“Your Majesty?”
A throat clears gently to my left. I do not turn to acknowledge the sound. I stare up at the Great Hall’s gilded ceiling far overhead, studying the angelic fresco figures painted there through narrowed eyes. The cherubs seem to mock me with their serene expressions, smiling down in perpetuity, strumming their gold harpsichords with stubby fingers.
“Your Majesty… I’m sorry for the intrusion, but it’s quite late…”
I don’t even blink.
He swallows audibly. “What— What are you doing here?”
Boy, if that isn’t the question of the year…
What the actual fuck am I, Emilia Victoria Lancaster, doing here?
In this goddamned castle?
In this goddamned life?
The throat clears again, louder this time. As though the man doing the clearing has somehow managed to convince himself I simply didn’t hear him, rather than the more obvious alternative — that I am doing my damndest to ignore his existence.
“Is there anything I can assist you with, My Queen?”
I don’t answer the quivering question. I don’t even lift my head from where I’m lying on the cold floor, my limbs splayed out like a starfish against the silver-veined marble. My eyes remain fixed upward, toward those mocking painted figures. I squint, struggling to make out their finer details in the faint light cast by the chandeliers.
At this late hour they’ve been dimmed to their lowest setting; the wall sconces doused completely. That’s not a surprise. No one is usually in here at this time of night. Hell, most people aren’t even awake, this time of night.
I hear the servant shifting nervously from one foot to another. I’m sure he’s at a loss for what to do in this scenario. I can’t exactly blame him. It probably came as quite a shock when he rounded the corner on some nightly errand and found me lying here on the floor of the vast Great Hall, clad only in a pair of old yoga pants and a thick cashmere sweater.
A queenly sight, this is not.
My advisors would be utterly aghast at this show of impropriety if they could only see it. But they aren’t here to chide me anymore, I think as the faces of Lady Morrell, my old etiquette instructor, and Gerald Simms, the former Palace Press Secretary, flash through my mind. They lost that right when they stabbed me in the back.
“Y-Your Majesty? Can… can you hear me? Are you all right?”
Persistent one, isn’t he?
I press my eyes closed, as though that might make him disappear. I don’t possess the energy to deal with him right now. Frankly, I don’t possess the energy to deal with much of anything. These days, I consider it a miracle if I manage to last until the sun sets without crumbling into a ball of despair under the weight of my own exhaustion.
When did simply existing start taking so much energy?
The mere act of dragging my ass out of bed each morning after yet another sleepless night is enough to sap all my strength. And the outside world is even more emotionally taxing. Each time I step so much as a high-heeled toe outside the palace gates, a frozen smile fixed to my lips as the camera lenses click with unflinching regularity, I feel a little more of myself disappear.
Smile, wave, nod.
Show no weakness.
Be the queen your subjects need.
By the time I crawl back beneath the covers each night, I am a hollowed out shell — scoured clean of anything resembling composure, too weak to hold my memories at bay. Even sleep offers no reprieve, for my dreams are haunted by the horrors of my past. They lurk in the dark corners of my subconscious, striking out with razor-sharp talons as soon as my eyes drift closed.
There is no one to soothe my nightmares when I wake to the sound of my own ragged screams. Not anymore.
That person is long gone.
He took my solace with him.
There’s a sudden tightness in my chest that makes my breath catch. I press my shoulders harder against the cool stone floor, hoping it will ground me in the present. Hoping it will drive the vision of cerulean blue eyes to the very depths of my psyche.
“Your Majesty…” The pageboy shuffles a few steps closer. “Should I escort you back to your chambers? Or perhaps call for your personal guard?”
My eyes spring open. The last thing I need is Galizia or Riggs scolding me about my nocturnal wandering again. Pulling a deep breath into my lungs, I force myself to sit up and focus on the young servant. He must be new to the castle staff; I’ve never seen him before and his uniform is so firmly starched, it could probably stand up on its own. When our eyes meet, he looks like he’s about to pee his pants.
