“The king is dead.”
The news breaks across the country like an unexpected summer storm — all at once, in a downpour that mutes the whole world with sudden ferocity. It’s one of those moments people will recall with perfect clarity for the rest of their lives, even looking back a half-century later. The millennial generation’s very own Challenger explosion or JFK assassination, crystalized forever in a flashbulb memory.
Where were you when you found out about the Lancasters?
The details are so sharp, their edges cut me when I turn them over in my mind. The stale taste of beer on my tongue. The smell of cracked peanut shells, littered across the scratched bar in front of me. The screech of static from the overhead speakers as the recycled playlist of one-hit-wonders cuts off with a violent switch-flip.
Owen presses closer at my side, his broad shoulder warm even through the fabric of his fitted black T-shirt. Voices in the crowd around us grow from a dull murmur to a horrified roar as a sea of liquored eyes turns as one toward the televisions mounted against the cramped pub’s wood-paneled walls. I crane my neck to see what all the fuss is about and, with an abruptness that steals the wind from my lungs, find myself with a front-row seat to the moment my entire future fragments into pieces.
DEADLY FIRE AT WATERFORD PALACE
Shouts of “Turn up the volume!” are swiftly traded for gasps and sobs as the images play out onscreen.
Flames and death.
A fairy tale crumbling right before our eyes.
Owen swears under his breath, but I can barely make out the sound. My brainwaves have turned static. My fingers tremble as I set down my beer, feeling dizzy from more than just the alcohol in my veins as I watch the news anchor’s lips spout truths I’m unequipped to process.
“The fire caught sometime after ten o’clock this evening in the East Wing of Waterford Palace. An inside source informed us that the blaze most likely originated in the Crown Prince’s private suite.” Her tone is suffused with shock and grief — she’s practically choking out the words. “At this time, we can confirm that both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail—”
The words cut off, too horrible to make it past her lips. We wait in tense silence. I’ve never heard a college bar so quiet, even during finals week. No one is laughing or flirting or throwing darts. No one’s even breathing, as far as I can tell. Our attention is riveted on the screens.
The anchorwoman swallows sharply, then expels a shaky breath with great care. Her hands knit together on her sleek glass desk, a ball of tight-clenched knuckle bones and taut skin.
Just spit it out already, I think, wanting to shake the truth out of her. This waiting is worse than whatever you’re going to tell us.
But, when she finally complies, I’m instantly proven wrong. The waiting isn’t worse; I’d wait an eternity if it meant avoiding this particular news.
“Tonight, it is my grave task to inform you of an unfathomable tragedy. Both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail have perished in the flames at Waterford Palace.”
A collective cry splits the air — a lighting strike in a gathering storm of disbelief. The bartender drops a glass with a clatter. Owen lets out another low expletive. The two girls to my left begin to weep. Their horror is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue with each breath.
No. I recoil, rejection surging through me. Surely, there’s been some sort of mistake. Any minute, the news anchor will break out in a chagrined smile and apologize for giving the entire nation such a scare with this nonsense.
Except…
She doesn’t.
“Despite the valiant rescue efforts of the firefighters, several palace staff members are also unaccounted for. They are presumed dead,” the anchor informs us bleakly. “We do not currently know the status of Crown Prince Henry. We will update you as soon as we hear whether he is among the deceased.”
Another wail reverberates through the crowd, shattering the air to shards of sorrow and shock.
Not Henry, too.
Not our heir.
Not our prince.
This news is incomprehensible. Incalculable. We are unequipped to process it with any elegance or composure. Unable to do anything except stand around stupefied as the sky collapses around our ears.
The teary girl beside me — who five minutes ago was downing gin cocktails with a fortitude that would impress Jay Gatsby himself — hiccups rather violently. Feeling strangely removed from my own body, I watch my hand like it belongs to someone else as it reaches out to pass her a square bar napkin. She accepts it with a morose sniffle, her eyes never shifting from the television screens. Looking around, I see her horrified expression mirrored on every other face in the crowd.
Unadulterated anguish en masse.
I watch them breaking apart like waves against the sharpest rocks, fragmenting into grief-stricken shells that bear no resemblance to the rowdy university students they were mere minutes ago. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never shaken their king’s hand, that they’ve never seen their prince in person except perhaps from the safety of a sidewalk barricade as his carriage rolled past during a royal parade. This news is a blade plunged into the very fabric of our existence. Even the newscaster is wiping away tears as the grim tale unfolds.
“Whether this was an accident or something more sinister remains unclear,” she reads from her teleprompter, looking contradictorily grim in her cheerful yellow blazer. “Authorities are preliminarily treating it as a terror attack. Emergency protocols are now in effect. All remaining members of the royal family have been placed under the protection of the King’s Guard and will remain so until the full threat has been assessed — that includes the king’s younger brother Prince Linus, the Duke of Hightower, along with his wife and step-children.”
