Prince Edward
I figure out which
one is the indigo room because it’s where Nigel has dumped my bag. Also, the
walls are vaguely purple. Or indigo, whatever that is. I suspect I’m mildly
colorblind, but let’s face it, that’s the least of my problems.
King. My mother
wants me to be king. Holy hell.
It’s out of the
question. Twenty-five years ago, my mother kicked me out of the palace, and
even though I spent a lot of time resenting her for it, she was right about one
thing: I don’t belong here. The king and queen of Norland are essentially
political figureheads. Their job is to be loved.
I have more
important things to do with my life. I run a business. I’m not going to make my
life’s work standing in front of the palace and blowing kisses while everyone
cheers for me. I don’t want a bunch of servants waiting on me hand and foot. I
couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I lived my life that way.
Not that I could do
it if I wanted. Arthur was the sort of prince everybody adored. I’m not. Nobody
is going to get excited about a king who can’t even walk—I’m just being honest
with myself.
I’ll go to the
funeral like I said I would. And then I’m going home.
I wish I brought my
Dodge. If Hannah hadn’t shown up in that goddamn sundress, I would have it
right now. That girl scrambled my brain. You would think I would know better by
now.
I think back to my
conversation with Hannah in the limo. I can’t help but feel a surge of
resentment. She knew why she was bringing me back to the palace. She knew my
mother’s plans for me. And she did not say one word. She’s even worse than
Kate.
No, I take it back.
Nobody is worse than Kate.
My crutches are on
my lap, and I toss them on the bed and take inventory of the bedroom. I can’t
say it’s not a nice room. It’s probably bigger than my entire house. The sheer
amount of space in this palace always amazes me. I remember when I was a kid, I
wanted more than anything to run along the hallways the way Arthur did.
Let’s race, Arthur would say.
And I would say
yes. Because I wanted so badly to be like him and be able to run without
falling. It was less of a race than a game for Arthur. He would give me a head
start of half the length of the hallway. Or maybe he would walk backward. But
no matter what advantage he gave me, he would always win. And then he would rub
it in even worse. I was walking on my
tiptoes and I still beat you!
I look over at my
crutches. Even if Arthur were still alive, I wouldn’t be able to race him on my
feet—it would be a joke. The only way I could win would be in a tortoise and
hare situation where halfway through he lay down on the floor and took an hour-long
nap. Although in my wheelchair, I might have a chance. Maybe.
Of course, I’ll
never race Arthur again. My brother is gone.
Jesus Christ. I
can’t believe Arthur is dead.
“Eddie?”
I look up. It’s
Mara. She’s standing at the doorway to the indigo room, her eyes bloodshot, her
face puffy. And now I get the hug I’ve been expecting since I got here. She
clings to me and I can tell from the damp sensation on my neck that she’s
crying again.
“I can’t believe
it,” she murmurs as she pulls away. “How could he be gone?”
Sometimes I forget
that Mara grew up with Arthur. She wasn’t sent away like I was, interacting
with our brother only on major holidays. She cares about him in a way that I
can’t seem to muster.
Even though he was
awful to her too. Last Christmas, he made a joke about how she must still be a
virgin. Right in front of everyone. I wanted to punch him in the nose, but it
didn’t seem like the right thing to do. Plus, even though I try to do weights
to keep my upper body in as good shape as I can, my brother looked like he put
in daily gym workouts. I had no delusion that in a fight, he would massacre me.
Still, it would
have been worth it to get in one good punch. He deserved it and nobody would
ever do it but me. One of the tragedies of Arthur’s death is I never got to
punch him in the nose.
“When is the
funeral?” I ask.
“It will be
Saturday.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and rubs her nose,
which is big and red. “It’s at the church of Norland. Half the kingdom will
probably be there.”
I’m sure they will.
Everybody loved Arthur. Hannah probably worshipped the ground he walked on. Everybody
thought he was the greatest man in the entire kingdom.
Everybody except
me.
“Mara.” I chew on
my lower lip. “I just want you to know that I came here to support the family
and for the funeral, but I’m not staying. I’m going back home at the end of the
week.”
Mara blinks at me. “Going
back? Eddie, what are you talking about? Arthur is dead. You’re the next in
line to be king.”