“No,” I murmur softly. “Don’t call anyone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he bleats, reddening. “I apologize if—”
“There’s no need to apologize. Just go. Leave me be.” Is that truly my voice, so emotionless? So empty? “And, if anyone asks… you never saw me here. Understood?”
“Y-Yes, Your Majesty. I promise. I-I-I won’t tell anyone.”
He lingers, frozen like a deer in headlights. I lift my brows and jerk my chin in the direction of the doorway.
“Go.”
With a start, he gives a shallow bow and practically bolts from the hall. I listen to the patter of his shiny uniform shoes against the stone floors until they fade out of earshot. When silence once again settles over me like a blanket, I lay backward to resume my study of the castle ceiling.
This is the third night in a row I’ve found myself here, gazing upward at the mural. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Not answers. Perhaps just a momentary distraction from the colorless monotony of my life.
Last week, it was the library — I spent every night walking the rows, skimming my fingers along the spines of books older than most democracies. The week before, it was the armory. Before that, the stables. The hall of royal portraits. The dusty records room.
No rhyme or reason dictates my destination. Any forgotten corner of the castle that no one bothers to visit in the dead of night will suffice. So long as it’s somewhere I won’t be disturbed with those same pesky questions.
Did you eat anything, Your Majesty?
When did you last rest, Your Majesty?
Can I call anyone to help, Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Since the truck attack on Vasgaard Square three months ago, these nightly explorations have become commonplace. Instead of sleeping, I pace around the empty halls while my ever-present contingent of guards and castle staff look on with increasing confusion and concern. No one knows what to say to make me snap out of this zombie-like state I’ve descended into, shellshocked from grief and pain and betrayal. No one knows how to help me.
I’m not sure anyone can help me.
I sent away the only person who ever stood a chance.
So, I walk. I pace. From the guest rooms to the indoor glass gardens. Down grand staircases and past suits of armor. From dusk until dawn, my steps echo out into the darkness of the cold stone keep. They do not falter. They do not rush. They are steady. Unhurried.
Why would I hurry?
I have nowhere else to go.
They say convicts fear release more than remaining forever in their prisons; that the world which exists outside their barred windows and locked doors is far more terrifying than the prospect of never stepping out into it again. For there is a certain sort of comfort in seclusion. There is safety in total isolation. Incarcerated, there are no unpredictable variables to contend with, no unexpected wrenches thrown into best-laid plans.
No trucks exploding into balls of fire in a crowd of innocents.
No friends and lovers artfully arranging truths to suit their own ends.
No allies becoming enemies as soon as your back is turned.
No parents shutting their eyes from yours forever.
I have been locked away for three long months in this gilded cage. But my solitary confinement is self-imposed. I do not wish for release. I possess no desire to be paroled, need no one to commute my sentence. I am quite satisfied with this new way of living — though, if I’m being honest, I am not certain it’s accurate to call it that.
Living.
After all, most days, I feel only half alive; the phantom of a girl who used to exist. I cannot recall the last time I smiled or laughed or did much of anything except breathe. Inhale, exhale. Once an automatic process now feels like a chore; as though, without constant monitoring, my lungs might simply decide to cease functioning.
Numb, I drift through the motions of my new duties with a detached sort of acceptance, for I know full well there is no other alternative. I have no choice but to carry on. There are too many people counting on me to do otherwise.
A queen must never falter.
Some days, the weight of newfound responsibility on my shoulders seems the only thing that keeps me tethered to this unrecognizable life of mine. Without it to hold me down, I might disappear entirely — evaporating into the ether, lost in the wind.
“Must you insist on scaring the page boys during their first week of work?”
The wry voice cuts into my reverie.
Damn.
She’s found me again. Third night in a row.
I don’t turn my head but I know if I did, I’d see a tall blonde in military fatigues standing several feet to my right, staring down with bemused disapproval. My personal guard — and personal pain-in-the-ass — First Lieutenant B. Galizia, ranking officer of the Queen’s Guard. I didn’t hear her sneak up on me, but that’s not much of a shock. She’s highly trained in all forms of subterfuge and self-defense.
