Royals

by Rachel Hawkins

  “Sheep joke. I get it. What’s that?”

  Glynnis smiles at me, those shiny teeth practically winking in the sunlight. “Your dress for tonight! Just arrived from the city.”

  I assume the city means Edinburgh, and when Glynnis unzips the bag, I see that gorgeous tartan gown I’d drooled over in the catalog Glynnis had showed us, back when I was getting my new-and-improved Daisy look.

  El remembered.

  It feels silly to get choked up over a dress, but this is a really, really great dress, and also, it means that El still listens to me a little. Still sees me.

  “It’s perfect,” I tell Glynnis.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few hours later, I’m rethinking that statement. Yes, the dress is pretty. Yes, that riot of deep green and purple and black looks pretty with my hair and makes my skin glow. Yes, I feel a little bit like a princess, and okay, maybe, after I’ve first put it on, there is some twirling.

  Just a little twirling.

  But after an hour or so in it in a crowded ballroom, the tulle underneath the silk skirt is scratching my legs, and I keep surreptitiously tugging at the bodice, afraid my Facebook-famous boobs are about to steal the spotlight. Plus El let me borrow a tiara, and it is killing me. Too heavy, tight on my temples, and I’m very, very aware that I not only have several thousand dollars on my head but also several hundred years of history. This tiara had belonged to some ancestor of Alex’s, no one that important—Alex’s mom has a firm hand on all the stuff that actually matters, the famous jewels and all that, but this had been some king’s aunt’s or something like that, and I wonder if her picture is hanging up at Sherbourne Castle.

  And if she’d wanted to toss this particular tiara from the tallest tower.

  I’m out on the stone patio that overlooks the main patio downstairs, and I’m really considering tossing this heavy piece of silver, diamonds, and amethysts into the pond when I hear Dad say, “Good god, they’ve gotten to you, too.”

  I turn around, smiling at my dad. “Actually, I was just thinking about throwing this priceless tiara in the duck pond,” I tell him, and he raises his champagne flute of club soda to me.

  “There’s my girl.”

  Dad ambles over to my side, and for a little bit, we stand in the soft-purple evening, looking down at the party.

  Ellie is also in tartan tonight, although hers is the official Baird tartan. It’s pretty, and the diamonds in her hair sparkle. Once again, it’s clear to me that El was meant to be a princess.

  “They’ll eat her up, these people,” Dad muses, waving his free hand to take in all the people milling around on the patio below us.

  “I dunno, Dad,” I say, leaning close enough to him to bump his elbow. “They don’t really look much like cannibals to me.”

  He glances down at me, that familiar smile tugging the corners of his lips. There are deep brackets on either side of his mouth, and the breeze blows his admittedly scraggly hair back from his face.

  Threading my arm through his, I nod down at all those people in their fancy dresses and weird headgear. “They’ll learn to love her. Everyone loves El. It’s . . . like, her superpower. Intense likability. That and having really shiny hair.”

  “She even had that hair as a baby,” Dad says, frowning. “It was unsettling.”

  I laugh, but something in the sound must be off because Dad looks down at me. “And you, poppet? How are you holding up in all this madness?”

  Dad has always been good at understanding when things bug me, maybe because I inherited his skill at laughing off stuff or covering with jokes. It works with Mom, usually works with El, too, but Dad . . . no, Dad is onto me.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him, because that’s close to the truth. Sometimes I have fun, sometimes I actually love it here. Weirdly enough, the first thing that flashes through my mind is the other morning, riding through the park with Miles, and I shove it aside, but not quickly enough to stop a blush from climbing up my neck. Dad probably notices—he notices everything—but he doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s like being on another planet,” I tell him, and Dad chuckles at that.

  “It is,” he tells me. “Planet Rich and Famous. The air is rarefied and eventually makes it impossible to breathe.”

  Then he smiles at me and says, “But you’ll both be fine. You have something I didn’t.”

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for the punch line.

  And sure enough, Dad nudges me, winks, and says, “Good parents.”

