He is at once the water-colored echo of my past and the gossamer dream of a future that might’ve been. I can see no tangible place for us in the harsh light of this new reality. No concrete path for us to walk forward, side by side, hand in hand. And I know, as he holds my stare in the yawning silence, those brown eyes full of resigned melancholy…
Neither can he.
“Owen,” I whisper, shuffling a cautious step forward, careful not to touch him. “I don’t know what to say to make this better for you. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m just… I’m sorry. You’re hurting, and I know I’m the reason for it. I know nothing I do will make this better right now. But I still hate seeing you upset.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” He’s staring at the ground, not meeting my gaze despite my efforts to catch his eye. “I know none of this is your fault. It was out of your control from the very beginning. And, yeah, maybe if you’d never become the heir, if your father hadn’t died and a kingdom hadn’t fallen into your lap… if we’d just been two childhood friends with simple lives and straightforward jobs… things would’ve been different.” His mouth purses painfully. “But they aren’t. You’re the Queen. And I’m nobody… I’m nothing.”
“You aren’t nothing. You’re my best friend. You will never not be a part of my life. No matter what happens.”
“But things are different now. You’re different now.” His eyes finally flicker up to mine and for the first time, I recognize the gloss of tears on their surfaces. I’ve known Owen my entire life and I can count the number of times I’ve seen him cry on one hand.
“I…” His voice is a croak. “I’ve lost you.”
My heart cracks wide open when he says that. It takes a moment to gather my words. “Just because I’m the queen doesn’t mean you’ve lost me.”
“It’s not just about your title. It’s about…”
My brows lift, waiting.
“Him.”
I flinch back. “What? Who?”
“You know who I mean, Emilia.”
“I don’t.”
“Thorne! Carter Fucking Thorne. It’s obvious, the way you feel about him. I knew it the first time I ever saw you together. Though what you see in that prick, I have no fucking idea.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, heart thumping so hard I can barely hear Owen’s scoff over the pulse roaring between my ears. “There’s nothing between me and… and… him. It’s ridiculous to even suggest something like that.”
“Emilia. You can’t even say his name.”
My chin jerks stubbornly upward. “So?”
“So… you and me, we don’t have secrets,” he reminds me, his own voice shattered by sadness. “We know each other too well after all this time.”
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and begin to gnaw on it. He’s right, of course. There’s no point denying the truth to him. He can see through every wall I put up, every subterfuge I attempt to conceal my true feelings behind.
“Do you love him?”
The question makes my eyes bug out of their sockets. “Owen—”
“Just answer the question.”
“It doesn’t matter if I love him,” I hedge. “I can’t be with him.”
There’s a long pause. So long, I don’t think he’s going to answer at all. When he finally does, he says the last thing I would’ve ever in a million years expected to come out of his mouth.
“Take it from someone who let the love of their life slip through their fingers. If you want him, tell him. If you can’t picture your life without him, fix it. No matter if it’s hard, no matter what either of you have done to hurt each other…” Owen sighs deeply. “If you love him, you have to try.”
Chapter Three
“…and I really think you should attend. Don’t you agree? The invitations have been steadily coming in. It would be in your best interest to schedule at least one public appearance within the next week. To get the press off your back, to reinvigorate your public appeal…”
The nonstop, high-pitched droning of Ursula Caulfield, Waterford Palace’s interim Press Secretary, reminds me of a wasp — a relentless buzz in my ears, exacerbating the headache I’ve had since I said goodbye to Owen last night. I digest her bright-eyed inclinations from across the table and seriously contemplate leaving the conference room in favor of a quiet castle corner where no one can disturb me.
Perhaps that particularly comfortable chair in the back of the library, where I can lose myself in a book for a few hours…
“Your Majesty? Are you still listening?”
I force a halfhearted smile. “Of course, Caulfield. Carry on.”
