“…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 are 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 inside 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.
The team of palace professionals who helped me get ready tonight used so much hairspray to craft my perfect finger-waves, I could probably spend the night doing the foxtrot with F. Scott Fitzgerald himself without a single strand coming loose.
Leaving the entry hall in a wake of tittering silence — Did you see her? I can’t believe she’s here. I guess she’s not in a padded cell, after all. — my heels click down the short hallway that leads to the main ballroom, where the festivities are already in full swing. Last time I was in this room, it was set for a dignified afternoon tea hosted by Lady Sterling; tonight, it looks like a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby. Champagne fountains, a jazz band, and glittering decor have transformed the elegant parlor into a full-on speakeasy.
I hear the dull gasp of collective surprise as two solemn servants announce my arrival, their voices booming over the music.
“Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Queen of Germania.”
I need no such introduction; everyone in this room knows exactly who I am. But it’s clear from the unanimous looks of disbelief breaking across every face in the crowd that they were not expecting me to actually honor the gold-foil invitation that arrived at the castle six weeks ago, requesting my presence at a 1920s-themed birthday party in honor of the esteemed Sterling family’s only son.
This is no casual cookout with cheap beer, like my college friends used to throw whenever anyone turned a year older. In this tax bracket, they celebrate with champagne and crudités, outlandishly expensive gifts and elaborate designer costumes.
Everyone in my line of sight has risen thoroughly to the occasion; I spot so many fringe dresses and top hats, they all begin to blur together. I pause on the edge of the glittering crowd, smile frozen on my face, heart thundering in my chest. It takes all my effort to keep my expression composed, to keep my eyes from sweeping across the sea of stylish strangers, seeking a set of particularly broad shoulders and a pair of tractor-beam of cerulean eyes.
Is he here? Is he somewhere in the shadows, watching me?
I push the thought away with violence. Thinking about Carter Thorne will only fray my rapidly-unfurling composure faster. Same for his sister.
If any members of the Thorne family cross my path tonight, I will treat them as the distant acquaintances we have become, not the next-of-kin we were once forced to impersonate.
The plan feels paper-thin at best, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on that small fact. If I did, I’d go crazier than everyone at this party already seems to believe I am.
For a long moment, the room is utterly still. Everyone is staring at me in silence. Even the jazz musicians have stopped playing in the far corner, their crooning saxophones and string instruments hanging soundless in limp hands.
You can do this, I tell myself, forcing my chin a shade higher. You have survived much worse than a birthday party.
And yet, this is no normal gathering. This room is a viper pit of Germania’s young elite, clad in their grandest finery. A new generation of diamond-drenched snakes in flapper dresses and tuxedo tails, their words as carefully phrased as they are emotionally cutting. The walls practically slither as they take in the sight of me.
Fresh prey.
“Queen Emilia,” a warm voice shatters the pervasive silence. “You came.”
Relief floods my bloodstream as I turn to see a sharply dressed man approaching, his ultra-white smile catching the light, his platinum head of hair perfectly parted.
“I was invited. Should I not have come?”
Alden laughs, a charming sound laced with at least two glasses of champagne, by best estimation. He drops into a low bow. “Trust me, I’m delighted you’re here. I just doubted you’d actually accept the invitation.”
When he straightens, our gazes snag. There’s undeniable warmth in the depths of his hazel eyes — I see it shining as he grins at me, and his genuine happiness spurs my own to life. Before I know it, I find myself smiling back at him.
“It’s good to see you, Your Majesty. It’s been a long time.”
I nod. “It has.”
“Too long.”
I don’t agree with him — not verbally, not with so many people listening to our every word. Distantly, I hear the band resume playing, but I’m highly aware that no one is dancing. They’re too busy watching me — us — with intimidating intensity.
Alden seems to realize we’re being scrutinized as well. Smirking lightly, he offers his arm with a flourish. “They want a show. Shall we give them one? Will you do me the honor of a dance, Your Majesty?”
My lips twist. “It’s your birthday. How can I possibly refuse?”
He leans in a bit, so only I can hear his next words. “Please don’t only agree because it’s my birthday. Agree because… you want to dance with me. Simple as that.”
Never breaking eye contact with him, I swallow hard, lift a hand, and slide it into the crook of his waiting arm.
