Monday, March 28, 2022
Sunday, March 27, 2022
New Story: Palace Envy
Hi all! This is a royal romance story I wrote a while ago and I decided to finally publish it. This will most likely be the LAST Annabelle story. I was debating if I should post it here or just come right out with the book, so I'm going to play it by ear. Without further ado, here is...
Palace Envy
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Norland,
the king and queen wanted nothing more than a son.
It took them nearly 6 years of marriage to
conceive their first child, a daughter named Marabelle. But after Marabelle’s
birth, the queen was believed to be barren. The king flew in medical
specialists from all over the world, in hopes of finally having an heir to the
throne. It took another 10 years, but the queen finally fell pregnant again. This time, she was expecting twins.
On a rainy, frigid day in March of 1965, the
queen gave birth to two newborn baby boys. The first was a perfect specimen—a
tiny prince who came out screaming and pink and perfect with tufts of golden
hair on his scalp. This was Prince Arthur, who would be the heir to the throne
of Norland.
The second prince was me.
The queen—my mother—could not have been more
proud of her two tiny princes. She had tried for many years to provide her
husband with a son, and now she had two perfect little boys. She walked all
over Claybrooke, the capital of Norland, eagerly showing off her perfect baby
boys in a twin stroller that cost more than most of her loyal subjects earned
in a year.
It was somewhere between ages two and three
that the queen noticed something wasn’t quite right with one of the little
princes. Whereas both boys used to run around the house and all over the lush
garden outside the palace, now one of the princes seemed to have more
difficulty running around than he used to. At first, the queen would wash off
the skinned knees or elbows from one of his many, many falls. She expressed her concerns to the king, who
shrugged it off. Edward is just clumsy,
that’s all.
But I wasn’t just clumsy. And my mother knew
it.
Monday, March 21, 2022
Take Me Down
Hey all! Author Avery here. My latest book, Take Me Down, releases on Friday, March 25th. I've been working on this one forever it seems. So happy to finally share this couple with the world. Here is the prologue and the first chapter as a teaser. Hope you enjoy! I'd love to hear your comments.
Tuesday, March 8, 2022
Bérénice is still on hiatus
Hi PD readers, if you hadn't already guessed, my story is still on break. Things are gradually improving over here... but that means that I first have to clear the backlog of other needs I was supposed to be taking care of, before I can get back to having fun with Bérénice and Jean-Claude in Paris. :)
If you'd like to catch up with the story in the meantime:
I hope that folks are doing well.
- Rowan
Tuesday, March 1, 2022
Palace Envy, Chapter 2
Hannah
It’s a little miracle that I make it up the
stairs to Prince Arthur’s room without dropping the tray all over the floor. I
really feel like somebody up above must be looking out for me.
And the hallway to get to his bedroom is
endless. On my first week working here, I walked up and down the hallway, my
shoes digging into the luxurious red carpet, just taking in the sheer space of it all. I loved it.
But I don’t love the long hallway quite as much when I am delivering a
heavy tray (or vacuuming). Also, Arthur has the very last room, past at least a
dozen other rooms. Iris told me once that he chose the room so nobody would
hear his sexual escapades, but I’m sure that’s her wild imagination. Arthur is
engaged, after all. Whatever the reason, by the time I get there, my arms are
shaking.
And naturally, the door to the room is closed.
I have to knock with my foot.
I hear whistling coming from inside the room,
so he must be in there. But he takes his sweet time pulling the door open. And
then when he does open up the door…
Oh my God, he’s naked!
I let out a breath of relief when I realize
he’s not completely naked. I thought
so at first because the giant tray is obscuring my line of vision. He’s wearing
tighty whities. But no pants. And no shirt. And no shoes either, but that seems
like a minor point.
Even though she was very negative about our
visit to the palace, when we were teenagers, my roommate Gertrude—like every
other girl in the kingdom—hung a poster of the prince in our bedroom. He was
posing on some sort of yacht, his T-shirt arms just short enough to show off
his firm biceps, his golden hair perfectly windblown, one hand planted firmly
on his hip and the other shading his beautiful brown eyes, which were squinting
into the distance. Gertrude used to slobber over that poster on a daily basis.
Truthfully though, the image of Prince Arthur
on that poster never really appealed to me. Not to say that Prince Arthur isn’t
spectacularly handsome. I’m sure he has plenty of time to spend working out in
the gym, and it shows. There are well defined muscles in his chest and arms,
and his legs look powerful. And his facial features are very classically
handsome. He looks a bit like a plastic Prince Arthur doll that I might have
bought at the store as a child.
“Hello there.” Arthur flashes me a smile with
the most perfect, whitest teeth I have ever seen in my life. They are almost
blinding. “What do we have here?”
“Dinner for you, Your Royal Highness,” I say.
“Dinner,” he muses. “What is it?”
My arms are starting to really tremble, but I
stay as steady as I can while he slowly, slowly
lifts the cover off his plate. He picks up a fork and jabs at the chicken.
“Chicken again?”
he says.
“I… I didn’t prepare the menu, Your Royal
Highness. The food was prepared by the cook.”
“Glad to hear it because it appears dry.” He scoops up a dollop of mashed
potatoes and inserts it in his mouth. “And this needs salt desperately.”
Oh my God, is he going to make me stand here holding the tray while he
eats the entire meal? I would try my best, but I don’t think I can do it. I
will collapse before half the mashed potatoes are gone.
But then he steps aside to let me put the tray
down on his empty dresser. Thank goodness, because in another five seconds, it
would have been all over the floor. Now, with my arms free, I curtsy for him.
When I look back up at him, his eyebrows are
raised. “That’s it? That’s your
curtsy?”
My cheeks burn. My curtsying skills may have
grown rusty in the last six years. As I said, the duke never expected me to
curtsy for him. He could not have cared less. And it’s not like I curtsy for my
own health.
“I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness.”
I try again, crossing my right foot behind my
left and lowering myself before him. I glance up. Was that a proper curtsy? Please say yes.
“Lower,” he says.
Lower? I don’t know if I can go any lower. It’s like he wants me to limbo a
curtsy. But what can I do? He’s the prince. If he tells me to jump, my job is
to ask how high. (Or if he tells me to curtsy, my job is to ask how low.) It’s
my honor and privilege to curtsy for
this man.
So I do my best. I get as low as I can until
my ankles and knees start to scream with pain. Once again, I’m shaking to try
to maintain my balance. But after a minute, the prince says, “Much better.”
Thank goodness. Now I just have to stand up
without falling on my knees.
I manage to do it somehow, and even better,
the prince puts on a pair of pants. Still no shirt though.
“So,” he says, “you’re the new girl, huh?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Holly, was it?”
“Hannah.”
“Oh.” He nods vaguely in a way that makes me
think he’s going to forget my name again in another sixty seconds. “Did they
find you at that orphanage?”
I nod. It’s no secret that a lot of the staff
for the royal family have been recruited from the local orphanages. “Yes, Your Royal
Highness.”
“What happened to your parents then?”
My cheeks flush at his bold question. It’s not
proper to just ask something like that, is it? But then again, he’s the prince.
I suppose he can do whatever he likes. “My mother died in childbirth.”
“And your father?” he presses me.
“He… he wasn’t around.” According to the
relatives I lived with when I was young, my father was a scoundrel. They used
that word so often, I literally thought his name was Scoundrel Clarke until I
was about eight.
“Ah.” The prince nods. “So he knocked her up,
huh?”
I don’t know what to say to that. I also don’t
appreciate the way he’s snickering under his breath. Also, he is still
shirtless. There’s a shirt on his bed. I’m not sure why he doesn’t just pick it
up and put it on. Seems like it would be very easy. And wouldn’t he be more
comfortable with a shirt on? I would like to suggest such a thing, but it’s not
my place.
“So what do you think of working in the Royal
Palace so far?” he asks me.
I look him straight in the eyes. It’s
customary to make steady eye contact when addressing members of the royal
family. “It’s wonderful,” I say honestly.
“Anyone giving you any problems?”
“No. Not at all!”
“Huh.” Prince Arthur scratches at his chin. He
has just a bit of a five o’clock shadow sprouting from his jaw. Just like he
did in the poster. “Well, if anybody gives you a hard time, you let me know
straight away.”
I have to stifle a laugh at the idea of it.
Right. The next time the queen asks me to re-iron her dresses because I didn’t
do it right the first time, I’ll be sure to go and tell Arthur. That would go
wonderfully, and I wouldn’t be fired even a little bit.
I clear my throat. “Will that be all, Your
Royal Highness?”
Arthur places a hand on his hip. “Are you in
some sort of a rush, Hannah?”
His tone is teasing, but there’s a bit of an
edge in his voice. I hope I haven’t upset him. “No, not at all! I just wanted
to know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Anything else I need…” He taps his finger
against his chin. “I don’t know, Hannah. What do you think?”
I swallow. I don’t know exactly what’s going
on here. He has this funny look in his
eyes. And also, the prince is still
shirtless.
I mean, really, would it kill him to put on a
shirt?
“Arthur! Arthur, are you up here?” A shrill
voice echoes down the hallway. “Arthur! I’ve been waiting for you!”
Oh goody, it’s Charlotte.
I’ll say one thing. The sound of Charlotte’s
voice gets Prince Arthur to put on his shirt real fast. He’s got it over his
head and smoothed out by the time she bounds into the room, her insanely high
heels stabbing the floor with each step.
Charlotte is very beautiful. Before I came to
work here, I saw some photographs of her in supermarket tabloids, but they
didn’t do her justice. In real life, she is like a work of art. Model tall and
thin, with legs that go practically up to her armpits. She wears her impossibly
silky long blond hair loose, and it swishes when she walks. I’ve never met
anyone whose hair was so noisy.
“Arthur.” As beautiful as she is, Charlotte’s
voice is not beautiful. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard. “What nonsense
are you doing here?”
At the word “nonsense,” her eyes rake over me.
I am the nonsense. I’m not sure how to respond to that, but I decide to curtsy
to show her respect. Even though she’s not the princess yet. She’s nothing.
But in six months, she will be a queen. That’s
a horrifying thought.
No, I shouldn’t say that. Charlotte will be a
wonderful queen. I am… looking forward to it! Yes. Totally.
“Hannah here just brought me up some dinner.” Arthur
flashes one of his blindingly white smiles at his fiancée. “I thought we’d have
a quick bite before we go out.”
“Fine.”