Walking closer, she stands over me and peers directly into my face. “Are you going to lie there all night?”
“Maybe.”
Sticking out a hand, she waggles her fingers. “Come on. Up you go.”
I heave a sigh, but I don’t resist. There’s no use fighting Galizia when she inevitably tracks me down and corrals me back to my chambers like an errant child caught out after curfew. Her hand is warm and callused when it clasps mine and tugs me to my feet.
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
My brows lift. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty… cut the shit. You know exactly what I mean. You aren’t sleeping. You’re barely eating. You don’t even speak unless you’re forced to put in an appearance at an event outside the castle — and those are rare, these days.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. How long has it been since you got some fresh air? Took your horse for a ride? Went for a walk around the grounds?”
I’m stubbornly silent.
“If you can’t remember, it’s been too long.” Her head shakes. “You can’t stay cooped up forever. It’s not healthy. You skip one more event, that new PR lady you hired is going to go apoplectic.”
“Where is this overblown concern coming from, all of the sudden?”
“It’s not sudden. If anything, it’s long overdue. I’ve wanted to say something for weeks. Months, even. We all have. But we thought giving you space and time would be enough to…”
My brows go up when she trails off. “To what? To fix me? To make me forget what happened that day in the square? To make me stop replaying the memories of thirty-nine caskets being lowered into the ground, one after another after another, for so many days in a row I could walk the cemeteries of Vasgaard backwards and blindfolded, I know them so well?”
“No. Of course not. I’m not trying to minimize what you’ve been through, Your Majesty.”
“Then give me a little space to work through it, Galizia.”
“It’s been three months. I worry, if we give you any more space, you’ll never come back to earth.”
“You’re blowing things out of proportion.”
“Am I?” Her light blue eyes narrow a shade. “You have a degree in psychology, so I don’t think I need to tell you what’s happening here. All the signs are evident even to my untrained eyes.”
“Are you implying that I’m depressed?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you, flat out, that people are worried about you.”
“Who? You?”
“Yes, me,” she says without missing a beat. “Along with just about every other person who works in this castle. And, if you don’t start taking better care of yourself, the rest of the world will soon be as well. You know how many eyes are on you every time you step outside these walls.”
“Then I’ll stay in. Staycations are all the rage, these days — haven’t you heard?”
“How long do you think that’s going to work, exactly? The press gave you a free pass in the aftermath of the attack… and after you lost your father. But you know the public has a short memory. They’re not going to let you grieve forever.”
I clench my jaw tight, not wanting to process what she’s saying. Not wanting to acknowledge that, deep down, I know she’s right. The press are always eager for any news concerning the royal family, but these days they’ve become especially rabid.
If Simms were here, he’d handle them.
But he’s not.
Sucking in a breath, I try to infuse some conviction into my voice. “Look, Galizia, I truly appreciate this show of concern… but I’m fine. I’m not a shut-in. I haven’t been riding Ginger because the snow is so deep. Once it melts, I’ll get back to my daily outings. You’ll see.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m feeling better. Honestly.” I can barely get the words past my lips, let alone manage a limp smile. “So you can call off whatever intervention you and Riggs are plotting.”
“What?” Her cheeks go adorably red at the mention of the Commander. “Riggs and I aren’t plotting anything.”
“Right. Except your happily ever after…”
“That’s absurd. Your Majesty, he—” Her head shakes. “He is my superior.”
“Mhm. And has your superior asked you on another date recently?”
“Dating him would be wholly inappropriate, given our respective roles in the Queen’s Guard. A Commander should never date one of his Lieutenants. It violates all manner of protocols.”
“That wasn’t strictly a no, Galizia.”
She’s even redder now, if possible. “Even if he asked, I’d never go.”
“So he did ask! Didn’t he?”
She doesn’t answer — which, in itself, is an answer.
“Are you going to go?” I pester.
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
“I need to be here at the castle, monitoring things.”
“Twenty-four-seven? You can’t take thirty minutes off to flirt over coffee?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay. I see. It’s fine for you to cloister yourself away, but when I do it I’m ‘a shut-in with depression.’” I roll my eyes. “Seems like a double standard to me, Galizia.”