I wince. “You know
about that too…”
“Everybody knows. How did you not know? What did you think was going
to happen?”
“I guess…” I lower
my eyes. “I don’t know. I thought you
would be next in line.”
“Me?” Mara laughs.
“Oh no. I’m not even married, Eddie. I can’t produce any children at this
point.”
“What are you
talking about? You can still have kids. You’re only forty.”
Her lips form a
straight line. “Right. The queen of Norland will be a single mother. I’m sure
that will go over well.”
“Well, why the hell
not? Why does the royal family have to be so goddamn perfect?”
Despite her grief,
Mara punches her fists into her hips. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand
tradition or how important it is. You don’t understand the expectations of the
people in the kingdom.”
I snort. “Maybe I
would if Mother hadn’t kicked me out of the palace when I was five years old.”
Her eyes soften. “She
regrets that, Eddie.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. She
worries about you, you know.”
“You would never
know it on my end.”
“She does! She asks
me about you all the time.”
I wish I could
believe that. I really do. I love Uncle Walt and Aunt Grace more than anything,
but my mother is my mother. After I left the palace, for almost a year, I cried
for her every night—quietly, after everyone was asleep. I’m sure being
abandoned by my own mother did a number on me. And what’s crazy is that even
after all this time, I still want to believe she cares about me.
Except I don’t. All
she wants is for me to be a replacement for Arthur. The son she really loved.
“Maybe Father could
continue being the king,” I suggest. “He’s only seventy-four. He’s got plenty
of good years left in him.”
Mara shakes her
head. “I don’t know if you noticed this last time you were here, but Father
isn’t doing well.”
I had noticed. At our Christmas dinner
last year, it seemed like Father was repeating things he had already said. Most
disturbingly, a couple of hours after we gathered around the Christmas tree to
open presents, he asked my mother when we were going to open the presents. “He’s
a little forgetful…”
“He has
Alzheimer’s, Eddie.” The creases on her face deepen. Sometimes my sister looks
my age, but right now, she looks twenty years older. “He’s getting worse. Much
worse. Haven’t you noticed he never talks in public anymore?”
I hadn’t. I
generally avoid any news that involves the royal family. But it did strike me
as strange that our mother was the one who gave the statement to the press
about Arthur’s death. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“Of course he has! He’s
seen a dozen doctors and even some crazy natural healer who had him drinking
these disgusting green smoothies.” She blinks away fresh tears. “He’s declining
fast though. Sometimes he doesn’t even know my name. Like he looks at me and
can’t figure out who I am or why I’m here.”
I felt that way
even before he got sick.
Mara reaches out
and grabs my hand. “You’ve got to
come back. We need you here. Without you, there’s no royal family anymore.”
I bite my tongue to
keep from saying what I want to say, which is that if they’re counting on me to
save the royal family, they’re shit out of luck.
Hannah
It’s my job to save
the royal family.
No pressure or
anything.
I was supposed to
have most of the day off, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. That’s fine
though. This is an emergency! It’s like wartime. The royal family needs me, and
I’m here to do whatever I can. And if the only way to save the day is by
setting the table for the seventh day in a row, that’s fine. That’s what I’m
going to do.
As I’m arranging
the four place settings on the table, I glance up again at the portrait on the
wall. The king, the queen, Princess Marabelle, and Prince Arthur. I always
liked the portrait, but now it strikes me as odd that Prince Edward was left
out of it. It made sense when I thought he was dead. But why would they have a
family portrait and leave out one of their two sons?
Iris comes out to
inspect my handiwork. Immediately, she gets that critical expression on her
face. I don’t understand why she can’t give it a rest, for just one day. I
mean, the prince died last night. I
don’t think the queen is going to care that the salad fork is an extra
millimeter away from the dinner fork. I’ll be shocked if she can eat at all.
“This is completely
wrong.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You need to redo all the place
settings.”
“What are you
talking about?” I burst out. “They’re perfect. And it’s not like anyone is
going to care today…”
“They always care,” Iris says in that know-it-all
voice of hers. “And it’s the least you can do to make the dinner table perfect
after what you did to Arthur…”
I take a step back,
my heart pounding. She’s acting like I killed
him, for God’s sake. That is so unfair—I don’t know if I could have stopped him
from getting in that car accident. I open my mouth to protest, but I’m stopped
by the sound of someone calling out my name.