“As I was saying — this is a crucial time period for you, as a leader. I cannot stress enough how important it is you make yourself fully accessible to your subjects. In this day and age, they are accustomed to a constant stream of content from the celebrities they follow…”
Caulfield begins to drone again, detailing the many merits of social media. The supposed power I can harness through livestreams and Q&A sessions and heavily airbrushed Instagram posts. I watch her mouth forming words that never seem to reach my ears, thinking absently that she is, in every way, the antithesis of my former advisor, Gerald Simms.
Namely: young, cheerful, full of tech-savvy ideas.
I hired the thirty-something PR guru two weeks ago, hoping she might help fill the Simms-shaped hole in my strained relationship with the press. Since then, she’s been so keen on maximizing my quote-unquote brand, you’d think I was an Instagram influencer running a travel blog, not a queen running a kingdom.
She clears her throat lightly. “I realize you haven’t been feeling quite ship-shape lately…” Her face contorts into an expression of exaggerated sadness — bottom lip jutting in a pout, eyes bugging in a way that vaguely reminds me of a clown at the center ring of a circus, determined to coax a begrudging crowd into a response.
In this context, it’s more condescending than it is entertaining. I feel my hackles starting to rise, but manage to keep my expression smooth as she carries on.
“Your Majesty can surely see the merits of appeasing her adoring public with some face-time. But we must work to turn that frown upside down in front of the cameras, Queen Emilia! Positivity is key! No one likes a sourpuss!”
God, I miss Simms.
I never thought I’d find myself thinking such a thing — that I’d actually mourn the pompous Press Secretary in all his pinstripe-suited glory — but here we are. The insufferable positivity of his youthful replacement is enough to inspire nostalgia for the more traditional way things used to operate around here.
“This invitation, in particular, should be of interest to you,” Caulfield preens, pushing a piece of thick ivory card stock across the table at me. There are springs of pressed flowers embedded in the paper. “Prime Minister Mallory’s wife is hosting an intimate evening with the Vasgaard Beautification Society next week. Spring is coming! There’s plenty to do. Plotting out flower displays for the main boulevards, organizing the May Day festival…”
“Thrilling.”
“Isn’t it?” She beams, missing my sarcasm entirely. “A step in the right direction, at the very least. I think it would be pertinent of you to choose a few vital charities and organizations to support during your reign. Throw your efforts behind one or two causes early on, to illustrate that you intend to be an active ruler. Don’t you agree?”
Caulfield is constantly saying this — Don’t you agree? — in that cheerful voice, as though the current of her own enthusiasm will buoy me along on whatever plan she thinks up. It does not escape my notice that she never waits for affirmation, barreling on before I have a chance to actually concur.
“Perhaps you could champion the preservation of our city parks, ponds, and flower beds, Your Majesty?”
“You mean the ones currently buried under ten feet of snow?”
Her pert nose twitches. “Right. Well. How do you feel about art? There ar
e so many museums in Vasgaard in need of a royal sponsor. You could surely take one under your wing! The late Queen Abigail was particularly fond of the portrait galleries…”
My eye twitches with tightly-leashed annoyance. Caulfield appears to think being the queen amounts to attending garden parties, rubbing elbows with those who inhabit Germania’s wealthiest circles, and posting daily photos of my outfits online. (#HerMajestyOOTD)
I, for one, was of the foolish opinion that our kingdom might be facing more important matters; that my energies would be harnessed in a way that might actually benefit those who reside within its borders.
Evidently, I was off base.
The welfare of the Germanian people is nothing of importance. Not when there are peonies to be planted along the banks of the Nelle River! Or stuffy portraits to be admired on the walls of museums no one ever bothers to visit!
Spare me.
“Your Majesty?” Caulfield blinks her wide eyes at me. “Did you hear what I’ve just said?”
“Sorry. What was it?”
“With your permission, I’m going to send your RSVP to Prime Minister Mallory’s wife. She’ll be just thrilled. All the ladies will! And the press coverage will be most favorable. Sure to get some traction online, with a few strategic posts. Don’t you agree?”