Charlotte removes her light jacket and tosses
it on me. Not at me, but on me. Like I’m a coat rack. She doesn’t
give me any instructions for what to do with the coat she draped over me, but
there is a coat room downstairs. I guess I’ll put it down there.
Charlotte shoots me a look. “That will be all,
Hannah.”
“Yes, Miss.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be
addressing me as ‘Your Royal Highness’?”
My mouth falls open. “But… you’re not…?”
“Excuse me?”
Prince Arthur throws an arm around Charlotte’s
thin shoulders. “Charlotte is to be my wife in three months. You should call
her Your Royal Highness.”
“Yes, of course.” The words stick in my
throat. “I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness.”
Then I get out of there as fast as I can.
I don’t know why, but I have a lump in my
throat as I take the stairs back down to the kitchen. I shouldn’t be sad. I am
living out the dream I have had since I was ten years old. I am living in the
royal palace. I am waiting on the king and queen. I should be the happiest I’ve
ever been.
Yet somehow the thought of going back to
Prince Arthur’s room makes my skin crawl.
The job working for the Duke was far less
glamorous, but in retrospect, it was so much better. The Duke was kind to me. He
didn’t care about how deeply I curtsied or if I curtsied at all. He always
thanked me when I helped him out with anything. You’re a sweet girl, Hannah, he would say. You should be working somewhere better than this.
The Duke was nice, but he didn’t understand.
It’s not like I had some great opportunity that I turned down to work for him.
My parents left me with nothing. I had no family that I could turn to. My
grades were never anything special either—college was never a realistic option
on the horizon. All I ever wanted was to work here, and now I’m doing it.
When I get back downstairs, dinner has already
been served to the king and queen, the chefs have retired for the evening, and
Iris is cleaning the kitchen. She is spraying down the oven and scrubbing at it
furiously. She always seems like a woman on a mission when she’s cleaning.
When I enter the kitchen, Iris raises her
eyes. “You were up there a long time.”
She doesn’t say it in an accusing or angry
way. More like she’s curious.
“The prince wanted company,” I say, tugging at
my ugly uniform.
A knowing smile touches her lips. “I’ll bet he
did. How was it?”
I suck in a breath. “Iris! I didn’t… I mean, I
would never…”
She puts down the spray bottle and folds her
arms. “Please. Nobody would judge you for making out with the prince. It’s a
rite of passage around here.”
I clasp a hand over my mouth, horrified. “Did
you…?”
She giggles. “Oh, yes. It wasn’t bad at all. I
mean, it was definitely all about him, but that’s fine. He’s gorgeous. And it’s
got to be better than that gross old Duke you worked for before.”
It takes me another few seconds to realize
what she’s implying. I want to throw up. “Iris, I did not have sex with the Duke. That’s… yuck. He was old enough to be
my grandfather!”
“I know. No judgment.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. And if Iris
thinks it, everybody else must think the same thing. “I’m not messing around
with the prince. He’s engaged!”
“So? He doesn’t care so why should you? It’s
not like anyone is going to feel sorry for Charlotte.”
“This is ridiculous!” My voice is sharp enough
that there’s a chance the king and queen might’ve heard it from the dining
room. I take a deep breath and get myself under control. “I’m not going to do
that. Ever. I’m not interested.”
“Well, if you want to keep your job at the
palace,” Iris says, “I suggest you get interested.”
I check her face for signs that she’s joking.
She’s not.
Edward
I keep very busy during the day. Part of it is
that I’m a workaholic, but there also isn’t a lot in my life now outside of
work. So I may as well be successful.
Uncle Walt has had this restaurant for as long
as I can remember. He always struggled to get customers in the door, but after
I graduated college, I came back home and told him I was going to help him.
After a series of advertisements and promotions, the restaurant doubled then
tripled its revenue. Walt was happy to sit back and let me handle the business
end of the restaurant because what he really likes to do is cook. (Nobody but nobody makes a better burger than my
Uncle Walt.)
Now Walt is semi-retired and we have two other
restaurants that I opened. I spend all my time handling the business end of it
and driving between the three restaurants. I work seven days a week because the
restaurants are open seven days a week. That said, all the restaurants have
their own managers who do a good job. I could probably step back more if I
wanted to, or even occasionally take a vacation. But I don’t.
Today I am at one of the restaurants, sitting
in the back office, looking through the inventory for the week. I’m scribbling
some notes in the margins, and that’s a very accurate description of my
handwriting—scribble. Although my arms aren’t as weak as my legs, they are also
affected. I do curls with five pound weights to keep my arms as strong as
possible, but there’s only so much you can do about genetics. My dexterity
sucks and my hands get shaky. As a consequence, my handwriting is a disaster.
But I know what I’ve written, at
least.
I’ve been at it for about half an hour when I
hear a fist tap against the open door. It’s Uncle Walt.
“I knew I’d find you here,” he says.
I shrug. “So I’m at work. So what?”
“So it’s Saturday night.”
“Right, so?”
“So you should be out enjoying yourself,
Eddie!”
“Saturday night is the busiest night for the
restaurant. You know that. I can take Monday night off.”
Walt tilts his head to the side. “You used to
sometimes take Saturday night off. Back when…”
He’s talking about when I was with Kate. Yes,
I had a more active social life back when I had a girlfriend. That shouldn’t be
a surprise.
“You know,” he says, “there’s a singles night
at the church tonight. Grace organized it.”
And that’s why Walt is here. Because Aunt
Grace is having yet another singles night at the church. I’m fairly sure if she
is organizing these events entirely for my benefit, even though she has not yet
persuaded me to go. And she won’t.
“I’m busy,” I mutter.
“You got to get back on the horse again
sometime, Eddie. I know you’re still upset about…”
“I’m not upset. I’m just busy.”
“Bullshit.”
Uncle Walt never curses, so it’s enough to
make me look up in surprise. My uncle is in his mid-seventies now, and he looks
older—there are wrinkles etched into every millimeter of his face. He and Grace
want me to settle down. They talk about it constantly. They want to see my life
squared away, but I don’t know if it’s going to happen.
“There are plenty of nice women out there,”
Walt says. “They’re not all like her.”
“I’m sure there are.”
“Yeah, but it seems like you don’t care. How
long are you going to keep moping over her?”
My lips pull down. What part of “I don’t want
to talk about Kate ever again” does he not understand? I want to forget it
happened. I want to forget she existed. I’m not bitter, I’m not angry—I just
don’t want to think about it.
Walt lets out a long sigh at the expression on
my face. “Fine. Did you at least have some dinner?”
“I’ll grab something in the kitchen.”
“Will you?”
I shoot him a look. “Walt, I’m really busy…”
“Fine.“ He holds up his hands in surrender.
“At least walk me out.”
This is another trick on his part. When I
first came to stay with the Boyds when I was five years old, I wasn’t walking
very well. Walt and Mary took me to the Conroy rehab center in the next town
over, and they got me set up with braces and crutches. Walt got very good at
assessing the way I walked, trying to figure out if I needed an adjustment to
my braces as I grew or maybe another course of therapy as my muscles
deteriorated further.
Now I’m an adult and perfectly capable of
knowing when I need an adjustment. Which is why I really don’t want Walt to see
me walk right now.
“I’m busy,” I say again.
“Too busy to spend five minutes walking your
old uncle to his car?“
“You know it will take me longer than that.“
His eyebrows shoot up. “Is there something you
don’t want me to see, Eddie?“
Damn it. “No. It’s fine.”
I reach for my crutches and pull myself to my
feet. I usually use my crutches at the restaurant instead of the chair, just
because it’s hard to wheel between the tables. Ironically, my restaurants are
not as wheelchair accessible as they could be. But better than most places in
town.
I thought I could fake it from the distance
from the office to Walt's car, but I can’t. I’m limping more than usual, and he
can tell. Especially when I’m going down the ramp outside the restaurant, and
there is a tiny little groove in the pavement and I nearly fall. In my defense,
I don’t fall. I’m very good at not
falling. (I’m also very good at falling.)
“Jesus, Eddie,” he says.
“I’m okay,” I insist.
“The braces fitting okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
But I’m not quick enough to keep Walt from
pulling up my pants leg. I guess I’m flattered he cares so much. Considering my
real parents probably don’t even know I wear the braces in the first place.
Or maybe they do. After all, this is why they
kicked me out in the first place.
Anyway, the second Walt pulls up my pants, he
figures out my secret. “Eddie, are you kidding me?“
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!”
He’s referring to the fact that the ankle foot
orthosis (AFOs) that support my ankles and keep my knees from buckling are
literally duct taped together right now. The thing is, I’ve had them a while
and I put in a lot of mileage. So they’re in bad shape. Duct tape is the only
thing keeping them from collapsing.
This isn’t entirely my fault. The Conroy rehab
center, where I’ve been getting my braces adjusted since I was a kid, isn’t
doing well. They are on the verge of shutting down and the next appointment I
could get was two months from now. I felt sick when I heard about their near
bankruptcy. I asked them what I could do to keep them from closing, but it’s a
lost cause. People don’t have much money around here and the insurance doesn’t
cover everything they do. For years, they were treating people for free and
eating the cost, but you can’t do that forever. It’s not a solvent business
model. I don’t go around serving people free meals, after all.
“I’m taking care of it,” I say. “I promise. I’ve
got an appointment.”
Walt grunts. “Come by the house tomorrow. I’ll
fix them up in my shop until your appointment.“
My uncle has a little workshop in the garage.
He’s good with his hands. I wish I could say the same about myself, but I’m
never going to be a master woodworker like Walt.
I’m busy tomorrow, but I recognize how much my
duct taped braces are slowing me down. This is something I should make time
for. “Okay. Thanks.”
For the first time since he walked into the
restaurant, he smiles. “Good. And then you’re going to stay for dinner.”
“Fine. As long as Aunt Mary doesn’t invite any
single women.”
He snorts. “You can’t stay single forever, you
know.“
Yeah? Watch me.
To be continued....
Palace Envy, Chapter 3
Hannah
The palace is quiet
at night.
After finishing up
my work for the day, I retired to the servants’ quarters, which are connected
to the palace. The term “servants’ quarters” makes you think of some sixteenth-century
broken-down building where we lower class workers are packed inside with hardly
any breathing room. But it’s not like that at all. It’s actually really
lovely—so much better than what I experienced growing up at the Home for Girls.
A lot of people
work for the palace. Last I heard, ninety-five employees are working here. This
includes servants, chefs, footmen, cleaners, plumbers, gardeners, chauffeurs,
and electricians. There’s even a man whose entire
job is just to look after the clocks in the palace. (He’s a very, very nice
man, and very knowledgeable about
clocks. Like, did you know that the oldest working mechanical clock was made in
1386?)