At the mention of the Duke, Owen’s eyes find mine in the dimness, an unfamiliar streak of worry in their depths. He’s one of the only people on the planet who knows about my connection to the Lancasters. About the paternal name printed on my birth certificate in bold, undeniable letters.
“Emilia…”
“Don’t.” I pick up my beer glass so I have something to do with my hands as the painful broadcast plays on. I squeeze so tight, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t shatter to pieces against my palm.
“In this darkest hour…” The anchorwoman’s voice cracks along with her composure. “I believe I speak for all of us here at GBTV — and every Germanian citizen listening out there — when I say our thoughts and prayers are with every member the Lancaster family as we attempt to navigate this tremendous loss… and work out exactly what it will mean for the leadership of our nation…”
“Sweet fuck,” Owen murmurs as the screen cuts to more images of the burning inferno. His voice sounds a million miles away — along with the rest of the world. In this moment, surrounded on all sides, I feel even more alone than I did as a little girl, the day my mother finally told me the truth about my biological father. About the man who was almost hers. About the destiny that was almost mine.
He didn’t want us, Emilia.
He didn’t want you.
Head spinning, I sway into my best friend’s chest. He steadies me instantly, his broad hands locking around my bare biceps with reassuring weight. It’s warm within the crush of the crowd, but I’m suddenly freezing in my black crop top and fitted skirt. Goosebumps cover every inch of exposed skin.
“Ems?” His brow furrows with concern. A lock of wavy blond hair falls into his worried brown gaze. “You okay?”
I manage to nod. At least, I think I do.
Onscreen, the anchor’s hand flies to her ear as she listens to some unheard transmission. “We will bring you now to Gerald Simms, the Palace Press Secretary, for an official update.”
The broadcast turns to a split-screen. The man who appears on the right side of the television has the sourest expression I’ve ever seen, as though he’s just stuck his nose into a carton of curdled milk. His thinning hair and expanding waistline are not aided by the unflattering pinstripe suit he’s chosen to wear for this occasion.
“Mr. Simms, welcome,” the news anchor says. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us tonight.”
“Yes, yes.” The man’s double chin wobbles like a turkey’s gobbler. “My pleasure.”
“Mr. Simms, can you weigh in on the implications for the crown in the face of this catastrophic loss? Can you give us any insight whatsoever into how this fire started? Was this a planned attack?”
“I cannot comment on specifics pertinent to the investigation. All I can reveal is that the King’s Guard is actively pursuing every potential lead,” Simms says, chest puffing up like a helium balloon. He’s so full of self-importance, you could pop him with a pin.
“And Crown Prince Henry?”
“I am unable to reveal the status of Prince Henry at this time. However, I have been briefed that King Leopold’s younger brother Linus, the Duke of Hightower, is safe and secure at an off-site location.”
“That is comforting news. The Duke is next in line for the throne after the Crown Prince — is that correct, Secretary?”
“Indeed.”
“So… if Prince Henry… if the prince…” She trails off. A bolt of unease shoots through the crowd around me at the unspeakable implication in her words.
Dies.
If the prince dies.
Simms’ mouth purses like a drawstring bag, containing all his emotions tightly below the surface. “Rest assured — Germania will not be without a ruler. The Duke is fully prepared to take up his mantle as King Regent if the Crown Prince is unable to fulfill his role for any reason.”
The newscaster nods, looking paler than ever. “Please correct me if I am wrong, Secretary Simms, but the Duke has no children of his own…”
“The Duke has two step-children from his marriage to Lady Octavia Thorne,” he retorts. “But you are correct. He has no legitimate heirs of his own.”
Legitimate.
The word makes my blood run cold. My hands clench tighter around my glass. Owen shifts closer, sensing my unease. I can practically feel waves of worry radiating off him.
“Hypothetically… that could present quite a problem when it comes to the line of succession, could it not, Secretary?”
“Mmm.” Gerald Simms blinks his beady eyes. “At times like this, we are unfortunately reminded why the royal family practiced the heir-and-a-spare policy for so many generations.” He shakes his head and the extra flesh beneath his chin wags. “If the Duke cannot produce an heir, for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne.”
I glance away from the screens, jaw clenched tight. I can’t listen anymore.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Owen scoffs. His handsome features are twisted into a scowl. “The crown’s not even cold and they’re putting contingencies into place. Vultures, the lot of them.”
My brows lift so high, they nearly disappear into my hairline. “Says the boy who spent his spring semester marching in anti-monarchy protests. I wasn’t aware you gave a shit about who wears the crown.”
His eyes flicker to mine and hold for a long moment. There’s something indecipherable in their depths. Something that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably inside my chest as he leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, angry whisper.
