from this distance. Marching back and forth, they hoist picket signs into the air in rhythmic thrusts that match the tempo of their chant. Despite the thick, bulletproof glass that divides us, they’re so loud I hear every word of the catchy slogan.
“GERMANIA WON’T BE FREE
TILL MONARCHY IS HISTORY!
LANCASTERS, TAKE A KNEE
WE WANT A DEMOCRACY!”
They soon spot my limo and, realizing someone royal is inside, set their sights on it. My pulse starts to pound as they approach, chants increasing in volume, signs waving madly. All too quickly, we’re surrounded on all sides — an ocean of anger, engulfing us like an unexpected moon tide.
“Stay back!” Galizia yells, her arms thrown wide, as if she might singlehandedly keep thirty protesters at bay. She and the other guards have formed a human wall around our limo. I stare at her shoulder blades through my window and wonder how she keeps them so remarkably steady, even in a crisis.
“I SAID STAY BACK!”
Our guards trying their best, doing exactly what they’ve been trained for, but they’re vastly outnumbered. The small buffer of space they’ve created is now all that separates our Rolls Royce from the protesters. Six feet, no more.
This close, I can see their faces more clearly, along with the sigil emblazoned on their shirts. It’s the Lancaster crest — our double-headed lion — cut cleanly in half with a blood red sword. The symbolism is not lost on me.
Death to the monarchy.
A particularly bold protester lurches forward toward the limo, waving his sign fervently. Several guards place their hands on their holsters in response — a clear warning not to get any closer.
“You touch this vehicle, you will be arrested!” Galizia calls, her voice cutting over their persistent chants. “Your right to peacefully protest does not include the destruction of royal property!”
I expel a shallow breath of relief as the protesters back off a few feet. So far, they’re keeping their distance.
But how long can that possibly last?
“MONARCHY IS HISTORY!” They chant, their eyes burning through the tinted glass with a hundred years of pent-up resentment. “WE WANT A DEMOCRACY!”
“My god, the utter audacity of this!” Simms snaps, but there’s a quiver in his voice. “They should all be thrown in jail…”
I glance at him. “Technically, they haven’t done anything illegal, Simms.”
He huffs. “Yet.”
My knees bounce with nervous tension as I stare out my window at the standoff — the turbulent sea of protesters, the steady stone-faced guards. It’s only a matter of time before they collide. Only a matter of time before…
CLANG!
A sudden metal grating sound draws the scene to a momentary standstill. Everyone turns to look — guards and protestors
alike. I can’t see through the dense throng, so it takes me a moment to register the piercing noise is the castle gate swinging open.
Someone’s coming out.
The protestors begin to move away from the limo and, through a gap in the crowd, I spot something that makes my stomach turn to lead.
No.
No, no, no.
A full contingent of the King’s Guard is marching out onto the street, dressed in black fatigues, helmets, and steel-toed boots. They haven’t drawn their weapons, but they’re carrying heavy riot shields and batons as they advance on the protestors.
What.
The.
Fuck.
There must be a hundred of them. It’s a clear show of force — like pulling out a firehose to extinguish the sparks from a small candle.
“Bane, you fucking idiot,” I mutter darkly.
“Your Highness! Language!”
I ignore Simms, eyes still fixed outward. “What the actual fuck is he thinking? Isn’t he supposed to be some kind of tactical expert?”
“I don’t see the problem, Princess. Our soldiers are here to put a stop to this ridiculous gathering of ingrates…”
“This isn’t how you de-escalate a protest.” I shake my head. “This is the exact opposite of how you do that.”
Christ, I’m a freaking college student and even I know that responding in riot gear is the surest way to turn a peaceful protest into full-fledged war zone. It’s basic human nature: treat someone like a criminal, they’ll act like one.
Bane just poured gasoline on the sparks he set out to extinguish.
The sight of the soldiers takes immediate effect — the protesters’ agitation spikes in a fever pitch. I can feel the change in the air, the sudden violence that steals over the group. The chant dissolves into chaos as they begin to hurl vulgar insults at the steadily-advancing line of guards.
FASCIST PIGS!
DEATH TO THE CROWN!
LANCASTER TRASH!
My heart hammers against my ribs as I watch their middle fingers waving in the air, their angry eyes flashing above the kerchiefs on their faces. As the space between the two groups dwindles, they hurl their homemade signs at the line of soldiers — thin cardboard missiles that bounce off the riot shields and fall to the ground, only to disappear beneath a stampede of heavy boots.
Please, for the love of god, no one fire a gun or set off a canister of tear-gas, I think, barely breathing. Please, no one escalate this further.
My prayers are answered. Seeming to realize they are outnumbered, that this is a fight they cannot win — at least, not today — the protesters finally yield their position. They begin to clear away from the motorcade, scattering up onto the sidewalk.
Following them every step of the way, the riot squad breaks marching rank to line the street, shoulder-to-shoulder. They form a gauntlet of protection around our limousine that stretches all the way to the gate, their shields still held aloft as though the protestors might try to rush onto the roadway and surround us once more.
For a moment, there’s tense silence as the two opposing sides face off — protest sign vs riot shield, t-shirt vs tactical gear, bandana vs bulletproof helmet — in a tense staring contest. I can’t help feeling we are balanced on the edge of a powder keg, holding a box of matches; one wrong move from either side… and things are going going to explode.
Please, please, please, I pray, fingernails digging into my palms. No one do anything stupid.