“Lead the way.”
It’s not my first time dancing with Alden Sterling.
We’ve waltzed before, the night I was coronated as the Crown Princess. But tonight is different — the tempo faster, the steps more lively, the atmosphere more relaxed. Plus, it’s infinitely more enjoyable to dance without a corset cinching my ribs and twenty yards of ballgown weighing me down.
At the center of a writhing mass of couples, Alden twirls me around the floor like a man possessed, his limbs loose with the aftereffects of alcohol, his spirits higher than I’ve ever seen.
“Now this is what I call a party!” he yells in my ear, spinning me around again, then pulling me in closer as the song comes to an end. Applause thundering around us, I lean forward into his space so he can hear my breathless words.
“If you spin me any faster, I’ll fall over and break my neck, Alden!”
“I hope not. I’d rather not go to jail for accidentally assassinating the queen.” He winks. “But if it means you’re having a good time, I’ll take the risk.”
I’m so out of breath, the laugh snags in my throat. No one is more surprised than me to realize he’s right: I am having a good time.
When did having fun become such a foreign concept?
When did laughing morph into a distant memory?
Something is shaking loose inside me, thawing in the heat of my hammering heartbeat. I stand in the arms of a handsome, uncomplicated man, listening to the roar of my own pulse, feeling unflinchingly alive for the first time in months.
“So, what do you think?” Alden’s head jerks toward the stage. “Was the band worth the cash I dropped to get them here? Their rider alone set me back a good portion of my trust fund…”
I snort. “You don’t do anything by half measures, do you Alden?”
“Why on earth would I ever do that?” He shakes his head, grinning. “They were supposed to play the Prince of Luxembourg’s wedding this weekend, but I made it worth their while to come here instead.”
“Are you telling me you’ve caused an international incident over a little jazz?”
“A little jazz? You’re in the presence of greatness and you don’t even know it!” He pauses. “Oh, and the band’s decent too.”
“How humble of you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s my birthday! A little grandstanding is allowed.”
“I suppose. Though I’m not sure the Prince of Luxembourg would agree.”
“He might, if he were here.” Alden’s eyes are glazed with liquor and locked on mine as we sway to a slow song. “Personally, I think this party was worth going to war for.”
“Big fan of your birthday, are you?”
“Big fan of this.” His arms tighten around me and I feel a faint flutter in my stomach. “I’m glad you came. Did I tell you that already?”
“Only five or six times.”
“Not nearly enough. I have work to do.”
I laugh — a real, honest-to-god laugh, my first in quite a while. Alden watches the sound form with a mesmerized look on his face.
“Wow.”
“What?” I ask, clamping my lips together.
“It’s just good to see you smile. You’re always beautiful, but when you smile… You’re absolutely radiant, Your Majesty.”
“How long are you going to call me that?”
“What? Your official title?” His head tilts. “Forever, I’d imagine. Unless you plan on abdicating your throne anytime soon?”
I sigh. “Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anyone I can abdicate to. Not unless my cousin wakes up.”
The smile drops off Alden’s face at the mention of Prince Henry. I instantly have the urge to insert my foot directly into my mouth. I was so caught up in the moment, I forgot how close Alden and Henry used to be before the fire that landed him in the hospital last fall.
“Oh, Alden — that was thoughtless of me. This is the last thing you should have to think about on you birthday. I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be. You’re allowed to talk about Henry.” Alden smiles, but there’s a tightness in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask… Has there been any change in his condition? I still visit the hospital regularly, but the doctors won’t let me into the burn ward. They say the risk of exposure to outside germs and infections is too great, in his weakened state.”
“They tell me the same thing,” I murmur. “I get weekly briefings on his condition. As far as I know… there have been no significant changes. He’s still comatose.”
Alden’s brow unfurrows slightly. “Will you promise me something, Your Majesty?”
“What?”
“Keep me informed on his condition? I like knowing how he’s doing. It’s strange… Henry’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. But since I’m not technically family, his doctors can’t give me any real information. I’m totally in the dark.”
My heart clenches. I wonder how I’d feel if Owen were hospitalized and I couldn’t visit him… If I couldn’t get even the most basic information on his prognosis or speak to his doctors about treatment plans…
Awful.