“Hannah!”
Queen Amelia’s
voice rings out through the hallway. I hear her heels clicking loudly against
the floor with each step. I look wildly at Iris, willing her to keep her mouth
shut. I don’t think the queen heard our interaction, but if Iris keeps making
little snarky comments like that, it’s just a matter of time.
“What can I do for
you, Your Majesty?” I say when she gets within earshot.
“Please let Prince
Edward know that dinner will be served shortly,” she says. “Make sure that he
joins us.”
“Of course, Your
Majesty.”
Iris blinks,
astonished by this request. She’s been here a decade to my three months, and
she considers herself the authority on just about everything. “Your Majesty,”
she says. “Hannah will need to redo all the place settings, which were done
incorrectly. I would be happy to speak with Prince Edward in her place.”
Queen Amelia’s eyes
flit down to the table, then back up at the two of us. “For God’s sake, the
place settings are fine, Isabelle. My son is dead. Have a little perspective
please.”
The red in Iris’s
neck is creeping into her cheeks. She’s not used to being contradicted, even by
the queen. Also, I’m certain she noticed the queen called her by the wrong
name. And she got my name right this time.
“Also…” Queen
Amelia looks down at the black uniform that I put back on for the dinner
service and her nose crinkles. “Hannah, I’ve had a few new dresses ordered for
you. I’d like you to wear them from now on. I had them placed in your room.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Iris’s mouth is
hanging open, but I can’t bother about her right now. I’ve got to get to the
indigo room. I debate if I should go back to my room first to change into one
of the dresses, but it’s almost time for dinner. I should go talk to Prince
Edward first.
I have a job to do,
after all.
When I knock on the
door, Edward calls for me to come in. He’s sitting on his bed, a stack of
papers resting on his legs, chewing on the tip of a pen. The prince of Norland
is chewing on his pen. It makes me
feel a little better about how I always do that. “Yes?” he says.
“Dinner is served
in ten minutes, Your Royal Highness.”
He nods
distractedly, his hand on the cordless phone by his bed. “I’ve got an order
that’s messed up. I have to deal with this. Any chance I could get my dinner in
here?”
“The queen asked
that you join them at the dinner table.”
One side of his
lips quirks up, and I can’t help but think how he is so much cuter than his
brother. But that is a very unproductive thought—it has nothing to do with my
main mission here. “So basically,” he says, “I have to do whatever she says.”
I can’t fail the
queen. I have to get him to the dinner table. “Given what she has been through
today,” I say stiffly, “I think it would be nice if you did what she asked.”
“Really? She seems
fine to me.”
“Her son is dead.
You really think she’s fine?”
Any trace of a smile
drops off his lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll come out.”
I curtsy. “Thank
you, Your Royal Highness.”
He slides the
laptop onto the bed. “On two conditions.”
I suck in a breath.
Of course. I knew he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. “Yes?”
“No more curtsying.
It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s customary and
respectful to—”
“I don’t care
what’s customary or respectful,” he says. “If you actually respect me, you’ll honor my wishes and stop doing it.”
I grit my teeth. “Fine.
What else?”
“Please don’t call
me Your Royal Highness ever again.” He cringes. “I hate it. I really hate it.”
“That is the way I
am required to address you.” I tap my foot impatiently. “It would be
inappropriate for me to call you…”
“Eddie?”
“Right. That’s
inappropriate.”
“Okay.” He picks up
the phone and starts dialing a number. “Then I’m not coming to dinner.”
My mouth falls open
but I’m not sure what to say. I can’t return to the dining table without the
prince! I can’t bear the look of disappointment on the queen’s face. She’s been
my hero since I was ten years old, and the royal family saved me from a life of
destitution. The queen is my hero. I have to make this happen.
“Fine,” I say. “Eddie.”
The smile returns
to his lips as he puts the phone back on the receiver. “That’s better… Hannah.”
I nod. “Do you need
any help getting to the dining room?”
“I absolutely
don’t.” He shoots me a look. “I live by myself, Hannah. I run three
restaurants. I don’t need help.”
“I understand, Your
Royal…”
He raises his
eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I said I
understand,” I mumble.