Galizia gestures to our chauffeur driver, then glances straight at my window and gives a reassuring nod, despite the fact that she can’t see me through the tinted glass. She knows I’m watching.
All good now, Princess.
A breath I didn’t know I was holding slips out of my lungs as the limo starts moving again. My relief is only on the surface level; beneath it, I am consumed by mounting anxiety.
We may be safe for the moment, but judging by what I just saw…This problem isn’t going away anytime soon. Even through the barrier of soldiers, I can feel the weight of thirty sets of enraged eyes, all seemingly fixed on my window. Their hatred is palpable. So thick, it could swallow me whole.
Death to the monarchy!
Simms sighs deeply, as though all of this was no more than a minor inconvenience. “Don’t let them bother you, Your Highness. These radical groups act up from time to time.” He shakes his head in disapproval, but his attention is already fixed on the contents of his email inbox. “They’ll slink back into the shadows when they realize such displays are a foolish waste of time. You’ll see.”
I wish I shared his lack of concern.
I wish the sight of those men calling for my extermination didn’t send cold shivers of foreboding down my spine.
I wish I could ignore the fear that curdles in my gut whenever I realize my guards can — and will — kill to keep me safe.
But, most of all, I wish like hell I hadn’t looked quite so thoroughly at the protesters surrounding our limo. I wish I hadn’t recognized the head of floppy blonde hair at the very front of the crowd, or the set of familiar brown eyes staring out at me from above a black bandana, or the broad shoulders filling out that anti-Lancaster t-shirt.
But I did.
I’d recognize my best friend anywhere; even if it’s the last place on earth I ever expected to see him.
Owen, I think helplessly, as the castle gates clang closed behind the motorcade, shutting me safely inside my gilded cage. Oh, Owen…
What on earth have you done?
Chapter Eight
“HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP US!”
Tears track down my cheeks, smearing my makeup into rivulets. I don’t move to brush them away. My hands are on Linus’ chest, shaking him.
“WAKE UP! YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP!”
I leave bloody handprints on his white tuxedo shirt.
His wheezing grows fainter.
His eyes are going glassy.
The sight of him lying there — slack-jawed, vacant — spurs a scream from the depths of my soul. It rings out in the Great Hall, a piercing wail of distress that—
“Emilia!”
I thrash, still half-caught up in the dream, and feel my fist make contact with something hard.
“Ow! Fuck!”
My shrieks continue as the images play out before my eyes. Blood and death and horror.
“Emilia, wake up!” the gruff voice orders. Strong hands encircle my wrists, restraining my flailing limbs from doing any more damage. Half-asleep, I vaguely register my body being repositioned against something solid.
“Dammit Emilia.” There’s a break in his voice as it drops low. “You’re scaring me, love. Wake up.”
A whimper of distress catches in my throat as I finally come to. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a wild creature desperate for escape from its cage. My skin is flushed and sweaty, my breaths coming too fast to properly fill my lungs. There are two arms wrapped around me. With a muffled gasp, I realize I’m in Carter’s lap, my back pressed tight to his broad chest.
“Carter?” I sound like a lost little girl — a shell of my normal self.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I go limp, all the tension draining out of me in a rush. There are tears trickling down my cheeks, falling against my chest. When I lift my hand to wipe them away, I find my wrists still manacled in Carter’s strong grip.
He releases me instantly, hands falling to the bedspread. “You were thrashing. I thought you were going to hurt yourself…”
“Thank you,” I whisper, brushing my face with shaking fingers. “Again.”
He doesn’t respond.
I still haven’t moved off his lap. I know I should, but I haven’t quite found the strength yet. I’m exhausted from the night terror — emotionally, physically. And it feels so good to have his arms around me. To soak up his heat and his strength until the fresh horror churning through my mind has faded into vapor.
My
whisper is barely audible. “I thought you were going to let me scream, the next time.”
Carter pauses for a long beat. “So did I.”
I don’t thank him for changing his mind, nor does he explain his reasons for doing so. Before I can talk myself out of it, I let my head fall back against the crook of his shoulder. My right hand lands flat on his chest, just above his heart. I can feel it thundering beneath my palm, a match for my own racing pulse. My eyes close as I attempt to calm my ragged breaths into something resembling a normal pace.
I might as well be lying against a statue, Carter is so still behind me. A man chiseled out of marble and steely resolve. I can feel the tension thrumming through every muscle in his body even as my own relaxes, sapped of all strength.
I’m almost certain he’s going to push me away. Leave me in the dark to fight off my demons alone. But then… after what feels like an eternity…. with a heavy sigh that rattles his whole chest, he sets one large hand on the crown of my head. I’m stunned when he begins to pet my hair, just like Mom used to do to comfort me as a child whenever I was sick or scared.
It’s almost funny — we haven’t spoken in weeks. In fact, I’m pretty certain he hates me for everything that’s happened between us. For all the words left unsaid, all the apologies never voiced. But with each rhythmic stroke of his hand, I feel a bit better.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that. Long enough for my breaths to slow. Long enough for my shakes to stop. Long enough for what little strength I have left to drain from my limbs.
The strain of the previous day has officially caught up with me — the speech I gave, the protesters in the street, the sight of my former best friend’s face in their ranks… I am hollowed out. Empty as a drum, with no will left to struggle against my own painful reality, the beat of blood in my veins faint and faltering.
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