I’d feel awful.
“I promise, if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.” I smile faintly, hoping it looks genuine. “And your sister, of course. She is Henry’s fiancée, after all.”
“It’s kind of you to think of her. I know Ava can be… difficult.”
I scoff lightly. Calling Ava Sterling difficult is akin to calling a dragon moody, seconds before it turns you into flambé.
Alden leans a shade closer, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending her actions or her choices. I just hope, at some point, the two of you can come to some sort of accord. It’s important to me that you get along. So important.”
My brows lift at his adamance. “Why? Why does it matter so much that Ava and I bury the hatchet?”
His steady hazel gaze never shifts from mine. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his next words. “Because if you hate my family, I know there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be inclined to become a part of it.”
I suck in a sharp gulp of air. “Alden—”
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty. It truly was the best birthday gift I ever could’ve asked for.”
Without giving me a chance to reply, he releases me from his hold and vanishes into the tangle of bodies crowding the dance floor.
Undeniably rattled after Alden’s unexpected declaration, I set my sights on the champagne fountain.
One drink, then I’ll make my excuses and head home.
Unfortunately, several people intercept me on my way off the dance floor. I make it approximately two steps before Westley Egerton, the Baron of Frenberg, swoops in, offering his condolences on the loss of my father and asking to dance all in the same breath. The excuse is barely out of my mouth when a gaggle of girls I’ve never met before descend on me like vultures, babbling about their plans for an upcoming charity fashion show.
“We’d just love you to participate — you could be our celebrity judge!”
Muttering something about my lack of free time, I dodge gracelessly away. I’m desperate to escape before Edgar Klingerton — the dull-as-dirt earl from Lund with whom I once shared an unfortunate date orchestrated by my old advisors — can make it across the floor to my side. I’d rather be blatantly rude than risk getting roped into another afternoon with that man, even if courtship makes for good press.
No photo-op in the world is worth the loss of brain cells I experienced while enduring one afternoon in his presence.
When I finally clear the crowd, I give the champagne fountain wide berth. Much as I’d enjoy a fortifying glass of bubbles, there’s no way I can risk stopping — not with this many Germanians eager to corner me.
“A toast!” On the other side of the room, a slurred male voice sounds over the clinking of glasses. “To the birthday boy! Alden, where are you? Get your ass over here!”
I use the momentary distraction to my advantage; while the crowd’s attention is diverted by the drunken speech, I slip from the main room through a nondescript side door. I move quickly down a dimly lit hallway, the music growing fainter with each step. Halfway, I pass a couple pressed together in a dark corner, their mouths fused, their hands groping under garter belts and cummerbunds. I avert my eyes and keep moving, an unintended voyeur on their stolen moment.
At the end of the hallway, I reach a small solarium full of potted plants and uncomfortable-looking wicker furniture. It’s quite dark inside — likely to discourage party-goers from stumbling into this part of the house — and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.
Moonlight filters through the glass walls, illuminating the puffs of air that escape my mouth with each breath. It’s chilly in here, the heat lamps set to their lowest setting. Most of the plants lack blooms, their stems barren. Winter is never kind to fragile things; only the hardiest have not gone dormant in the cold.
Pressing my eyes closed, I suck in a fortifying breath and revel in the momentary solitude.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Endure.
Between the lights and the music and the murmuring crowd, my senses are in overdrive, bombarded by stimuli from all sides. After months of isolation, it’s a harsh adjustment. I feel like an astronaut who’s woken up from hyper-sleep back on their home planet; groggy and dazed, operating at half-speed while the rest of the world spins in fast-forward.
Just a few more minutes, I tell myself, breathing deep through my nose. Then I’ll head back inside to face the serpents.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
The icy voice makes my spine straighten and my breath catch. I should’ve known this moment of solace wouldn’t last long. Steeling myself for a battle, I turn slowly around to face her.
She’s annoyingly attractive in the darkness — some pale, unearthly flower that blooms only at night. Deadly magnolia, maybe. Her platinum locks are swept into a complicated twist, her statuesque limbs encased in a dark gold beaded dress. It’s a shame she always wears such a bitchy expression; she’d be even more gorgeous if her veins weren’t made of ice.
“Hello, Ava.”