Anyway, the palace
is somewhat isolated from the rest of Claybrooke and all ninety-five of us work
long hours, including the clock guy, so it makes good sense to have housing
provided for us—and every room is fully furnished. My private room is small but
perfect. The mattress is firm, but not too firm, and the bedsprings only creak
just the tiniest bit when I lie down on them. It is a single room, but they
provided a little loveseat and bookcase and I brought my own small television.
I share a bathroom with only one other person. And I have my own private phone
line.
Free room and board
are amazing. It means every penny I earn here goes straight into my bank
account. I’m slowly building a little nest egg. But I don’t need the money
right now. I’ve got everything I want.
One thing I regret
is that the servants’ quarters don’t have a kitchen. I do have a small
microwave in my room, and the cook in the kitchen provides meals for all of us,
so really, there’s no reason to have a kitchen. But when I was working for the duke,
I cooked a lot of his meals. And even when I wasn’t cooking for him, I would go
down to the kitchen and make something for myself. I found it incredibly
relaxing. Especially baking.
So tonight, after
most people are in bed for the night, I sneak back to the palace. To bake some
chocolate cupcakes.
I lay out the
ingredients on the counter: flour, eggs, cocoa powder, vanilla, and baking
powder. The palace kitchen is stocked with everything you could imagine. The duke
had a nice kitchen, but this is on another level.
I can’t imagine
what it must’ve been like growing up here. We were packed in like sardines at
the Home for Girls—the whole facility only had two bathrooms for all twenty-something
of us. (Can you Imagine nearly thirty girls sharing only two bathrooms? No
wonder we all hated each other.) There was a kitchen, but it was also tiny.
Probably smaller than any of the closets in the palace. (This morning, I went
into a room and couldn’t figure out why there wasn’t a bed for me to make. It
took me an embarrassing few seconds to realize I was inside a closet.)
As I combine the
wet ingredients in a bowl, I try not to think about Prince Arthur and the way
he spoke to me last night. But it’s hard. Of course, I had heard rumors about
the prince before I started working here. But I assumed because he was engaged,
any shenanigans with the palace staff members would have to stop.
Maybe I
misunderstood his intentions. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure I
must’ve overreacted. Prince Arthur is an upstanding member of the royal family.
He would never be unfaithful to his
betrothed, and it’s not like I’m so
irresistible. Iris was just teasing me because I’m new here.
Yes, she was definitely
teasing me. I have nothing to worry about.
As I get the
cupcake tray in the oven, I hear a sound coming from somewhere within the
palace. The palace is so large that I can’t tell where any of the random sounds
are coming from. And it’s old—so old.
The Palace of Norland was originally built in 1703, and although it has been
through dozens of renovations during this time, most of it is furnished in
original early nineteenth-century interior design, in a cream and gold color
scheme. The paintings on the walls span hundreds of years as well. The only
part of the palace that’s modern is the kitchen, and even that is badly in need
of an update.
If I were the sort
of person who believed in such things, I might think the palace was haunted.
But I’m not that kind of person. When I hear a loud creak, I am much more
worried that the eighteenth-century ceiling is about to collapse on me.
The sound grows
louder. It sounds like footsteps now. Somebody is walking down the main
staircase.
I look down at my
watch. It’s nearly midnight. The king and queen are elderly and usually are in
bed by nine o’clock. It’s Saturday night, so Prince Arthur is out having
another night on the town, this time without Charlotte. All the staff members
are in their quarters. Except for me.
The footsteps grow
louder and my heart is pounding in my chest. I back up against the oven, nearly
burning my hand on the hot surface. There’s no way there could be an intruder
in the palace. There’s a gate encircling the grounds, and there are multiple
guards who stand watch at the only entrance twenty-four hours a day.
So who is walking
around the palace?
“What’s cookin’,
good lookin’?”
The voice comes
from the far entrance to the kitchen. I spin around, brandishing an icing
spatula. Not the best weapon, but… better than nothing? Maybe?
But then I lower my
spatula. It’s just Prince Arthur. Oh, thank goodness.
“Hello, Your Royal
Highness,” I say.
“Hiya, Hannah.”
He remembered my
name. I’m not sure whether to feel pleased or uneasy.
I’m hoping he will move
along, but instead, he enters the kitchen. He looks somewhat disheveled. His
golden hair is flopping over his eyes, and his expensive white shirt is
unbuttoned at the top revealing pale chest hair, his tie hanging loose. He’s
giving me this strange look—is he angry to catch me using the palace kitchen at
night? I can’t tell. So I do the only thing I can think to do: I curtsy for
him.
I perform my usual
curtsy, which is rusty but has been deemed acceptable by the queen and king. But
then when I look up at him, he shakes his head. So I go lower.
He shakes his head
again. “Lower.”
Again? Is he joking with me? I can’t go any lower
than this. It’s not physically possible! But I do my best. Of course, it’s not
a real curtsy because I’m wearing my pajamas instead of my uniform, but I try
to get my knee down as low as I can.
Not surprisingly, I
fall.
The prince starts
to laugh, which is also not that surprising. I scramble back to my feet,
avoiding his eyes. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time.
“I didn’t know you
were home, Your Royal Highness,” I mumble.
“Clearly not.”
There’s amusement in his dark eyes. “Or else you wouldn’t have snuck into the
palace to use the kitchen.”
“I didn’t…” I clear
my throat. “I wasn’t sneaking. Nobody was using it, so…”
“So you thought you
would come in here and help yourself to what isn’t yours.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Isn’t that the definition of stealing?”
Oh no. He really
does seem upset about this. “I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness.”
Prince Arthur takes
a step toward me. He looks handsome tonight, with his golden hair, brown eyes,
and muscular build. Most women in the kingdom would kill to be alone with him
like this. But all I can think is that I need to get out of here.
I let out a loud
yawn and stretch my arms over my head. “Well, I guess I’ll head off to bed
then.”
He jerks his head
in the direction of the oven. “Don’t you have cupcakes in there?”
Yes, I do. Dang it.
“Right. And I should be keeping a close eye on them. Then I’ll go to bed.”
He takes another
step toward me, a smile playing on his lips. “How long until the cupcakes are
done?”
“Um, ten minutes?”
Close enough—I’ll take them out raw if I have to. I’ve lost my appetite anyway.
“I’d love to try
one…”
The prince is only
about two feet away from me. I back up against the kitchen counter, feeling the
cold hard surface biting into my ribs. “I’ll leave them on the counter for you.
You can have one in the morning.”
He flashes those
perfectly white teeth at me. “What if I want a cupcake now?”
My voice feels
hoarse. “They’re not ready now.”
He takes one more
step toward me. Now he’s close enough to touch me. “Maybe you can entertain me
in the meantime.”
“I… I should get to
bed.”
“But you have to
wait for your cupcakes, don’t you?”
For the love of
God, why did I have to make cupcakes? Why didn’t I make… cookies? Those are
ready in less than ten minutes. I would’ve been done by now. I squirm against
the kitchen counter as he crosses the small gap between us. I feel his breath
on my face. He smells like vodka.
“You’re sexy,
Hannah.” His breath feels hot on my cheek. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you
after you left my room last night.”
I suck in a breath.
I wasn’t mistaken last night after all. “Oh…”
Even though I’m
squirming, he reaches out and runs his fingers over the curve of my jaw. I can
barely breathe. I never had to deal with this back at the duke’s house. Even
when he thought I was his wife, he was always imminently respectful.
“Listen…” I cough
into my hand. “I am so flattered, um, Your Royal Highness, but I’m not really
interested…”
He smirks. “Yeah,
right. Don’t be a tease.”
“I… I’m not…”
“You don’t have to
play hard to get. Trust me.”
“No, I—”
Whatever I was
about to say gets cut off by the prince jamming his tongue down my throat. It
feels like an eel trying to squirm its way into my mouth. I taste the vodka and
orange juice and cigarettes, and it’s all I can do to keep from throwing up in
the prince’s mouth. Wow, that would be such an embarrassing reason to get
fired—throwing up in Prince Arthur’s mouth.
Although I planned
to renew my objections when he pulled away, he’s not pulling away. He keeps his lips on mine and he keeps pawing at
me—his fingers are sneaking under my shirt. I feel a wave of almost
overwhelming revulsion, and I try to push him off of me, but he won’t budge.
He’s too strong. So I do what Gertrude used to tell me I should do if a boy got
too grabby with me:
I raise my right
leg and knee him in the groin as hard as I can.
It works. Really,
really well. I’ve never done it before, so I’m very impressed and pleased at
how well it works. I got him right in the sweet spot. In an instant, he is
doubled over, clutching his family jewels, looking like he’s about to throw up.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say,
even though I’m not the slightest, tiniest bit sorry.
Although I have a
feeling in another sixty seconds, I might feel differently.
Prince Arthur is
still doubled over, his face bright red. “You know, every other girl in your
position has been grateful. Anyone in
the entire kingdom would be thrilled
to have the attention of a crowned prince!”
Every other girl in your position. How many girls has he done this to?
And now I’m extra
glad I kneed him in the groin.
“I’m so sorry,” I
lie. “It was an accident.”
“Was it?” He
manages to straighten out just a bit. “Well, let’s hope next time there are no
other ‘accidents.’ Or else…”
I stare at him. “Or
else what?”
“Or else.” A tiny
smile curls his lips. “I don’t think it’s going to be very pleasant for you, Hannah.”
He steps toward me
again and I’m scared he’s going to grab me, but instead, he reaches for a
bottle of rum on the counter. He unscrews the top and takes a long swig. He
glares at me, then he wanders out of the kitchen, just as the timer goes off on
my cupcakes.
_____
Okay, this is bad.
I just kneed the
royal prince of Norland in the groin. After he groped me. When I imagined all the scenarios for what I would be
doing three months into my stay at the royal palace, this was not in any one of
them.
Iris’s room is
right next to mine. I bang on the door until my knuckles hurt. It takes that
long for her to open up, and I can tell she’s been sleeping. Her hair is
disheveled and there are circles under her eyes.
“Hannah, what the
hell?” she snaps at me.
I push past her and
don’t stop until I reach her loveseat, which is a mirror image of the one in my
room. I drop down on it, my hands shaking. My whole body is shaking.
“Hannah, do you
know it’s almost one in the morning?” Iris folds her slim arms across her chest.
“I’m exhausted. You can’t just barge in
here in the middle of the night and expect—”
“Prince Arthur
attacked me.”