  I laugh at that, and Dad looks down at his empty glass. “Off for a refill. You need anything?”

  When I shake my head, he gives me another wink. “Don’t throw any jewelry into the shrubbery without me, darling.”

  Dad goes back inside, and I smile as I watch him go. I’ve missed having my parents around, which is a sentiment that might get me kicked out of teendom, but it’s the truth. No matter how embarrassing my dad might be, how distracted my mom always is, they love us. They’re easy to be around, and they’ve only ever wanted us to be healthy and happy. In that way, we’re a lot luckier than the royals.

  Sighing, I turn back to the balcony. It’s still not dark—it won’t be until nearly 11 p.m.—but the light is so pretty, all soft and golden, edged in lavender, and the nearby hills are dark green against the sky. It’s also chilly, enough that I wish I’d brought a wrap or something.

  “There you are,” I hear, and I turn around to see Miles coming out of the patio doors toward me, and he’s just . . . it’s very . . .

  “Wow,” I finally say.

  He is indeed wearing a kilt, but I don’t much feel like making fun of it. It’s the same tartan as my dress, the purple and green and black, and he’s wearing it with a matching bow tie, a white shirt, and a gorgeous black jacket. Even those socks the men wear with their kilts don’t look silly on him, and when I glance down, I notice—

  “Is that a knife?” I ask, gesturing to the leather hilt in the cuff of his sock, and Miles looks down.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, it’s part of the whole look. It’s called a sgian-dubh, and it’s—”

  I hold up a hand. “No. No history tonight,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he grins, a dimple flashing in his cheek. His curly hair has been tamed tonight, but it still curls around his earlobes, and he looks . . . nice.

  Better than nice, but I’m not quite willing to admit that right now.

  “No history,” he agrees, and then holds out his hand. “But how about dancing?”

  Chapter 27

  The ballroom is crowded when we walk in, my hand tucked into the crook of Miles’s arm, and for a moment, I stare at all the whirling skirts.

  “That is just . . . so much plaid,” I mutter, and Miles does that huffing sound that, for him, almost passes for a laugh.

  “How do you not get migraines looking at so many clashing patterns all the time?” I ask him. There’s an older lady glittering with emeralds, her skirt a riot of bright orange, green, and black, and she’s standing right next to a woman decked out in diamonds and a yellow-and-blue tartan dress. And that’s not even taking into account the kilts on every guy.

  “Guess we’re used to it,” Miles replies.

  Then he steps back a little bit, looking down at my dress. I remember the way Seb had looked at me in my bedroom, his eyes sliding from the top of my head to my toes, and how that had made me want to pull a blanket over my head.

  Miles’s gaze doesn’t do that, which makes absolutely no sense. But maybe it’s that he’s looking at me sort of . . . admiringly as opposed to just assessing.

  “The plaid suits you,” he finally says, and I squint at the two spots of color high up on his cheekbones.

  “Are you complimenting me?” I ask, and I think those pink patches grow a little bit, which is funny because that implies Miles’s blood is no
t actually blue, but red, just like us commoners.

  “It’s called manners,” he says, and then shakes his head, leading me farther into the ballroom but not quite to the dance floor yet.

  I’m fine with that, as the current dance is some kind of folk deal involving people standing in a line, switching partners, swinging . . . it all looks a little dangerous to me, but I spot Ellie in the crowd, her golden hair bright and a smile on her face as she switches from Alex to Seb, her skirt billowing as she twirls.

  I’m still smiling at El when I glance up and my eyes meet the queen’s.

  She’s standing on the other side of the ballroom, talking to some ancient-looking man in the same bright red tartan the queen is wearing, but she’s looking at me, and, seeing my arm in Miles’s, she nods slightly and purses her lips in what I think is meant to be approval.

  Out on the dance floor, Ellie swings back to someone else, a tall man I’ve never seen before, and Seb takes Tamsin’s hands. He’s grinning down at her, and she smiles back, her dark hair flying as he spins her into the next part of the dance, but she keeps looking around, her gaze sliding to the edge of the dance floor.