I eye her for a moment, then allow my gaze to drop to the tabletop where an impressive stack of letters rest. There must be forty invitations accumulated there. Everyone in Germania wants the esteem of a Lancaster at their galas, their auctions, their fundraisers. Unfortunately for them — and me — Lancasters are in rather short supply these days.
Truth be told, the prospect of attending any of these events is about as appealing as a root canal. But in the back of my mind, I hear Galizia’s voice.
The public has a short memory.
They’re not going to let you grieve forever.
“Is there any recent correspondence from Alden Sterling, by chance?”
Caulfield startles at my sudden question. Her eyes go saucer-wide, her fingers flex against the pressed-flower paper like an electric shock has jolted through her system.
“Lord Sterling?”
I nod. “He’s an acquaintance of mine.”
“Of course. Let’s see here. If I’m not mistaken…” She shuffles quickly through the stack, brightening visibly when she seizes upon a thick gold envelope. “Ah. Here it is. Though, Your Majesty, I’m not sure this event is of the same social caliber as that of the Beautification Society…”
I pluck the shiny foil invitation from her grasp and examine it. There’s an art-deco font on the front, blocky black lettering that spells out my name and title. I trace the word Emilia with the tip of my pinky finger before tearing open the envelope and pulling out the thick parchment inside. My eyes devour the party details listed in the same artsy font.
“Just one event,” I murmur. “That’s what you said, right? Attend one event and the press will be off my back for a while… The public will be relieved to see me still alive and kicking…”
“Oh… Yes, that’s the idea, but I—”
“Please don’t bother with the garden party RSVP. I’ll be attending this instead.” I push the gold invitation back to her and rise to my feet. “Now, I need to go. It seems I have a costume to pull together and a very short amount of time to do so.”
“B-b-but… Your Majesty… with all due respect, this event is tomorrow night. Proper etiquette requires at least a week’s notice for attendance—”
“Caulfield.” My firm tone stops her jabbering.
“Y-yes, Your Majesty?”
“If we’re going to work together, I think you should probably know… Proper etiquette isn’t really my style.”
She’s still gaping like a fish out of water as I turn and leave the room.
Thirty-six hours later, I’m wishing I’d been less hasty in committing myself to this plan. It seemed like a better idea when I was holding that foil invitation in my hands, contemplating a painful afternoon of tea with Mrs. Mallory and the rest of the Beautification Society. But now, as the Rolls-Royce limousine glides to a stop in front of Westgate Manor, the Sterling family’s impressive country home, my pulse ratchets up to twice its normal pace. I take a deep breath to steady myself the instant before the back door swings open.
Just a party.
There are no threats here.
No attackers waiting in the wings with sinister plots.
Riggs catches my eye as he extends a strong hand to guide me out. My grip finds his as my high-heeled feet find purchase on whitewashed cobblestones that have stood for nearly a century in this same location. The metallic silver polish of my manicure glitters rebelliously in the pale winter moonlight. I smirk a little at the sight.
A queen must wear elbow-length gloves for all public appearances, Lady Morrell told me a million times during our etiquette lessons. It’s a matter of decency.
When I’d asked her why such an archaic rule existed, she looked aghast.
A Lancaster woman is the jewel of the royal family — valued, above all, for purity and quality. She must never be associated with flashy nail polishes, gauche hair dyes, or tacky tattoos. Proper appearance is of utmost importance, Your Highness.
Her words were meant as a helpful guide, to be sure. Or a gentle reminder of what I used to look like, before I became a Lancaster — back in the days of my chipped blue manicures, mini skirts, and overgrown lavender waves. But tonight, as I stared down at the collection of long gloves laid out in my suite, ready and waiting for me… all I could see were shackles of a long outdated dress code. Remnants of a patriarchal society that’s as uncomfortable with female autonomy as it is female anatomy.