Her eyes widen. She
drops down onto the loveseat beside me. “Are you serious? What happened?”
“I was in the
kitchen.” I hug myself, rocking back and forth. “And he just started kissing me
out of nowhere.”
She frowns. “That’s
it? He kissed you?”
“That’s it? Iris, he just grabbed me out of
nowhere. I was terrified!”
“Yeah, but it’s
just a kiss…”
I can’t believe
what I’m hearing. I expected the prince might hit on me, but I didn’t think he
would just grab me like that. How could he do something like that? He’s royalty! It’s so… unbecoming!
“So what did you
do?” she asks, a little more gently.
“I kneed him in the
groin.”
Iris clasps a hand over
her mouth. “You didn’t!”
“Oh, I did.”
She winces. “Hannah,
look, there are some unwritten rules when you’re working here. Arthur is a bit
grabby, but you have to go along with it. It’s not like he’s disgusting or
anything. Most women would be happy for some attention from the prince.”
It’s exactly what
the prince said to me. I hug myself and rock harder.
Iris sits down
beside me on the love seat so that our knees are nearly touching. She has been
far from maternal since I’ve been working here, but she does give me a lot of
advice—almost like a big sister. Things were so lax when I was working at the duke's
house, so it’s invaluable to have her advice. She’s got tons of it.
Always look the
members of the royal family in the eye. Always use formal addresses. Always
curtsy.
Never complain.
“You should know,”
she says, “there was a girl here a while ago who made an accusation against
Prince Arthur. She was very pretty and he was trying to seduce her. She wasn’t
interested. She already had a boyfriend and she thought Arthur was an ass. So
she told him to stay away from her and she quit her job. She didn’t even do anything to him. She just wanted to
leave.” She pauses. “But then a few days later, a piece of the queen’s jewelry,
estimated to be worth twenty thousand dollars was found in her home. She’s in jail now, Hannah. She was ostracized by
her family and friends.”
I stare at Iris.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Listen to me,
Hannah.” Her brows knit together. “You don’t go against the royal family. Ever. They’re too powerful. And everyone
loves them. Especially Arthur.”
That sick feeling
returns. Iris is right. Everyone loves the royal family. Prince Arthur is every
girl’s first crush. And who am I? I’m nobody.
I have nothing—even the bed I sleep on every night isn’t mine. I don’t even
have money for a decent lawyer if they accuse me of stealing something.
“Just… keep your
head down.” She looks down at her watch. “It’s late. I bet he was drunk. Maybe
he won’t remember what happened in the morning.”
But I saw the look
in Arthur’s eyes. He’s not going to forget what happened. He wants to make me
pay for humiliating him.
There’s no way out
of this situation.
Prince Edward
The phone wakes me
at three in the morning.
I can barely open
my eyes as I grasp blindly at my night table, feeling for the cordless phone I
keep there. My fingers find the receiver and I yank it off the hook, blinking
my eyes to try to focus in the dark.
“Eddie!”
It’s Mara’s voice. Why
would my sister be calling at three in the morning? It can’t be for anything
good. Also, she sounds like she’s crying.
It must be our
parents. Something must’ve happened. Shit.
“What’s wrong?” I
say.
She gulps loudly. “Eddie…”
I grip the phone so
tightly, it hurts my fingers. “Mara, what’s going on?”
“There was an
accident and…” Her voice breaks. “Arthur is dead.”
And then she
dissolves into hysterical tears.
I sit up in bed,
staring into the blackness of my bedroom, trying to wrap my head around what
she just told me. Arthur is dead. Is she talking about our brother? Our young, healthy, virile brother is just about the
most alive person I’ve ever met. I must’ve heard her wrong. Arthur can’t be
dead. It’s not possible.
“Mara.” I swallow. “I
don’t understand. How could…?”
“He was in a car
accident,” she manages. “He was driving drunk. Again.”
I wince. A year
ago, Arthur was pulled over for a DUI. But when you’re the prince, there’s
always a way to get out of it. He didn’t even end up going to court. Maybe if
he had, he would have learned his lesson.
“He bashed into a
tree,” she sobs. “Nobody else was hurt but he…”
I rub my eyes. This
doesn’t seem real. It feels like I could still all be part of some crazy dream.
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Yes, I’m sure,
Eddie!”
Mara is still
crying on the other line. I rub my eyes again, but they’re completely dry. Arthur
is my twin brother. This should have hit me hard, but somehow, I feel nothing.
“I’ll drive in
tomorrow, okay?” I tell her.
“Okay,” she
whimpers.
“I love you, Mara. I’ll
see you soon.”
My thoughts are racing
as I put down the receiver and lie back down in bed. Arthur is dead. My brother
is fucking dead. Holy shit. I can’t believe it.
I squeeze my eyes
shut. I’m supposed to feel sad over this. I should be holding back tears right
now or else letting them fall. Instead, I just have this hollow feeling inside
me. Only I know the truth.
I hated my brother.
Maybe hate is a
strong word. But I didn’t love him. I didn’t even like him. I never have. The two of us never liked each other. I can just imagine us getting in fistfights
in the womb.
My first clear
memories of Arthur are from when I was about four years old. By then, I was
walking badly enough that I needed to hold onto things around the house to keep
from falling, or else I would crawl. Really, I needed crutches, but my mother
would have died rather than buy me a pair. Anyway, she used to take us to the
small playground in Claybrooke a few times a week. Arthur was great at making
friends, so he would usually find kids to play with, while I would be relegated
to sitting in the sandbox—if my mother allowed me out of my stroller at all.
I couldn’t stand up
from the ground. Standing up from a chair or sofa was hard enough, but the
floor was impossible. If I wanted to leave the sandbox, I would have had to
crawl, but there was no way my mother would allow me to do that. She wasn’t
going to let anyone see her four-year-old son crawling because he couldn’t walk. Crawling was forbidden outside
of the house.
So I would just sit
there in the sandbox, hoping Arthur would bring his friends over to play with
me. And he never, ever did.
But one day, some
of his friends went to play in the sandbox of their own accord. Given my
physical limitations, I had a lot of trouble making my own friends, so I was
very excited the other kids were coming to me. And even more excited when they
showed interest in what I was making.
What’s that? one of the boys
asked me.
I’m building a palace, I said. Like the one I live in.
The boy opened his
mouth to ask me another question, but before he could, Arthur stepped between
us. Don’t play with him. He’s my stupid,
crippled little brother. He’s no fun.
And then Arthur
kicked my palace of sand until it was nothing but a mound of dirt.
The truth is, I was
glad to leave him behind when my parents sent me away. Arthur was the one thing
about home I knew I wouldn’t miss.
And not much
changed as we got older. Arthur wasn’t as cruel right to my face, but he always
found subtle ways to jab at me. When I first met Charlotte, he nudged me and
said, That’s what a real woman looks
like. Not like your Kate. Sorry about that, by the way.
The last time I saw
my brother—the last time I will ever see my brother—was at Christmas. I’ll
never forget the last words he said to me before I left to go back home. I was
sitting in my wheelchair in the dining room, looking at the family portrait
over the dining table. It had been painted a few months prior, and it contained
the entire Montgomery family: King Frederick, Queen Amelia, Prince Arthur, and
Princess Marabelle. I was never aware it was being painted, and no invitation
has been extended to me to be part of the family portrait. Not that I would
have expected it. But it would’ve been nice if I didn’t have to stare at it
during every goddamn meal since I got there.
Arthur caught me
looking at the portrait. He could tell it upset me. I remember he put his hand
on my shoulder, and I thought for a moment he might say something nice. You’ll always be my brother, Edward. I’m
sorry they left you out.
But that wouldn’t
have been Arthur. He wouldn’t have been my brother if he didn’t take every
opportunity he could to make me feel like crap about myself.
Sorry we left you off the portrait, Edward, he said. But you must understand
how important appearances are. We can’t have people coming into our dining hall
and staring at you in your…
And then he looked
down disdainfully at my wheelchair.
The words “fuck
you” were on the tip of my tongue. The entire drive home, I was speeding and
fuming about how I should’ve just said it. Of course, now I’m glad I didn’t.
Because if I had, it would’ve been the last words I said to my brother. Instead,
I just mumbled, It’s fine. I don’t care.
And now he’s gone.
He’s never going to make a snide comment again about how badly I walk. Or what
a good thing it was that he was born first, because can you imagine the
alternative? My brother is dead. He’s dead.
Nothing is ever
going to be the same.
Hannah
My head is pounding
and so is the door to my room. Every few pounds, they line up perfectly, and
the effect is excruciating.
Go away, I silently will the
person at my door. Please go away!
I couldn’t sleep
last night. Surprise, surprise. All I could think about was Prince Arthur and
his tongue jammed down my throat. I’m scared that’s not going to be the only
thing jammed down my throat in the next few months.
But what can I do? Prince
Arthur is one of the most powerful men in Norland. Yes, there is the Prime
Minister who does most of the governing. But Prime Ministers come and go—the
royal family is beloved by the entire kingdom. Everyone watched Arthur grow up
from when he was a baby. He’s the most popular celebrity there is.
Even I loved the guy. Until I met him.
Working at the
palace has always been my dream. I can’t believe this happened.
“Hannah!” Iris is
shouting my name from the other side of the door. “Hannah, let me in!”
I swing my legs
over the side of the bed and bury my face in my hands. I don’t feel like
getting up. Not now, not ever. “Go away!”
“Hannah!” The
banging gets even louder. “Please open the door! Prince Arthur is dead!”
Prince Arthur is…
What?
The fatigue I felt
a moment earlier vanishes in an instant. I jump out of bed in my pajamas and
dart across the room. I yank open the door and Iris is standing there in her
own pajamas, her blue eyes swollen and lined with red.
“Prince Arthur is
dead?” I manage.
Oh God, what if
they think I killed him? I had
thought about it, that’s for sure. I mean, not in a serious kind of way. Like
in that kind of way when you think about what would happen if you stood up in
the middle of a movie theater and yelled “fire!” I wouldn’t really do it, but
there’s that temptation…
And we were alone
together last night. What if they think…
“He was in a car
accident.” Iris’s voice breaks. “It’s all over the news.”
I start to ask what
channel, but it’s a stupid question. The young prince of Norland is dead.
That’s going to be on every channel.
Sure enough, it is.
The second I turn on the TV screen, I see an image of the front fender of
Arthur’s crumpled red Porsche. He loved that car. I watched him once from the
window of my room, tearing down the driveway to the exit, nearly mowing down
the gardener. The poor fellow had to leap out of the way.