“Oh good. I thought
you were going to call me Your Royal Highness again, even though I specifically
asked you not to.”
The wheelchair I
pushed into the house is next to his bed. He climbs into it, obviously not
interested in bothering with the crutches right now. As he uses his hands to
adjust his legs slightly, not for the first time, I wonder what put him in that
chair. What happened to him that spared his twin brother?
“I have spinal
muscular atrophy,” he tells me.
“Oh,” I murmur. “You
don’t have to…”
“I’d rather tell
you myself so you don’t have to gossip with the other staff.” He adjusts
himself in the chair. “It’s a form of muscular dystrophy. It’s pretty rare, but
that’s what happens when your parents are distant cousins. Arthur and I weren’t
identical twins, so he didn’t get the two genes. It affects my legs much more
than my arms.”
“I’m sorry…”
He shrugs. “Nothing
to be sorry for. It’s something I’ve lived with my whole life. I don’t even
really think about it much. It’s not that big a deal, honestly.”
“Isn’t there any
medical treatment for it?”
“Yeah, a
wheelchair.” He grabs the push rim of his right wheel. “My mother dragged me to
doctors for a few years, but there isn’t much to do about it. You just deal
with it. Or else, you know, send your kid far away so that nobody has to look
at him.”
I wince. Edward
might be adjusted to being disabled, but he is not over what his parents did to him as a child, at least not while
he’s here. He still resents them. And by proxy, he resents the entire royal
family. And I’m not sure how to change his mind. Or if I can. But I have to do
my best to paint them in the best light.
“I’m sure Queen
Amelia did what she felt was best for you,” I say. “She probably thought it
would be hard for you growing up in the public eye.”
He laughs. “Yes,
I’m sure that’s what she was thinking.”
“Well, it is hard. Being the king and queen is a
sacrifice. They’ve given their lives to public service, to helping worthy
causes and improving morale.”
“Hmm. That’s debatable.”
“There is no public
figure in the entire country more beloved than your mother.” I square my
shoulders. “When she speaks, everybody
listens. You don’t think that’s worth respecting?”
He narrows his
eyes. “I don’t think it’s worth respecting somebody who would send their
five-year-old son away because he can’t walk.”
This isn’t working
as well as I planned. He has spent the last twenty-five years resenting his
parents, and I’m not sure if I can change it in a week. I squeeze my hands
together, trying to decide if I should abort. Quit while I’m ahead. Even though
I suppose I’m not technically ahead at all. “Maybe it’s not what you think,” I
finally say.
Prince Edward sits
there in his chair for a moment, as if mulling over my words. “Okay, you know
what I really think?” He leans closer to me, his hazel eyes meeting mine. “I
think my mother told you to make nice to me to get me to agree to this charade.
I think she thinks I’ll listen to you because you’re beautiful and she thinks
I’m a pushover. That’s what I think.”
When I open my
mouth, nothing comes out but an embarrassing little squeak. My face grows hot,
and I’m not sure if it’s because he called me out on what I was trying to do…
or if it’s because the prince called me beautiful.
“And you know what
else I think?” he adds. “I think that no matter what you do or say to me, by
the end of this week, I’m going to be headed back home. And my mother can
figure out what to do about the next heir. Because it sure as hell is not going to be me.”
With those words,
he wheels past me out of the bedroom. He doesn’t slam the door behind him, but
I get the general idea. It’s an implied
slam.
Oh God, that didn’t
go well at all. I got him out of the
bedroom, but I’m not making any headway with the real goal. Norland needs a
king. And despite what he thinks, Prince Edward would make a good king. The
kingdom would love him if only he would let them.
I’ve got to find a
way to convince him.
Prince Edward
I know my mother’s
tricks pretty damn well.
She sent Hannah to
my house to make sure I would get in the limo and wouldn’t have access to my
car. And now she has assigned Hannah to me to try to convince me to take my
brother’s place. Does she think I’m stupid? Does she think I wouldn’t realize
exactly what she was doing?
I have to admit
though, Hannah is ridiculously perfect for the job. First of all, she’s
beautiful. But in a sweet, approachable sort of way that my mother has somehow
figured out I have a very hard time resisting. And second, Hannah believes in
the monarchy like nobody’s business. She’s the most dedicated person I’ve ever
met.