  “Do you know her very well?” I ask Miles, pressing closer to speak into his ear. “Lady Tamsin?”

  Miles has been clapping along with the rhythm of the music like most of the other people watching the dancers, and he pauses, his hands still pressed together. He has pretty hands, long-fingered and elegant, probably perfect for pointing imperiously at things.

  “Not really,” he says, “but the queen has been set on her and Seb for ages.”

  “Why?” I ask, and he gives another one of those shrugs.

  “The Duke of Montrose is one of the richest men in Scotland, so maybe that. They also have a really excellent hunting lodge not far from here, and the queen does like her stag hunting.”

  Twisting around, I stare at him. “So in this, the year of our lord 2018, she’d marry off her son to get access to hunting grounds?”

  One corner of Miles’s mouth kicks up. “Royalty,” he says, and I think of Sherbet, telling me that a monarch could just take anything they wanted out of his house.

  “You’re all insane,” I say, and Miles, to my surprise, doesn’t get all huffy and offended. Instead, he nods.

  “More or less.”

  “Monters! Lady Daze!”

  Sherbet is heading toward us, grinning, his eyes bright and his face flushed, Galen following in his wake.

  When I’d first heard about Sherbet’s Greek shipping heir boyfriend, I’d assumed he’d be as blindingly handsome and glamorous as Sherbet. Instead, he’s a good head shorter than Sherbet, kind of chubby, and so shy that he blushes any time he has to make small talk.

  And Sherbet is totally nuts about him.

  “Why aren’t the two of you dancing?” Sherbet asks, and Miles nods at him and Galen.

  “Could ask the two of you the same thing,” he says, and Sherbet laughs, throwing his arm around Galen’s shoulders.

  “Didn’t want to show everyone up, old man,” he says, then turns his eyes to the dance floor, where the dance is wrapping up. Seb leads Tamsin away, his head bent low as he talks to her, and Sherbet heaves a sigh.

  “So that’s on, then,” he says, and Miles nods. “Seems so.”

  Turning his hazel eyes back to me, Sherbet nudges my arm. “We’d all hoped Seb might settle on you since you’re such a laugh.”

  I shoot him a wry look. “I don’t think ‘a laugh’ is what Seb needs.”

  That makes Sherbet chortle, and he shakes his head, dark hair flopping over his brow. “True, true. But it’s good for Monters here, at least!”

  He slaps Miles’s arm, and I try to keep the surprise off my face. So Miles hasn’t told them that we’re not the real deal?

  The music changes suddenly, going from sedate background music into something wild and raucous.

  Sherbet’s whole face lights up, and he grabs my hand and Miles’s. “Strip the Willow!” he yells, tugging us both toward the floor, and I yell back, “What?”

  But it’s clear as soon as we’re in the crowd that Strip the Willow is a dance, not some kind of potentially perverted Brit slang.

  I dig my heels in, coming to a stop. “Whoa, I don’t know that,” I say, watching as men and women begin to form two lines. My parents are in there, as are Ellie and Alex. Even the queen is in the lineup now.

  But Sherbet is not taking no for an answer. “Neither does Galen,” he says, “so you can both learn. Me and Monters will teach you!”

  Shooting a panicked glance at Miles, I lift my eyebrows and mouth, Help, but he only smiles and shakes his head.

  “If you can get this, you’ll survive anything,” he says.

  And the next thing I know, I’m standing next to Sherbet, facing Miles, Galen at his side, and my sister a few people down.

  What happens next is . . . chaotic.

  Strip the Willow is an enthusiastic dance that involves clasping hands, swinging, moving down the line . . . And it’s complicated enough that only a few people really know what they’re doing, so there’s a fair amount of colliding into each other, stumbling, and I’m dizzy within about thirty seconds.

  I’m also laughing.

  It’s hard not to, with the general chaos, the Royal Wreckers stealing partners from each other, the loud fiddle music, and for the first time since I came here, I’m not thinking about people watching me or judging me. I’m just . . . having fun.