“Prince Arthur was
declared dead at the scene,” the newscaster reports, her eyes bleary with
tears. “And now the entire kingdom is mourning the loss of their beloved
prince.”
Oh my goodness…
I look over at
Iris, who is wiping her eyes. Everyone in the kingdom is in mourning like the
reporter said. They don’t know what that man was really like. You don’t know
who a person is until he’s grabbed you and forced his tongue in your mouth.
That says a lot about a guy.
And now nobody will
ever know. Prince Arthur will be buried in a grave and the world will keep believing
he was a saint.
“It’s so sad!” Iris
cries.
I nod hesitantly. Prince
Arthur was beloved by all of Norland. Everybody’s mourning today. Except… I
don’t feel sad. Not even a little bit. All I feel is relief that I never have
to deal with that horrible man ever again.
I… I think I might
be glad he’s dead.
I suck in a breath,
horrified by my own thoughts. I love
the royal family. The duke rescued me from that terrible home for girls, and
I’ve dreamed about working in the palace since I was ten years old. And Arthur
is the prince. I should feel horrible
about his death.
But… I don’t.
Of course, I can
never say anything to anyone. Everything that happened last night must be
buried with the prince. I can never tell anyone how I really feel.
“How drunk was he
when he left you last night?” Iris says suddenly, interrupting my disturbing
thoughts.
I swivel my head to
stare at her. “What?”
“You told me he was
drinking,” she reminds me. “Did you try to stop him from driving?”
A bubble of anger
rises in my throat. “How was I supposed to stop him?”
“Well…” She wipes
her eyes with the back of her hand. “If you had told somebody he was drinking,
maybe they could have stopped him from driving. And then he would still be
alive.”
I don’t know what
she’s talking about. Who was I supposed to tell? Was I supposed to wake up the
queen at one in the morning?
Although now that I
think about it, perhaps I could have told the guard at the front gate. Maybe
they could have stopped him.
My breath catches
in my throat. I could’ve done something to stop him. Am I responsible for this?
After all, I was sober and I let him
drive away.
But I didn’t know he was going to drive. He walked
off with the rum, and for all I knew, he was going to his room.
Right?
Oh God. If a girl
got sent to jail just for turning Arthur down, imagine what they would do to
the person who might be responsible for his death.
“Please don’t tell
anyone,” I beg Iris.
“Don’t worry.” She
looks into my eyes. “We’re both from the Home for Girls—we're like sisters. I
have your back.”
I wish I could
believe her.
Prince Edward
When the sun comes
up the next morning and I wake from a restless sleep, I’m not entirely sure
whether I imagined it all or not. Did Mara actually call me in the middle of
the night and tell me that our brother is dead? Did that really happen? Or was
it all just a crazy, vivid dream? I’m not even sure anymore.
But then I turn on
the television. It was not a dream.
Arthur’s death is
all over the news. Every station. Image after image of Arthur’s mangled
Porsche. The prince is dead. Of
course, nobody mentions that he was drunk. That will be kept out of the news if
my mother has anything to do with it.
As soon as
possible, I’ve got to get in my Dodge and make the ninety-minute drive out to
the palace. But I can’t just up and leave like nothing—I have to make
arrangements if I’m going to be gone for a week or two.
The news station
flashes an image of the king and queen standing in front of the palace
entrance. My mother is dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief while my father
stands beside her, his shoulders sagging in his navy blue suit jacket. The
sight of my mother gives me a stabbing feeling in my chest like it always does
these days.
“We are devastated
by the loss of our son, Prince Arthur.” My mother’s voice breaks on his name. “Please
allow us to have privacy during this difficult time.”
Shit, my parents. I’ve
got to call them.
If I call the main
line for the palace, I’ll never get through right now. I’m sure it’s clogged
with dozens of people calling to offer condolences. Instead, I dial the private
number to my parents’ bedroom. I brace myself for what is likely to be a very
painful call. It’s a relief when nobody picks up.
I’ll have to try
again later, but in the meantime, I hit the shower. I use my wheelchair first
thing in the morning, and I’ve got a shower bench set up in my bathroom. The
first thing I did when I bought this house was I widened all the doorways, but
unlike in the palace, the bathroom is tiny. The palace has bathrooms larger
than my whole house put together, but I can’t afford that.
I don’t get any
money from my family that might help me upgrade my lifestyle. Why not? Well,
first, I would never take money from them. Ever.
Second, my family doesn’t have any money.
That’s another
well-kept secret, like my brother’s drinking problem. The Montgomery family
does not own the palace. The palace is the property of the kingdom of Norland. All
the servants who work in the Palace? Employed by the government, not my family. Because they are the
royal family, they are allowed the privilege of living in the palace and all
the amenities, as well as a fund designated for the royal family. But if the
public sentiment ever turned against them, my family would be homeless.
And that’s why
appearances are so important to them. I don’t know what my parents have in
their bank account, but it’s not a lot. It wouldn’t be good if they got kicked
out of their home.
That’s why on some
level, I get why they wanted Arthur to represent the family. Despite his
character flaws, he was the kind of person who could make an entire kingdom
fall in love with him. I can’t. And I have no interest in trying.
I spend far too
long in the shower, letting the burning hot water scald my skin. I’ve got a
portable shower chair I’ll take with me to the palace because it would of
course be too much trouble to ask them to store one for me in one of their ten
thousand closets. I left one there once, and it had been quietly disposed of
before the next time I returned. But I need it. I can’t stand in the shower.
When I get out of
the shower, the light on my answering machine is blinking. Without even
checking, I’m sure it was my mother. I count to ten in my head, then I call her
back. I don’t know how this conversation is going to go, but one way or
another, it’s going to be painful.
“Edward.” Her voice
is crisp, without any trace of the tears I saw on the television screen. My
mother is the master of her own emotions. “You’ve heard the news.”
“Mara told me. Are
you okay?”
“We are… as to be
expected.” She clears her throat. “The funeral will take place on Saturday.
We’re making the arrangements.”
“Okay…” I probably
wouldn’t have said what I say next, except she sounds so calm: “I heard he was
drunk.”
There’s a long
silence on the other line. “I don’t think we need to talk about that, do we,
Edward?”
Now I feel bad for
saying it. “No. We don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Yes…” Somebody is
speaking in the background—a muffled voice. “Edward, I must go. We are hoping
to see you today though, as soon as possible.”
“Right. I’ll drive
out this afternoon. I just need to take care of a few things.”
“Please don’t take
that car of yours.” My mother doesn’t like my ‘84 Dodge. Even though it’s a
perfectly reliable car. Again—appearances. “We’ll send a car for you this
afternoon.”
“I’d rather drive,”
I say through my teeth.
“Don’t be
ridiculous.”
I don’t want to
argue with her right now—even if she sounds calm, she’s got to be incredibly
upset over the death of her son. But that said, I don’t want to take one of the
limousines. If I let them give me a ride out to the palace, I’m stuck there. If
I feel like taking off in the middle of the night, because I can’t stand it
another minute, I won’t be able to do it. And there’s about a fifty percent
chance of that happening.
“We’ll see you
later today.” She sounds distracted now. “I’ll have Iris make up a room for
you.”
“One of the ones on
the first floor—” But I get cut off before I can get my request out there.
She’s notorious for “forgetting” to give me a first-floor bedroom. It’s at the
point where I’m beginning to feel like she does it on purpose. Like maybe the
fact that it takes me half an hour to get down all the stairs will inspire me
to walk better.
I turn the
television back on. This time, Charlotte is on the screen—Arthur’s fiancée.
Like my mother, she’s dabbing daintily at her eyes. I’m sure she’s sad, but
probably not because she misses Arthur so much. I didn’t even get the sense she
liked him all that much. But she liked the idea of being Queen someday. You
know the type. Her father has some sort of title of nobility, which is why
Arthur was allowed to marry her. But she isn’t really royalty. Marrying the prince would have been a huge step up for
her.
And Arthur, on his
part, liked the idea of having a beautiful woman on his arm.
I’m lucky I got out
of there when I did. I can’t imagine growing up that way. It does a number on
you.
And now I have to
go back. But I won’t stay for long.
To be continued....
Palace Envy, Chapter 4
Hannah
The whole kingdom
is in mourning over the death of Prince Arthur.
For the most part,
the servants attempt to go about business as usual, even though things are very
much not usual. But every free second we get, we are whispering about Arthur’s
accident. Everybody knows he was drinking—Arthur was notorious for his
binges—although nobody knows about me kneeing him in the groin minutes before
he left the palace in a fury.
First thing in the
morning, I usually make up the bedrooms. I start with the king and queen’s
bedroom. Their bedroom is about the size of the entire Home for Girls, maybe
larger. There’s a gigantic bed in the center of the room that’s only slightly
smaller than a swimming pool, with an ornate wooden headboard. I’m fairly sure
that only the king sleeps in that giant bed at night. Because there is a second equally enormous room a few doors
down that I’m supposed to make up as well, and I’ve noticed the bathroom in
that room contains the queen’s toiletries. But I’m not a gossip or anything,
even if I hadn’t signed a fifty-page nondisclosure agreement.
After I finish
taking care of the king and queen’s bedrooms, I make up the rooms of any guests
that are staying at the palace. And last, I make up Prince Arthur’s room since
he wakes up late and tends to get cranky if I disturb his slumber.
This morning, I go
straight to Prince Arthur’s room.
Even though I
cleaned it yesterday morning, it’s a disaster like it always is in the morning.
He never even attempted to throw his clothing in the laundry basket, even
though it was right in the corner of his room. Iris once said she considered
putting a sign on the basket that said: “clothing goes here.” Like, maybe he
didn’t know? And he changed his clothing multiple times a day, so at the start
of every day, there were always at least seven or eight pieces of clothing on
the floor. I also usually find multiple crumpled pieces of paper on the ground,
some scattered coins, and a few empty bags of chips.
And his private
bathroom is usually even worse. More clothing is always on the floor as well as
sopping wet towels covering every inch of the tile. How many towels does one
man require to take a shower? And there’s always
piss on the toilet seat. Never fails. You would think they would teach you how
to aim in prince school, or wherever they sent him.
I inhale deeply,
taking in the scent of Arthur’s cologne. Thick and musky and expensive. After I
scrub it down, the smell may linger for a day or two, and then it will be gone.
I’ll probably never clean this room again.
“Please leave it.”