Too bad she has no
chance of convincing me.
By the time I wheel
out to the dining table, the rest of my family is already seated at the table
and the food is out. My mother has a rule that nobody eats until everybody has
their food so that we start together, but it doesn’t seem like anybody cares
much about the rules today. Mara still looks wrecked, her pale skin blotchy and
her hair disheveled. My mother looks more put together, but she’s just staring
at her plate. My father, on the other hand, looks completely unperturbed, which
is disturbing in itself.
There’s a chair in
front of my place setting. Which makes it a little hard for me to sit there. At
other times, I might’ve made a comment, but today I just push it aside and take
my place at the table.
There’s some sort
of stew with mashed potatoes on my plate, but I don’t have much of an appetite.
My eyes stray up from my food to the portrait on the wall. From the moment I
first saw that thing two years ago, I wanted to throw food at it. How could
they make a family portrait and leave me out of it?
“Thank you for
joining us, Edward,” Mother says quietly.
My father looks up
at me. He is seventy-four years old, but he looks ten years older than that.
His hair is completely white and is now sticking straight up. He looks less
like a king than a confused old man.
While I’ve grown
distant from my family in the last twenty-five years, I’ve never known my father. When I was a little kid, he always seemed
like this big scary man with immense, unlimited power. He barely spoke to me at
all. Not that he spoke much to Arthur either, but if he did decide to bestow
some attention onto his sons, it was always directed at Arthur. Whereas when he
looked at me, it was always with an expression of barely contained disgust.
Sort of like the
way he’s looking at me now.
“Why is there a
crippled boy at our table, Amelia?” he asks.
“Frederick.” My
mother gives him a sharp look. “That’s Edward.
Your son.”
“No…” There’s a
glob of mashed potatoes in the corner of his mouth. “My son is Arthur. Not
Edward.”
“Edward is your son
also,” she says patiently. “The boys are twins. Remember?”
“No…” Father crinkles
his brow. “That can’t be right.”
“Maybe he would
remember me if you had included me in the family portrait?” I say. I shouldn’t,
but I can’t help myself.
Mara lifts her eyes
from her food and gives me a warning look. She’s right, but it’s too late now.
I already said it.
“You don’t live
here,” my mother points out. “It would not have been convenient for you to pose
with us for that portrait.”
“You didn’t even
ask me…”
“I assumed you
would say no.”
I have to bite my
tongue to keep from calling bullshit. No, I wouldn’t have sat for the portrait.
But only because she didn’t want me in it. The whole family wanted to pretend I
didn’t exist, until now, when they suddenly need me. Well, it’s too damn late.
Mother clears her
throat. “I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t we go around the table and talk
about Arthur? We can share our favorite memory about him or something we loved
about him.”
That doesn’t sound
like a wonderful idea. It sounds like a terrible
idea, mostly because I have nothing good to say about my brother. But my mother
is already plowing forward with it:
“I loved Arthur’s
confidence,” she says. “He always believed in himself, and that made other
people believe in him. I remember when he was playing in Little League when he
was in fourth grade, he said to me one day, ‘Mother, I’m going to hit a
homerun.’ And he did. It was like he made it happen with his confidence.”
She smiles at the
memory. Of course, her memory of Arthur would involve a sporting
event—something I could never participate in.
“Marabelle?” Mother
says. “How about you?”
Mara drags her fork
listlessly across her plate. When she finally looks up, her eyes are shiny. “I
loved how much Arthur loved life. He was always so happy and he always seemed
to be having so much fun. I admired that about him.”
Mother nods in
approval. “Thank you, Marabelle. Frederick, would you like to go next?”
My father grunts. “Huh?”
This seems like a
bad idea. My father only seems vaguely aware that Arthur is his son, much less
that he died last night. I don’t know why we need to make him dredge up some
memory of Arthur. But my mother seems determined.
“Frederick,” Mother
says. “Your son, Arthur. Tell us something about him.”
Father nods,
finally getting it. “Yes. I had a son. We were waiting a long time. All we had
was one useless daughter. And then my lovely Amelia finally gave me two little
princes. Then one turned out to be defective, so we got rid of him, but the
other was just fine.”
“Frederick!” my
mother cries.