“I give a shit about what might happen if that crown changes hands to the king’s younger brother, Duke of HighAssholery. For fuck’s sake, I give a shit about what that might—” His teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t say the rest, but it’s written all over his face.
Of what that might mean for you, Emilia.
I glance away sharply, wishing I could block out the sudden fear coursing through my veins. Wishing I could alter the strands of my DNA as easily as I do the strands of hair on my head. Wishing a lot of useless things.
The nasal voice of the Press Secretary rings in my head like a death knell.
If the Duke cannot produce an heir… for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders for the throne…
What would happen if they knew the truth?
That Linus did produce an heir.
He just didn’t want her.
“I’m sorry, Ems.” Owen’s voice jerks me back to reality. When our eyes meet, he swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
With a weak half-smile, I bump my shoulder into his to let him know I’m not upset. It would take far more than a few terse words for me to actually be mad at Owen. We’ve been friends since we were assigned adjacent cubbies back in nursery school. We grew up on the same street — which makes him, quite literally, the boy next door. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything that could ever break that bond. He’s the one constant in my life, no matter what else changes.
The talking heads on the television chat for another few moments, trading detestable words like lineage and line of succession, but I tune them out, trapped deep within my own thoughts. My eyes flit absently over the graphics that flash onscreen — a royal family tree, King Leopold and Queen Abigail already crossed out with resolute black lines. Their small portraits seem to lock eyes with me from the screen, ghostly and grave.
In another life, they would’ve been relatives.
My aunt and uncle.
Now, they’re a memory.
Feeling numb, I stare at the blank branch on the Lancaster family tree below Linus — the branch where my name should reside — and swallow down the bitterness that rises like bile in the back of my throat. The news anchor zooms in on his face, on the words DUKE OF HIGHTOWER scrawled beneath his visage. As my eyes move over his weathered features, I can’t help flinching at the striking similarity to my own.
Same dark, thick hair.
Same endless green stare.
Same stubborn set to his full-lipped mouth.
“Who is that?” One of the crying girls in the crowd whispers to her friend, peering at the television through glossy red eyes.
“Haven’t you been listening? It’s the king’s younger brother, Linus. The Duke of Hightower,” her friend whispers back. “If the prince dies… he’ll rule.”
“Isn’t he, like, seventy?” her friend asks.
“Seventy three, last month,” I murmur without thinking.
Both of them glance at me a bit strangely. I look away before they can question why I’d know such an obscure fact. The onscreen authority is still prattling on, saying things I don’t want to hear.
“We will have an update on Crown Prince Henry’s condition within the next few moments…”
I go totally still, hardly able to breathe, and send up a prayer to whoever might be listening for the cousin I’ve never met.
Please survive, Henry.
You have to survive.
You have to rule.
A solemn hush descends once more over Hennessy’s — the nondescript little dive around the corner from campus we frequent when I don’t have class and Owen isn’t stuck at work. On a Friday night, it’s typically ground zero for debauchery. Now, it’s eerily silent, with even the drunkest patrons seeming to hold their breath.
Owen’s hand settles on my hipbone — heavy and warm, pulling me close. It’s an intimate touch; one that might make my brows lift, under normal circumstances. But these circumstances are anything but normal. I can’t spare more than a moment to wonder whether my best friend is crossing the unspoken boundary that’s been there for as long as I can remember, because the anchor is back, her voice piercing the airwaves with fresh horror.
“Though we still await official confirmation, we are now hearing reports that Crown Prince Henry is alive but unconscious. He has been admitted to the intensive care unit in critical condition, undergoing treatment for third degree burns, smoke inhalation, and severe head trauma. It is not known whether he will survive the night.”
The room is so silent, I can hear the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of a leaky sink behind the bar. Each droplet sounds like the report of a gun in the stagnant air. The newscaster takes a deep breath and steadies her yellow-blazered shoulders. She stares straight into the camera, her brown eyes unwavering, and delivers a broadcast that will be replayed on a loop for the next hundred years, archived in history museums and national annals until the world fades into dust.
“According to our source at the palace… several moments ago, Linus Lancaster, the Duke of Hightower, was officially sworn in as King Regent. As we wait to see if Prince Henry recovers… he will rule in the interim.” Her voice goes faint as she recites the official motto of Germania, so quietly it sounds like a prayer. “Non sibi sed patriae.”
Not for self, but country.
“God bless King Linus,” the newswoman says starkly. “Long may he reign.”
“Long may he reign,” the bar-goers around me echo back at the screen, their voices morose and fearful as they stare at the projected image of their new monarch. A man with thick dark hair and cold green eyes. A man I’ve spent my entire life attempting to avoid.
His Majesty.
King Linus.
My father.