I nearly drop the
mop in my hand at the sound of the sharp voice behind me. I whirl around and
find the queen standing in the hallway, right outside Prince Arthur’s room. Staring
at me.
The people of
Norland might love Prince Arthur, but they absolutely adore Queen Amelia. I’m certainly not the only one. There is nobody
in the kingdom—possibly in the universe—more beloved than our queen. Her
beautiful smile makes her look just like the queen in a fairytale. And even in
her seventies, she’s still a very beautiful woman.
After seeing her
that one time when I was ten years old, my obsession with Queen Amelia grew.
She was truly my idol. When I was in sixth grade, we all had to write an essay
about the person we admired most. I didn’t even have to think about it—I picked
her. And the essay was like ten pages
long even though it only had to be five hundred words. I was just bubbling over
with everything I had to say about my queen. As much as I wanted to return to
the palace, I was most excited about
serving the queen.
And then I came to
work here.
It turns out Queen
Amelia is very different up close and personal. In the three months I’ve been
working here, she hasn’t smiled at me once. Not even a slight twitch of the
lips. She barely even looks at me.
When I serve her food, she doesn’t thank me. I would bet any amount of money
that she doesn’t even know my name. And I don’t have much money to bet.
But somehow, that
makes me all the more desperate to impress her.
“I… I’m so sorry, Your
Majesty,” I mumble as I curtsy.
She nods once, briefly.
Her eyes are slightly swollen, but other than that, she looks remarkably put
together for a woman whose only son was just tragically killed. She’s wearing a
black dress suit that doesn’t have a single crease on it. Her golden hair is
immaculately pinned up behind her head.
“Are you sure you
don’t want me to at least…” I glance at the floor of Arthur’s room, which is
littered with an almost shocking amount of dirty clothing and food wrappers. I
mean, it would be shocking for most people. Not for Arthur. Anyway, if they
leave it like this, it will attract insects. “I can just tidy up quickly.”
“That’s fine.” She
pushes past me into the room. She sits down on her son’s bed, staring at a
crumpled candy bar wrapper on the ground. “Actually, perhaps you can pick up
the food items, at least.”
“Of course!” I’m
happy to pick up a few candy wrappers. Anything to cheer up the queen. “I’m so
sorry for your loss, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” she
says quietly. “It was a loss to the entire kingdom.”
Right. In six months,
Prince Arthur would have been king. And now what will happen? Without him,
there’s no male heir to the throne. The law states that if there is no male
heir, the throne would go to Princess Marabelle, but only if she were married. Since she is unmarried, it’s not clear
who would be next in the line of succession.
Queen Amelia sits
on Arthur’s bed while I pick up the junk on the floor. I can feel her eyes on
my back. She’s watching me clean. When I straighten up to look at her, her eyes
are narrowed at me.
My legs turn to
rubber. Why is she looking at me that way? Did she figure out what went on
between me and her son shortly before he died?
Oh God, am I going
to end up being hanged? There are
still gallows in the town square in Claybrooke. And they’re only slightly
dusty. Totally ripe for a good ol’ hanging.
“What is your
name?” she asks me.
“Hannah,” I squeak.
She gives me an
impatient look. “What did you say? Speak up!”
I clear my throat. “Hannah,”
I say in a very slightly less squeaky voice.
“Hannah.” She rolls
my name around her tongue. For a moment, I’m wondering if she’s going to ask me
to consider changing it. But instead, she says something incredibly unexpected:
“I would like you to go with Nigel to fetch Prince Edward.”
She’d like me to…
what?
I try to wrap my
head around this request. Apparently, even though she looks put together right
now, Queen Amelia has completely lost her marbles. The death of Prince Arthur
has pushed the poor elderly queen over the edge. Because now she somehow wants
me to go “fetch” her other dead son.
“I see,” I say
carefully.
“Nigel will be
leaving in about an hour.” She clears her throat. “Will that be a problem for
you?”
I’m supposed to
have the afternoon off. I had been looking forward to a few hours of relaxation,
but that’s not the only problem with this request. The bigger question is: how
exactly are we going to fetch a dead prince? Because I don’t have a shovel.
“Of course, Your
Majesty.” I swallow. “I just… how are we supposed to fetch him exactly?”
She sniffs. “Nigel
will take you to him. But I’d like you to ensure he gets into the limousine.”
My stomach turns.
She doesn’t really expect me to dig up a grave, does she? And what if I can’t
do it? What will she do to me? This woman is unstable.
“Um, so…” I squeeze
my hands together. “Which cemetery will we be going to?”
Queen Amelia stares
at me, her eyes darkening. “Cemetery? What are you talking about?”
“I’m so sorry, Your
Majesty,” I choke out. “But Prince Edward… he’s…”
“Oh Lord.” The
queen lets out an impatient huff. “Prince Edward isn’t dead. Is that what you
think?”
“I…”
“He lives in Ancaster.”
She rolls her eyes. “He usually visits on the holidays. I suppose you haven’t
been here long enough to meet him.”
I frown, trying to
figure out if she’s for real. She certainly doesn’t seem crazy. And she’s
giving me very specific details. Now
I’m starting to think Prince Edward might actually be alive. I read all about
the twin sons born to the royal family thirty years earlier, and then, after
five years, one of them was gone. So everybody assumed…
But I don’t get it.
If the prince is still alive, why doesn’t he live with the royal family? He’s
not even in that portrait they have over the dining table.
“Prince Edward…
isn’t well,” Queen Amelia says, answering my unasked question. “He’s an
invalid. We sent him to get medical care in private when he was a boy—far from
Claybrooke, so he wouldn’t have to be in the public eye. But he never
recovered.”
I cover my mouth. “Oh…”
Her voice lowers to
a hush. “He’s severely disabled and he prefers to stay out of the limelight,
which of course, we respect. But unfortunately, the situation has changed. He
needs to come home and embrace his new role.”
She winces as she
makes the statement. Prince Arthur was the golden boy. He was the shining
beacon of good looks and good health. Now he’s dead. And the only remaining
heir to the throne is his twin brother, who is apparently a mess.
“You’ll help him
pack his belongings,” she says. “I’m going to put you at his disposal for
whatever he needs. Obviously, given his disability, he will require a great
deal of assistance. When you see him, make it clear to him that you are there
to help him with whatever he needs.”
“Of course, Your
Majesty.”
I don’t feel at all
daunted by this task. In the last year of the duke’s life, he was mostly
confined to a wheelchair and I was doing a lot for him. I helped him get
dressed and bathed. The last few months, I was spoon-feeding him. I felt good
about helping him through the final stages of his life. So if I have to do all
that for Prince Edward, I’m okay with it. Not that I’m excited by the idea of
having to spoon-feed a prince, but I’ll do it. And if I have to spoon-feed him
when he is the king, I’ll do that too.
Queen Amelia looks
me up and down, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Also, do you have
something else you could wear for the trip?”
I frown. “Like…
scrubs?”
“Oh no.” She picks
up one corner of my shapeless black frock and lets it fall back down. “Something
pretty. A dress, perhaps? This uniform isn’t terribly appealing.”
I don’t want to
point out the obvious, which is that she
approved these ugly uniforms we all have to wear. “Yes, Your Majesty. I can
wear a dress.”
“Very good.” She
nods her approval. “Then please go change and meet Nigel in the front.”
I start to pick up
my mop and cleaning supplies, but the queen shakes her head. “Leave it. Just go
get changed quickly and meet Nigel. I’d like you to leave as soon as possible. You
don’t want to keep Prince Edward waiting, after all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I curtsy for her. “I’ll get changed right away.”
“One more thing,
Hannah.” She gives me a sharp look. “Don’t come back without the prince.”
I don’t know what
she’s talking about. We are driving out for the sole purpose of picking up
Prince Edward at his home—or nursing home or wherever he is. Why would we come
back without him? It doesn’t make any sense.
But I’m not about
to start asking questions. When the queen asks you to do something, you better
do it. This is my chance to impress her. I’m not going to let her down.
“Yes, Your Majesty,”
I say. “I’ll be back with him before you know it.”
Prince Edward
I spend most of the
morning on the phone, making arrangements to be out of town for the next week.
I haven’t taken a vacation in… Well, there haven’t been any since Kate and I
broke up. I admit I’m a bit of a control
freak, and I don’t like the idea of leaving important stuff to other people.
Fortunately,
everyone heard about my brother on the news, and even though they don’t know
I’m the prince, they know I’m closely related to the royal family. So none of
the managers are surprised when I call them and tell them I’m going to be gone
for a few days.
“You okay, Eddie?”
Oscar, the manager at my second restaurant, asks me.
“I’m fine,” I say
honestly. “I hardly knew Arthur. He’s… you know, just a cousin.”
The lie feels
bitter on my tongue. Arthur isn’t my cousin. He’s my brother. He’s my twin brother. But nobody can know that.
And then Oscar asks
timidly: “How is Mara?”
About a year ago,
Mara was here for dinner and Oscar stopped by with some business to discuss. I
mumbled my usual lie about her being my cousin, and after being momentarily
starstruck, he accepted my dinner invitation, and the two of them hit it off
big time. Despite being a princess, Mara is really down to earth. She might
live in the palace, but she avoids the limelight as much as possible. She loves
volunteering for worthy causes—it’s how she spends most of her waking hours—as
long as there won’t be any cameras around.
I was hoping the
two of them might start seeing each other more seriously, but she won’t break
the tradition that the princess must marry somebody from a royal family. I told her it was total bullshit and she
should marry whoever the hell she wants—or at least give Oscar a shot—but my
sister is a rule follower to the end. Even if it means sacrificing her own
happiness.
“Mara is very
upset, of course,” I say. “You should give her a call.”
“Oh,” Oscar
mumbles. “She’s a princess though. She wouldn’t want to hear from me.”
“She would. I’m sure she would. I’ll give you her
number.”
I read off Mara’s
private number to Oscar, and he makes me repeat it twice to make sure he’s got
the number correct.
After I finish
squaring things away with my restaurant, I pack a bag for the trip. I toss in
about a week’s worth of clothing—nicer stuff than I usually wear. I’m sure my
mother will do her damnedest to keep the cameras off me, being that I’m an
embarrassment and all, but the paparazzi will inevitably get some shots of me.
I don’t want to look like some bum in jeans and a T-shirt. Also, the palace has
a dress code. I’m on my crutches today, but I bring my wheelchair to the door
so I can throw it in the trunk. I’m just about ready to go when I see the limo
pull up in front of my house.
Great. That’s just
great.