Mara and my mother
look horrified, but it seems like my father summed it all up pretty well. Too
bad for them that life threw a curveball.
“Edward, he didn’t
mean that,” Mother murmurs. She doesn’t even bother to apologize to Mara for
the fact that he called her useless. I suppose Mara is used to it by now.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“We were just
trying to do what was best for you…”
Bullshit bullshit bullshit… “I
said it’s fine.”
Mother picks up her
napkin and crumbles it in her hand. “Edward, would you like to say a few words
about Arthur?”
“I don’t know if
this is a good idea,” Mara says, wisely.
I don’t want to
talk about my brother. I’ve been biting my tongue this entire meal, and I’m not
sure how much longer I can do it.
“I think you
should,” Mother says. “After all, Edward and Arthur were twins. For nine
months, they only had each other. There’s no closer bond.”
Mara is shaking her
head because she’s apparently the only other person at the table with any
common sense. But it’s too late.
“A memory about my
brother,” I muse. “Okay, I’ve got one.”
“Eddie,” Mara
murmurs under her breath. If this table weren’t so wide, she’d be kicking me
right now.
“So this one is
from just this last Christmas.” I rub my thighs as it comes back to me, just
like it was yesterday—Arthur sitting next to me on the couch, his thick cologne
tickling my nose, that smirk he always wore was playing on his lips. “He was
talking about how when father turned seventy-five, he would be the king. He had
this whole plan about being the greatest king in the history of Norland. I
mean, that was the whole plan—being the greatest king.”
My mother’s eyes
are shining. “Yes, he might have been.”
I avoid Mara’s eyes
because I know what she’s thinking. And I don’t care. “And then you know what
he said to me?” I pause for dramatic effect. “He said, ‘Lucky thing there are
two of us. Because you never could have done it, Eddie. It would’ve been a
disaster.’” I look straight at my mother. “And he had it completely right.”
Her face crumbles.
It’s enough to make me feel a jab of guilt until I look up at the portrait on
the wall. That erases my guilt.
“Arthur was wrong
about a lot of things.” Mother’s voice trembles. “He was wrong to get behind
the wheel when he had so much to drink. And he was wrong about you, Edward. You
will make a great king. Better than
he ever could have been.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter.
“It’s your
destiny.” She nods as if confirming it to herself. “And it’s what Arthur would
have wanted.”
I stare at her. “What
Arthur would have wanted? Are you serious? All Arthur wanted was to be the king
himself. He didn’t care about me. Not even a little bit.”
“That’s not true.
You didn’t know him…”
“I didn’t have much
of a chance to get to know him, did I?”
“Edward, Mother…”
Mara’s voice is sharp. “You both need to stop this. We’re all upset over
Arthur. We don’t need to make any plans right now.”
“But that’s not
true, Marabelle.” The tremor has disappeared from my mother’s voice. “The
kingdom is expecting us to name a new successor to the throne now that Arthur
is no longer with us. We need to assure them that even though the prince is
gone, they will still have a king.”
I glare at her. “That’s
fine. But it won’t be me.”
Her eyelashes
flutter. “That’s very selfish, Edward. The kingdom needs you. How could you let
them down?”
I thought I could
get through this dinner, but I can’t. How could my mother expect me to be the
king and live here when I can’t even get through one meal? I grab my plate off
the table and drop it onto my lap. Then I put my hands on the push rims of my
chair.
“I’m going to my bedroom,”
I say. “We can talk about the funeral arrangements tomorrow. But I’m not going
to fight with you anymore.”
To her credit, my
mother doesn’t try to stop me from leaving the room.
Thank you for the update! Can't wait for the next Monday to read the whole story. You've made me fall in love with it again - like it has happened with any otherbook you've written!
ReplyDeleteThis is so good! I can't wait for the whole book. It's amazing how real and relatable all the characters are, even in the made-up setting.
ReplyDeleteSo good. Can’t wait til the book is out. Rolling all the various scenarios that can happen at the end. You always make your characters so real & relatable
ReplyDeleteRolling around *
ReplyDeleteAww I feel so much for Edward. His wretched family be GONE. I'm just hoping for a coup d'etat led by the proletariat so he can go back to his house in the beach and make pretty, cool un-royal babies with Hannah. Can't wait for the book!!!
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