  Miles’s hands catch mine as I’m still laughing, his fingers squeezing, his skin warm, and our eyes meet as we spin.

  He’s grinning, too, his face shiny with sweat, his hair escaping whatever gel he used to slick it down this evening, and this flutter starts up in my chest that has nothing to do with the dance.

  It’s so startling that I let go of his hands, which is a bad idea because momentum nearly sends me crashing into the people near us. Luckily the dance is so wild that no one really notices, but Miles frowns a little, a trio of wrinkles popping up between his brows.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, and I nod, pressing a hand to my chest.

  “Yeah, just . . . you know. A stripped willow, I guess.”

  He goes to lead me off the dance floor, but I shake my head, lifting my hand to hold it out at him.

  “I’m fine!” I call over the music. “Gonna go get some air!”

  I pretty much flee the ballroom, Cinderella-style, but at least I manage not to lose a shoe.

  Instead of heading for the balcony where Miles might catch up with me, and then we might be alone in the moonlight, which is too much to contemplate right now, I turn down a dim hallway, pressing one hand against the wall and taking a deep breath.

  Okay.

  Okay.

  I did not just have chest flutters for Miles. Those were heart palpitations caused by the crazy dance and nothing more.

  Or this place is finally getting to me. There’s a chair against the wall, a kind of spindly little thing embroidered with a nature scene. Shepherdess with her flock, soft-purple mountains, that kind of thing. I sink down onto it, bracing my hands on my knees, the silk and taffeta of my skirt rustling, the tiara on my head suddenly very heavy again.

  Running from a ballroom, wearing a freaking tiara. Could I be a bigger cliché at this point?

  “That chair belonged to Queen Margaret I,” a voice says, and my head shoots up.

  Queen Clara is standing in the hallway, hands clasped in front of her, posture as regal and terrifying as ever. She’s wearing a much bigger tiara than mine, and I bet it never hurts her head. I bet she can’t even feel it.

  “It’s nice,” I finally say, because what else do you say to something like that?

  “No one is allowed to sit in it,” she continues, and I bite back a sigh.

  Great. Of all the ch
airs, I accidentally plopped my ass onto the fancy special one.

  Rising to my feet, I give a quick curtsy like Glynnis taught me. “Sorry, but there wasn’t a . . . sign. Or a rope around it.”

  “That’s because anyone who visits this house should already know about that chair,” the queen says, and, wow, consider me dressed down.

  There are about a hundred smart-ass retorts fighting to fly out of my mouth, but I keep every one of them in. Antagonizing the queen is not going to help me or Ellie, and while it would feel very satisfying, it would not be worth it.

  Maybe.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and she watches me for such a long moment that I almost squirm beneath that hard blue gaze.

  Finally, she asks, “Have you seen my son?”

  “Seb?”

  Her nostrils flare. “Prince Sebastian, yes.”

  I shake my head, fluffing out my skirt. “No. I mean, I did, earlier, dancing with Lady Tamsin, but not since then.”

  The queen keeps looking at me, hands clenched, her nostrils flaring a bit, but apparently she decides to believe me, giving a crisp nod. “Very well. I haven’t seen Tamsin, either, so perhaps they’re somewhere getting to know each other better.”

  With that, she turns and heads back for the ballroom, and I blow out a long breath, ruffling my bangs. If the queen is headed in that direction, I am heading in the opposite.

  I turn and move farther down the hallway, turning a corner, and groan when I see who’s standing at the other end.

  “Daisy,” Seb says, walking toward me.

  Excellent. Just what I need right now.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be wooing your fair lady?” I say, and he rolls his shoulders, flicking his auburn hair off his forehead in what has to be a trademarked move at this point.

  “Can’t find her,” he says, glancing around like Tamsin might suddenly leap out of the wallpaper or something. And then he turns those very blue eyes on me.

  “Actually, this is good timing. I was hoping I might talk to you,” he says, walking a little closer. “Alone.”