I had been planning
to be on the road already by the time it arrived, so I’d have an easy excuse. I
see my mother’s driver and bodyguard, Nigel, behind the steering wheel. He’s a
mild-mannered guy in his fifties who doesn’t take any bullshit, and he will
have no problem getting my mother on the phone so that she can guilt trip me
personally.
It doesn’t matter
though. Nigel may be massive with biceps that strain the fabric of his suit,
but he isn’t going to physically force me to get into that car. I want my own
car, and nobody is going to guilt-trip me into getting into that limo. The
important thing is that I’m coming out to the palace. It doesn’t matter how I
arrive. They’re just going to have to deal with my shitty Dodge being in the
parking garage.
And then the
passenger’s side door opens.
I watch from the
window as a girl in her twenties gets out of the car. She’s wearing a pale
yellow sundress, and her vivid red hair is loose around her shoulders—it looks
almost like fire under the light of the sun. She has this little nervous smile
on her face so that just the very corners of her lips turn up. And she has a
button nose that makes her face look impossibly cute.
I have to admit,
after what happened with Kate and the number she did on my head, I haven’t been
able to think much about other women. The truth is, I haven’t even been on a
date since my broken engagement. I haven’t even wanted it.
But now I’m looking
at this girl, and for the first time, I’m starting to wonder why I’ve been
torturing myself all year. Because I can’t stop
looking at this girl. And all of a sudden, the limo doesn’t seem like such a
bad idea.
Christ, my mother
is a really smart woman.
Hannah
Prince Edward lives
in a completely normal, unremarkable house. It’s small, only one story, and
very much in need of a paint job on the outside, with some visibly loose
shingles on the roof. It doesn’t seem like the sort of place where a prince
would live.
Perhaps the
prince’s caregiver lives here, and that’s why he’s here now. That makes a bit
more sense. Especially since there is a dented blue Dodge parked in the
driveway that certainly couldn’t belong to the prince.
I’ve been dying to
ask Nigel questions about Prince Edward, but Nigel is a man of few words. He’s
a big guy—you can’t see his muscles under his suit, but they’re there. Nobody
has said the word “bodyguard,” but that’s his job. It’s my job to serve the
royal family, and his job is to protect them. That’s why he’s here with me.
By the end of the
drive, if somebody informed me that the only words Nigel could speak were “yes”
and “no,” I would absolutely believe it. All I managed to get him to say was
that he had met Prince Edward before, just to reassure myself one final time
that we would not be digging up any graves during this trip.
“How will we get
Prince Edward into the car?” I ask Nigel as he kills the engine.
He gives me a
strange look. “The usual way.”
I don’t know what
“the usual way” means. Queen Amelia described her son as “severely disabled.” I
wish I had a little more information. Especially if I’m going to be doing some
heavy lifting.
“Who lives here?” I
ask him.
Now he’s looking at
me like I’m a total moron. “Prince Edward.”
“Oh.” I take
another look at the peeling paint on the house. “But…”
“You do understand
why we’re here, right?”
“Yes. Yes. I just…” I take a deep breath.
“Maybe I should go knock on the door.”
“I agree.”
I get out of the
car and smooth out my faded yellow sundress. I throw my shoulders back and try
to smile. It’s a crooked smile, but it’s the best I can manage under the
circumstances. I wonder how Prince Edward is taking the news of his brother’s
death. Or maybe he doesn’t even understand that Prince Arthur is dead. Oh no,
am I going to have to be the one to
tell him?
My hands are
trembling only slightly as I get to the front door and push my thumb against
the doorbell. At the palace, there’s a doorbell that sends the most beautiful
chimes all around the hallways. This doorbell sets off an annoying buzzing
noise that continues even after I lift my finger off the doorbell.
A second later, the
door gets yanked open. I take a step back as a man leans out of the doorway and
slams his fist against the doorbell. Repeatedly. The buzzing finally stops.
“Sorry,” the man
says. “It does that sometimes.”
I open my mouth to
ask for Prince Edward, but I notice two things simultaneously. First, the man
in front of me is gripping crutches in both of his hands with metal that goes
up to his elbows. And second, he has an uncanny
resemblance to Prince Arthur.
Oh my goodness. This
is him. This is Prince Edward.
“Hello, Your Royal
Highness.” I grab the skirt of my sundress and curtsy as low as I can. “It is
an honor to finally meet you.”
I look up at the prince,
hoping my show of respect has been acceptable to him. But when my eyes meet
his, he’s gawking at me.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“I’m so sorry, Your
Royal Highness.” I try another curtsy. “Is this better?”
“No. I mean, stop
it. Just… get up. Why are you doing that?”
I frown at him. “I’m
curtsying. It’s a show of respect.”
He blinks at me.
“Seriously? They still make you do that?”
“Yes…”
“Jesus…” He lets go
of one of his crutches and tugs at the hem of his dress shirt. It’s not tucked
in—the Queen will go nuts if she sees it. Prince Edward notices me noticing,
and he adds, “I know. I’ll tuck it in before I get there.”
I don’t know quite
what to make of Prince Edward. He looks like Prince Arthur, but he talks
completely differently. You could tell Prince Arthur was royalty from a mile
away, but you would never think this man was a prince. He seems completely down
to earth. And even though he shares a similar nose and jawline to Prince
Arthur, there’s something gentler about Edward’s looks. Even though his hair is
blond like Arthur’s, the light color seems more from the sun than the unnatural
shade of gold in Arthur’s hair. Arthur looked like a prince, but Edward is the
boy next door.
I never felt a
moment of attraction to Prince Arthur, but standing next to Edward, I’m
surprised when I feel that tug. No, it’s a little more than a tug. It’s more
like a yank.
Of course, I don’t really like him. He’s a prince. And I’m
a servant who works at the palace. Any sort of attraction for him will be
fleeting and pointless, naturally. But if he tried to kiss me in the kitchen at
midnight, I wouldn’t knee him in the groin. That’s all I’m saying.
“We should get
going,” I say. “The queen is expecting you.”
“I’m sure.” Prince
Edward flashes a lopsided smile. Unlike Prince Arthur, his teeth are not blinding white. They are a normal
amount of white, with a slightly crooked incisor on the left. “So here’s the
thing, um… what did you say your name is?”
“Hannah.”
“Hannah.” He nods. “So
listen, Hannah, here’s the thing. I already have a car.” He nods at that dented
Dodge. Oh my God, that’s his car? It
looks like it barely runs. “And I’d like to take my own car to the palace.”
Okay, I get it now.
This is why the queen sent me. She didn’t believe Prince Edward would want to
take the limousine back to the castle.
Well, Queen Amelia
has been my hero since I was a kid. And I am not going to let her down.
I lift my chin. “The
queen asked that you come to the palace by limousine. Those were her explicit
instructions.”
“Maybe.” He leans
in a little closer to me, putting more weight on his crutches. He doesn’t smell
like expensive cologne. He just smells like soap, and some of the aftershave
you would get at the supermarket. “But unlike my brother, I don’t have to do
everything the queen tells me to do.”
“But—”
“Look, don’t
worry.” He shifts his weight. “I’ll get to the palace myself, no problem. I’ll
probably get there a lot faster than slowpoke Nigel over there.”
Obviously, he has
ridden in a car with Nigel before. At one point, a little boy on a tricycle
passed us.
I can see the
determination on his face. He wants his own car. And I don’t entirely blame
him. I don’t have a car, and I hate relying on other people to get into town.
But Queen Amelia gave me a job to do. And I’ll be damned if I return to the
palace without having done it.
I don’t know much
about Prince Edward. But I have a feeling he’s the sort of guy who can’t resist
a damsel in distress. I have to at least give this a try.
“That’s fine,” I
say quietly. “Queen Amelia asked me to bring you to her in the limousine. But
you don’t want to go.”
He opens his mouth
as if to say something more, but then he just says, “Right.”
“So I have not done
my job.” I lower my head, my lower lip trembling. “This is the first task the
queen has asked me to do, and I have failed. I’ll probably be fired.”
“Come on. She’s not
going to fire you over this.” But he doesn’t seem certain.
“You don’t know
that,” I shoot back. “But don’t concern yourself. I’ll find a new job and a new
place to live if I have to.”
I venture a look at
Prince Edward’s face. This never would’ve worked on Prince Arthur, but then
again, Arthur would have been happy to jump in a limo. Finally, I see his eyes soften.
“Okay, fine. I’ll
leave my car.” He heaves a sigh. “Man, you know how to land a guilt trip.”
“I’m so pleased, Your
Royal Highness!” I clap my hands together. “Why don’t you head into the car and
I’ll take your bags.”
“I can handle my
bags,” he says through his teeth.
But I’m already
waving to Nigel and he joins me at the front door. Prince Edward tries to
insist he can handle it, but even though he’s not nearly in as bad shape as I
had anticipated, he’s still on crutches.
He can’t just throw his luggage over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
“Thanks,” he
mumbles as Nigel puts his bag in the trunk. He also has a wheelchair that I
push down the walkway and that goes in the trunk as well.
I’m surprised he
only has one bag though. If he’s coming to the palace to take his place as the
new heir to the throne, he’s going to need a lot more stuff than that. Maybe he
intends to come back for it.
Prince Edward goes
slow walking down the walkway. He takes each step carefully, and he’s limping
like he has pain in his left leg. I imagine the queen looking at him walking
when he was a little boy and thinking to herself this was unacceptable. The
thought gives me a jab in my chest.
Once he gets to the
end of the walkway, Prince Edward takes one last look at his Dodge. I’m worried
he’s going to change his mind, so I quickly open the back door to the limo.
“Please get in, Your
Royal Highness,” I say.
He makes a face at
me. “You don’t need to open the door for me.”
“It’s customary.”
“No.” His knuckles
turn white on the handles of his crutches. “It’s customary for the man to open the door for the woman. Not… this.”
I don’t understand
this man. Why does he have to be so difficult about every little bit of this? Most
people would be thrilled to ride in a limo! I’m tempted to close the door and
let him open it again himself, just to shut him up. “Please get in, Your
Highness,” I repeat instead.
He starts to get
into the back of the limo. Ordinarily, I would wait for him to be inside and
close the door, but I have a feeling he won’t like that. So I start to get into
the passenger seat again. But as I open the door, his eyes widen.
“You’re not going
to sit back here with me?” he asks.
I can’t help but
laugh. “No!”
“Why not?”
I stare at him. “Wait.
Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m
serious.”
I frown. I don’t
understand Prince Edward. Yes, I know he didn’t grow up in the palace. But does
he not know anything? “Because it’s
not customary.”