In those gloves, I saw a room full of bright women unable to run for elected office in Parliament because of their gender. I saw a long string of advisors, steering me away from political pursuits in favor of more delicate ones: garden parties and classical paintings and preservation efforts. I saw a side of Germania I’ve spent most of my life blind to, despite the fact that it’s colored my worldview since the moment I was born, not-so-subtly steering my every choice — from what clothes I can wear to what topics I can study to what profession I can pursue to what kind of mother I can become.
If I pulled on those gloves, covered my arms to the elbow like a good little girl and walked out the door… it seemed I’d somehow be validating those silent whispers on the wind; the ones that filter through the windows of pale pink nurseries in every town in this kingdom.
Be pretty, not smart.
Be seen, not heard.
Screw that nonsense.
There’s a spring in my step as my bare fingers brush the sides of my silk dress. I picture the scowls mottling the faces of every blue-blooded society member and feel my lips tug up into an honest-to-god smile. This small act of rebellion has set a fire in my chest — an irrepressible spark, warming me against the chill that numbs my limbs whenever I step out of the castle, onto the microscope slide that is my life.
I am not a decorative jewel to be measured by my perceived purity, I tell myself as I make my way up the front steps of the manor. I am a diamond — forged from the darkest of minerals into unbreakable strength, impervious enough to withstand the shucking of tradition and the wagging of tongues.
The shimmering silver skirts of my dress flow around my legs like water as I approach the stately entranceway, oak doors looming ten feet above my head. I’m not sure where my fleet of personal shoppers found the gown — probably in the closet of some long-dead monarch — but it perfectly fits the party theme. I am half Daisy Buchanan, half Princess Diana.
Despite the thick white mink wrap around my shoulders, I shiver in the crisp February air. Winter’s icy grip remains unrelenting here in the mountains. Though, if I’m honest, a good deal of my shakes are probably from nerves.
The mansion towers in the darkness, intimidating for its architectural design as much as the gathering I know awaits me ins
ide its walls. Nerves claw at my stomach lining as I ascend the final steps and watch the doors swing inward to a brightly-lit atrium. I’m glad I didn’t bother with dinner; there’s a very good chance it would’ve wound up all over the front steps of Westgate.
I want to turn back, to ditch my heels and pull a Cinderella-inspired dash into the night. Unfortunately, my fairy godmother seems to be missing in action. There is no magic pumpkin to whisk me away from this fate; just Riggs and a small contingent of highly-trained guards. They surround me in tight formation as we step inside, then fan out to form an immediate perimeter of the room.
I keep my eyes fixed dead ahead, trying not to look as shell-shocked as I feel when I come to a stop in the center of the atrium. The heavy doors bang shut behind me with ear-splitting finality. Uniformed servants are stationed at careful intervals — a blur of white gloves and gleaming gold buttons in my peripheral vision.
There’s a low hum of noise all around me — the refrains of live music drifting down the hall from the direction of the ballroom; the murmur of conversation from fellow late-arrivals as they hand off their coats to waiting pages; the faint crackle of torches lining the walls; and, most prominently, the first gasps of dawning recognition when they finally spot their queen standing there in vintage splendor.
I sense the change in gravity unfurling around me — the sudden angling of heads and canting of spines as everyone drops into shallow bows and curtseys. Surprise hangs in the air, tangible as the imported blooms of jasmine that fill every vase in the entry hall. I ignore the cloying scent along with the hushed whispers crescendoing behind cupped hands.
It’s her.
It’s the queen.
I thought she went crazy.
I heard she never leaves the castle.
Several pages trip over themselves in their eagerness to take my mink stole. I keep my eyes disengaged as the fur slides off my shoulders into a set of waiting hands. A thank you is poised on my tongue — a long-ingrained impulse. With effort, I tamp it down in favor of a sedate nod, slight enough to keep the thin tiara on my head from shaking loose… not that there’s much chance of that, given the amount of pins in my hair.
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