Chapter Forty-One

As soon we stepped out of the boiler room I felt it. Something had happened.

It felt like lightning had struck, like the walls would burn you if you touched them.

Sobs echoed from an office down the corridor.

I started running toward them.

Then a man shot out of a door. Unlike all the other times he’d sneaked up on me, this time something deep down in my bones had told me he’d be there.

Waiting for me.

“What…?” Before I could finish the question—whatever I was going to ask, I wasn’t even sure myself—he answered me.

Because he knew.

“His Highness.”

“Oh.” My head spun, my knees went soft. But before I could fall, Hugh’s strong arm was wrapped around my waist.

“Thea?” I asked.

“On her way.”

I shook my head. “She’s not supposed to leave. Gran said…”

“Thea said.”

Oh. Of course. What Thea said—whatever she said now—would be obeyed. Now that she was truly the heir to the throne. The next Queen of Drieden. Who would argue with her?

“What do you want—”

I cut him off. “Upstairs.”

It wasn’t what he had expected, I could tell. But his arm slipped from my waist. His fingers twined in mine and we walked up the winding maze of corridors and stairs toward the Queen’s residence. Together.

I walked in without knocking, something I had never done before. The parlor was already full of Big Gran’s closest staff. Her ladies-in-waiting, her butler, her secretaries. They parted like the Red Sea for me and the path to her inner sanctum was clear. Harald was by the door, stalwart and ferocious. “Is anyone in there?” I asked him softly.

“No, Your Highness.”

I didn’t correct him on my title. Protocol didn’t matter today—but it never had.

“What did she say to you?”

Harald flinched slightly. “Leave.”

Well. That was a positive sign.

I reached for the door and turned the old, worn handle. I swore I heard multiple gasps in the room behind me. Such things weren’t done. But what was Aurelia going to do to me? Throw me out of the castle?

I took a deep breath and headed into the dragon’s lair.

Her Majesty Queen Aurelia sat on a chair next to the window, looking out on the great courtyard below. Soon enough, there would be a crowd gathered at the gates, there would be a wall ten feet high of flowers and offerings. Wreaths would be laid, photos of Prince Albert would be affixed to the black iron fence. And none of the mourners would really know that their Queen sat here, watching all of them, silently grieving with them.

I could tell that she had heard the door open because her shoulders drew back. She wouldn’t want just anyone to see her sad. It simply wasn’t in her DNA.

“It’s me, Gran,” I said, so she might feel like she could relax.

She did not.

I pulled up a chair to the window anyway, and sat. Until she told me to leave, I would stay.

We stayed like that for however long it took for the news channels to report the death of His Royal Highness Prince Albert of Drieden. It could have been minutes or hours. Time was sticky and slow there in my grandmother’s private rooms, catching each of us in our own web of memories and regrets.

Finally, the first news truck showed up. Then the second, right as a group of Driedish women collected, their arms wrapped around each other.

My father had not been the most charismatic of princes. The most exciting thing he’d ever done was marry my mother, which surely led to him swearing off excitement for the rest of his life. He never liked fast horses or speeding cars, but he enjoyed fishing, reading, a good game of chess and an exceptional glass of whiskey. And he was a dutiful, if absent-minded, father.

“It’s all changed,” Gran said suddenly. “The family has changed, just like that.”

“No, it hasn’t.” I was surprised at how confident I sounded, given all the upheaval the House of Laurent had experienced in the past year. “Not unless we let it change.”

That was all that was said for the hour that I stayed by my grandmother’s side as she silently processed the death of her eldest son.

An hour later, just as the bells chimed, there was a knock on the door. Harald entered, followed by Dr. Lao. Harald cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the palace surgeon has arrived.”

Dr. Lao waited with his head lowered until Gran stood and acknowledged him. In very official language he formally informed his sovereign of the death of her son. There would be certificates and seals and letters to Parliament and back again, all to certify that the next king was dead.

Long live the Queen.

Briefly, I wondered if Father’s death changed any of Gran’s plans for abdication after her Jubilee, but they probably didn’t. Gran wasn’t the type of Queen to change course. At least there wouldn’t be any awkward explanations about why my father had been skipped over.

He was dead. What my father wanted didn’t matter anymore.

After the formalities were over, Gran nodded at me. “Please see Dr. Lao out.”

And that was that. Whether my grandmother and I would ever have a close, healthy relationship, I didn’t know. Maybe this would open the door to family Christmas at her estate in Kasselta. Maybe I’d never be allowed in the palace again.

So I needed to make the most of this opportunity. “Dr. Lao,” I said, “could I speak with you for just a few moments? In private?”

I directed him to a nearby sitting room, which he seemed to recognize. The thought gave me pause. How many times had he come upstairs to speak with Gran on medical issues?

But that wasn’t what I asked him. No, I had an altogether different question. “Would it be possible?” I finished.

Dr. Lao nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Good. Let me know when it’s done.”

The next few days were a haze of tears and family and details. So many details went into a royal funeral.

So. Many. Details.

If there was ever a time that I was tempted to beg off my responsibilities because of the whole—I was disowned from the family—uncomfortable truth, this was it. At the same time, however, it was my father’s funeral.

Thankfully, there was a whole palace staff that stood ready for such occasions, and I learned that the palace made funeral plans for each royal family member whenever they turned twenty-five, so that was a warm, fuzzy feeling. /sarcasm font/

Henry briefly returned to his base, which was probably exactly what he needed. He seemed to be dealing with our father’s death in a different way than the rest of us.

Felice withdrew to the château at Dréuvar, which seemed to be the practical choice for all concerned. While our parents’ divorce had been explosive and dramatic, I knew they had loved each other, in their own way, from afar all these years. Maybe knowing the other was out there, living their life exactly as they wished, was all they ever wanted.

In the breaks between consultations and cuddling sessions with Thea and Sophie, I thought of my own lost love. Hugh Konnor had, predictably, slipped out of sight…as long as I stayed within the palace walls. I noticed his presence whenever I ventured out of doors, to the shops or back to the hotel where I was keeping a room, for my own sanity.

Maybe Hugh and I would live the rest of our lives like my parents. Happy enough to know that the other was safe and sound and alive.

The idea left me hollow and fidgety.

Go.

The word had been whispering at me again, flicking around my ears like a pesky mosquito. I wasn’t sure if it was the specter of another public funeral or the weight of the choices that I still had to make, or both, but I knew my temporary reprieve was fast running out.

As soon as Father was interred at St Julian’s Cathedral, I had to be ready. To go. To stay. Or to fight.