She regards me for a moment in silence before murmuring succinctly, “You’re so full of shit.”
“Are you allowed to say that to your Queen?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. But someone has to say it, and right now…” A flare of something that might be sympathy streaks across her face. “I’m all you’ve got.”
A lump forms abruptly at the back of my throat. She’s right. I don’t have anyone, anymore. Not anyone I can count as a friend, anyway. I am constantly surrounded by staff and yet I am more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.
“Maybe you should call your sister.”
I stiffen at the soft suggestion. “I can’t call Chloe.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t, okay?”
Not after the things I said to her. Not after I accused her of being worse than her scheming mother, Octavia. Not after I had her thrown out of the palace without so much as a word.
Regret simmers in my veins, tangling with shame and guilt and sorrow. I am a jumbled mess of emotions, incased in a fragile sheet of ice. One crack in my numb composure, it’ll all come flooding out.
“Your Majesty.” Galizia’s expression has smoothed back into its normal mask of professionalism. “Please, just go back to your chambers.”
“Why? It’s not like I’ll be able to sleep.”
I swallow hard and stare down at my bare feet. They look small and pale against the ornate floor. I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just… being in my room for any prolonged period makes me strangely claustrophobic. As though the walls are liable to cave in around me at any given moment.
Of course, if I wanted, I could have any other suite in the castle. With a snap of my fingers, the servants would move my things anywhere I requested. Technically, I should be living in the South Wing, where Germania’s kings and queens have always resided during their terms. But I cannot bring myself to move into my father’s rooms. I cannot bring myself to even step inside them.
“Who said anything about sleep?” Galizia’s strange question draws my gaze once more. There’s a wry twist to her lips that makes my brows go up. “You have a visitor.”
My eyes widen. “It’s past midnight.”
She just stares at me, unblinking.
“You really let someone in to see me at this hour?”
“I’m the one who called him.”
“Galizia!” I scowl. “You know I don’t want to see anyone.”
She shrugs, offering neither explanation nor apology.
“At least tell me who it is.”
“You’ll see when you go back to your suite,” she says diplomatically.
“Seriously? I’m the queen. I can throw you in the dungeons for disobeying orders.” I pause. “I think.”
“You think? Shouldn’t you know?”
“I’m new at this queen stuff. The whole ‘off with their heads’ aspect still eludes me.”
“Well, I don’t know about the rest of your enemies, but I’m certainly terrified,” she deadpans. “Now, let’s go. He’s already been waiting nearly an hour while I wandered around looking for you.”
He?
A breath snags in my throat. Beneath its icy cage, my heart starts to thump harder. After so many months of numbness, it’s odd to feel palpable curiosity sparking to life inside me, embers of a fire I thought doused forever.
Who is waiting for me?
And what does he want?
“Whatever,” I say, swallowing hard. “It’s not like I care.”
“Uh huh.”
“Whoever it is, I’m just going to order him to get out.”
“Sure you are.”
I bite my lip to contain another unconvincing comeback. Ignoring her knowing gaze, I stiffen my shoulders as I pivot away and leave the throne room behind. My guard trails after me dutifully, her amusement palpable as she watches me struggling to maintain my charade of indifference. To keep my pace restrained, rather than running full-tilt for my rooms.
Each step is agony. Too slow, too small. The creeping pace chafes my nerve endings like sandpaper.
Is it him?
No.
It can’t be him.
Unless…
No!
I thought I’d never feel anything again. Anything except numb. But this sensation inside my chest — this fluttering, unfamiliar anticipation — is growing too strong to suppress.
Hoping Galizia doesn’t notice, I pick up my pace ever so slightly, rounding corridor corners a little too fast, taking the stairs two at a time up the flight that leads toward my chambers. With each stride down my hallway, the battle drum of my battered heart pounds out a crushing tattoo.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Somewhere in the aching hollow between each beat, hope blooms — insuppressible, inextinguishable.
Be him.
Be him.
Please, oh please…
Let it be him.