“Customary? What’s
not customary?”
“Please, Your
Highness. The queen is expecting us.”
His jaw tightens. “I
hate this stupid limo.” He looks into the limo, then back at me. “This is a
mistake. I’m taking my Dodge.”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “Fine. I’ll sit in
the back with you. But you must tell Queen Amelia that you insisted.”
“Okay.” He smiles
at me now. He’s about five years older than I am, but there’s something very
boyish about his smile. Even though he looks like Arthur, he has an
approachability that his brother never had. “Thank you for keeping me company,
Hannah.”
I mumble something
as I slide into the back beside him. I am so going to be in trouble for this.
But at least I’m returning with the prince. Hopefully, all will be forgiven.
When I climb into
the back of the limo, I have to stifle my excitement. Why was Prince Edward so
difficult about being back here? This is incredible!
This limo is nicer than the room where I live. The seats are made of plush,
buttery leather, there’s a television screen mounted on the wall, and there’s
even a minibar. I run my hand over the material of the seats, trying not to let
on how insanely excited I am to be back here. There’s even a phone back here! I could make a call if
I wanted!
Not that I have
anyone I would want to call. But still.
“I know.” Prince
Edward rolls his eyes. “It’s ridiculously decadent.”
“Uh-huh…”
The engine starts
up and now we’re heading back to the palace. The drive is about ninety minutes,
and I am going to enjoy every moment of it.
Prince Edward
doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it though. He tucks his crutches below the
seats and drops his face into his hands. He rubs his temples with his
fingertips. He looks like he’s being led to his execution. But I have to
remember, the man just lost his brother. This must be hard for him.
“I’m so sorry for
your loss,” I say.
He raises his eyes
in surprise. “My loss?”
“Prince Arthur.” My
brows knit together. “I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, well…” He
squeezes his eyes shut. “We weren’t exactly close. But… thank you.”
I’m dying to ask
him more. After all, Edward and Arthur were twins. How could they not be close?
I would have given my right arm for a sister of any sort, much less a twin. But
it’s not my place to ask. Iris can give me the dirt later. I’m sure she will,
whether I like it or not.
“How are my parents
doing?” he asks.
I think back to the
morning, at the lack of expression on the queen’s face. And then the way she
sat down on Arthur’s bed, staring at the wall. “As well as can be expected.”
“What about Mara? Is
she okay?”
I look at him
blankly. “Excuse me?”
“Mara,” he repeats.
He quickly adds, “My sister. Princess
Marabelle.”
“Oh!” I never heard
the princess referred to as anything but Marabelle. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“It’s fine.” He
rubs his knees. “I’m probably the only one who calls her that. When I was a
little kid, I couldn’t say her name. I mean, Marabelle? So I just called her Mara. I still do.”
There’s a look of
affection on the prince’s face. Whatever he felt for his brother, he obviously
cares a lot about the princess. I remember how Princess Marabelle said she was
visiting him the other night. Yet neither the king nor the queen has made such
a trip. Prince Arthur certainly never did.
“I hadn’t seen her
before I left,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He nods almost
imperceptibly, a crease between his eyebrows. He rubs his jaw with his thumb,
lost in his own thoughts. He looks so much like Prince Arthur, yet he doesn’t
look like him at all.
“Would you care for
a drink, Your Royal Highness?”
He blinks a few
times as if he’d forgotten I was sitting across from him. “Listen, can you
please stop calling me that?”
“I’m sorry,” I say
quickly. “What would you prefer? I can refer to you as Your Royal Highness
Prince Edward. Is that better?”
“No.” He snorts. “That’s
not better.”
“What about Your
Royal Highness Prince Edward of the Kingdom of—”
“No. Stop. Jesus. I really don’t want you to call me that.”
I take a slow
breath. “Well, what would you like me to
call you?”
“Eddie.”
I can’t help
myself—I start giggling. It’s been a very long day and an even longer night the
night before. And once I start giggling, somehow I can’t stop. This is
completely unprofessional, but tell that to a woman who can’t stop giggling.
I’m terrified to
look up at Prince Edward after my giggle fit is finally calming down. But he
doesn’t look furious. More like equal parts amused and baffled. “What’s so
funny?”
“I can’t call you
Eddie!” I cover my mouth before I start laughing again. “Do you think I can
just go up to the royal prince of Norland and be like, ‘Hey, Eddie!’ You don’t
see how ridiculous that is?”
He raises his
eyebrows. “I really don’t.”
“Well, you should.”
“Sorry, I don’t. And
anyway, I’m not a prince.”
Is this guy for
real? “I disagree, Your Royal Highness.”
“I told you not to
call me that.”
I stare across the
limo at Prince Edward. I only now realize an important physical difference
between him and his brother: their eyes. They both have light hair, but Prince
Arthur’s eyes were much darker. Edward’s eyes are more of a hazel color.
He actually has
quite nice eyes.
“I’ll tell you
what,” he says. “You can call me Prince Edward if we’re around other people,
but if it’s just you and me, I want you to call me Eddie.” Before I can
protest, he adds, “Please. I hate
royal titles. It only reminds me of how they kicked me out.”
“Fine,” I agree,
knowing full well that I will never ever
be able to call this man “Eddie.”
His shoulders sag
slightly. “Why don’t we have that drink, huh?”
“Of course.” The
mini bar is on my side, so I reach in and open the door, peering inside. “What
would you like? There’s some Irish cream, Bailey’s, whiskey—”
“I’ll take the
whiskey.”
Prince Edward
locates a couple of small glasses on his side, and he holds them out for me to
pour the whiskey into. I don’t know what he’s doing now. I’m on duty right now. So I just pour the
whiskey into one of the glasses.
“And yours,” he
says.
I shake my head. “I
can’t.”
He raises an
eyebrow. “You don’t drink?”
“I’m working.”
“I won’t tell
anyone.” His second eyebrow goes up. “Come on. I’ll feel like a loser if I’m
sitting back here drinking by myself. And I think we could both use this.”
Well, that last
part is right. “Fine. Just a small one.”
I pour about half
an inch of whiskey into my glass. I’ve been feeling edgy ever since last night,
but after I down that whiskey, I feel just a little bit better.
“For whiskey from a
minibar, this is good.” Prince Edward
looks at his glass in amazement. “I’m not used to stuff like this.”
“Do you want more?”
I think of how much Arthur had been drinking the other night. These things run
in families, don’t they?
But Edward just
laughs. “Better not. Can you imagine if I showed up at the palace drunk? And
I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Prince Arthur
was,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Edward’s eyes
widen. Oh God, I should not have said
that. It wasn’t my place at all. And now he’s going to tell the queen that I
called his dead brother a drunk.
“I’m so sorry,” I
say quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
He drains the last of the whiskey from his glass. “I know my brother. I know he
was drinking when he got in an accident. You’re only telling the truth. I’m
just glad nobody else got hurt.”
I can’t help but
think again about how different Edward seems from his brother. He doesn’t seem like
a prince at all. But like it or not,
that’s his role from now on. After all, Norland needs a prince. And when the
king retires in six months, they’re going to need a king. And it’s going to be
this man.
Right now, I can’t
even imagine it.
“So,” he says,
“tell me about yourself.”
I blink at him. “What?”
He glances at his
watch. “It’s a long drive. So… let’s talk. You go first. Tell me about your
life. Where are you from? What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I…” I sputter. What’s
going on here? Doesn’t he realize how inappropriate
this is? “I like to work for the royal family.”
“Fine.” He waves
his hand. “I realize you think you have to say that. But what about when you’re
not working for them?”
I squeeze the empty
glass of whiskey in my hand, wishing I had more. “This is my job. It’s my honor
to work for the royal family.”
He looks at me for
a long time—long enough that I start to squirm. “Wait. Is your name Hannah
Clarke?”
“Yes…”
He snaps his
fingers. “You wrote that article I read. In the Gazette. About the privilege of working for the royal family. That
was you, right?”
My cheeks flush.
I’ve gotten so many positive comments about that article. It’s my proudest
work. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Eddie,” he says.
I don’t respond to
that.
Like I said, most
people have showered praise on me for my article. But the way Prince Edward is
looking at me, I don’t think he’s going to do that.
“So let me get this
straight.” He leans back in his leather seat, shaking his head. “You feel like
it’s a privilege to wait on a bunch
of pompous assholes?”
“My privilege is to
serve the royal family.”
“Same difference.”
“I beg to differ,”
I say through my teeth. I quickly add, “Your Royal Highness.”
“I’m sorry,” he
says, “but I think that way of thinking is nuts. I mean, there must be
something else you want to do in life besides that.”
“It’s an honor.”
“An honor?” He
laughs. “Please. I know what my
family is like. They probably treat you like crap.”
My face burns.
“They treat me very well, thank you very much.”
“And that’s all you
ever wanted to do? To quit high school and go into servitude for the royal
family? How do your parents feel about that?”
“My parents have
been gone since I was a baby,” I say, much more sharply than I intended.
His head jerks
back. “Oh,” he says quietly. “I… I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to
be sorry about,” I say tightly.
“But even so,” he
presses me. “You’re not a kid anymore. You could find another job that—”
“I don’t want
another job!” I snap at him. “I’m happy working for the royal family. I love
it.”
I’m surprised at
myself. I’ve been dealing with members of the royal family for a long time, and
I’ve never been anything but respectful. And now, over the course of two days,
I have physically attacked one prince and now I am snapping at a second. I
don’t entirely know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been taught better than this.
I should apologize.
That’s what any servant who speaks out of turn should do. But then again, why
should I? Maybe he doesn’t live in the lap of luxury, but he doesn’t understand
what it’s like to have absolutely nothing—no money, no family. He’s always had
people to take care of him.
Also, he’s been
going on and on about how he isn’t a prince. So maybe I should go ahead and
treat him like the commoner he claims to be.
But no. I can’t do
that.
“I apologize, Your
Royal Highness,” I say finally. “I should not have spoken out of turn.”
Prince Edward looks
at me for a long time, playing with a loose thread on his white shirt. “Eddie,”
he says.
“Your Highness, I—”
“And I’m the one
who should apologize,” he says.
“You… you should?”
“Yes. I mean, if
you want to spend your whole life waiting hand and foot on a bunch of spoiled
rich people, then who am I to judge?”
Hmm. I sort of feel
like that was a judge-y kind of apology. But it’s more than I’ve ever gotten
from a member of the royal family so far. So I’ll take it.
“Hey,” he says. “Want
to watch some TV?”
I really, really
do.
To be continued....