The Last Princess

by Galaxy Craze

  Outside the station, the morning air was already thick with gray soot. The street felt eerily deserted. Without artificial light it was impossible for anyone to begin work until later in the morning. Our black Aston Martin was the only car on the street, though there were plenty of horses, most tethered to wagons or crude-looking carts. A few wealthier citizens who could afford to keep a pair of horses had chained them by their saddles to salvaged metal trucks. They looked awful, with wide, sad eyes and thin bodies. I thought of Jasper, well fed and free to run through the fields of Scotland, and felt guilty.

  “The drains are overflowing,” Mary complained as she stepped into the car.

  I could only nod as we pulled out and headed toward the palace. I clutched Polly’s letter in my pocket. Flooded streets were the least of our problems.

  As we entered the gates of Buckingham Palace, the guards stood to attention, saluting us, still wearing their traditional black hats and red coats with shiny brass buttons. The palace itself hadn’t really changed, though the brick-and-limestone facade was darkened from the dirty air and most of the windows had been boarded up to keep out the cold. We lived in a small section of the palace, closing off the rest to conserve light and precious heat. There was so little oil left in our tanks that we saved it for the coldest days.

  Inside the great hall of the East Wing, our father stood waiting for us, flanked by two guards holding swords. As excited as I was to see him, I stopped when I saw the guards. They had never been there before.

  “Mary, Eliza, Jamie!” our father called out in his booming voice, holding out his arms. I ran to him, burying my face in his soft sweater, breathing in his familiar spicy scent. I wanted to stay in his arms, to fall asleep there and never leave, but instead I pulled back and felt for the letter in my pocket. “Dad,” I said quietly. “I need to talk to you alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes,” I whispered in his ear. “Polly says—”

  “Eliza,” my father stopped me, his voice terse. “This is not the time.”

  He turned away from me to address Mary and Jamie in an overly happy voice. “Tell me everything about your summer! Did you swim? Ride? Did the blackberries grow this year?” He lifted Jamie in the air like an airplane as the sound of my brother’s laughter filled the hall. It was the first time I had heard him really laugh since we had left for Balmoral three months ago.

  But all too soon his laughter turned into a deep, rasping cough. My father hugged Jamie, patting his back.

  “I’m okay, Dad,” Jamie managed, trying to hold back the next coughing fit.

  “We’re getting you some medicine right now.” My father carried Jamie down the corridor toward the palace doctor, not even looking back at me and Mary. The brittle sound of our brother’s cough echoed through the hall after them.

  I reached out and took Mary’s hand in mine, forcing a smile and shoving the letter deep in my pocket.

  “Let’s go to the ballroom,” I said, “and help decorate for tonight and try on our dresses. I’ll let you do my hair and makeup however you want.” I hated getting dressed up, and Mary knew it. She smiled through her tears and squeezed my hand in response.

  “Let’s go the fun way,” she said, and we laughed as we kicked off our shoes, racing down the palace hallways, sliding in our socks on the cold marble floors.

  The ballroom had always been my favorite of all the rooms in the palace—especially the hand-painted ceiling, with its angels and fluffy clouds and shiny silver stars. When I was little I used to bring my blanket and pillow down there at night and just lie on the floor, staring up at it. I liked to imagine I was floating in the clouds, flying from star to star. After my mother died, I started to imagine it was Heaven and that I could come here to visit her.

  Balls had always been Mary’s specialty, but I did have a secret weakness for the Roses Ball. In the time before the Seventeen Days, on the day of the Roses Ball, we had fresh red and white roses delivered to the palace in great wooden cartons, hundreds and hundreds of roses, so many that the scent of them filled the whole palace and spilled out into the surrounding streets. But in the years since, we had to make do with brittle preserved roses. They had no scent and were the color of dried blood, not the fresh red color of living petals. Father and Mary insisted on them for tradition’s sake, but they were so ugly they made me want to cry. I would rather have no roses at all than these horrible dead things.

  Mary and I walked inside the ballroom, and I noticed with relief that the roses hadn’t been brought up from the cellars yet.

  Two maids, Margaret and Lucille, came toward us wearing their black-and-white uniforms. “Hello, Princess Mary, Princess Eliza. Welcome home,” they said as we gave them each a hug.

  “It looks beautiful!” Mary skipped onto the dance floor, twirling in her socks, her arms spread out like wings. “We want to help. What can we do?”

  Margaret took a long handwritten list from her apron pocket. In the past no one would have let us even see the ballroom in its preparatory stages, much less accept our help. But Margaret nodded and said, “Well, for starters, the silver needs polishing and the napkins need folding.”

  I looked up to where Rupert, our butler, stood on a high ladder, lighting each of the white candles in the enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. It had crashed to the floor during the Seventeen Days and many of the crystals were shattered, but when it was all lit up, you almost couldn’t tell.

  I looked down at the silver on the table and started polishing, while the rain danced on the frosted glass windows.

  “Princesses! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” our father teased when Mary and I walked into the dining room an hour later. He stood at the head of our massive twelve-foot dining table, raising a glass of red wine. “I’m so glad you’re able to join our celebratory lunch.”

  “What are we celebrating?” I asked quickly. My heart started to race. Had Cornelius Hollister been captured?

  My father looked baffled, his glass in the air. “We’re celebrating being together again as a family.”

  I nodded and slipped my hand in my pocket, gripping the letter, while my father drank the glass of red wine in one long sip.

  “Eliza, sweetheart. Aren’t you going to join us?”

  I glanced at Mary and Jamie, then down at the table, which had been set with my favorite china, each piece hand-painted with a different bird in red, gold, and yellow. A platter in the center contained brown bread and sliced cheese, a small pat of butter, and four bowls of broth with vegetables. The food looked delicious, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to take a bite until I showed him the letter.

  “No,” I said, hearing my voice shake. I rarely spoke up to him and even more rarely disobeyed him. He was my father, but he was also the king of England. “Dad, this is important.”

  He grunted in anger, throwing his napkin down on the table as he pushed his chair back and walked toward me. I stepped into the hallway, out of earshot of the dining room.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked roughly. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he wiped them away with his sleeve. I handed him the letter and watched as he read it, fury evident on his face.

  “Well, is it true?” I asked, unable to conceal the impatience in my voice.

  He folded the letter, following the creases that were already there. “Polly has always had a wild imagination,” he said dismissively. “Remember how she used to get you to spend hours in the woods waiting for goblins and flower fairies? Now come, the soup is getting cold.”

  I reached for his hand, grabbing his sleeve to stop him. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there any truth to what Polly wrote?”

  “Eliza,” he began, his voice low and measured. He glanced over my shoulder at Jamie and Mary at the other end of the dining room, too far away to overhear. “Let’s not talk about this now. Let’s enjoy being together again as a family.”

  “Dad! Please. I want to know.” />
  “There have been a few reported sightings of Cornelius Hollister, yes. But there is nothing to fear.” He placed his hand reassuringly on my shoulder. “We are well protected. There is no way he will ever touch our family again.”

  “But—”

  “Enough of this!”

  I stepped quickly out of the way as he stormed by. Mary and Jamie looked up from the other side of the room. “Now, come and join us for lunch,” he ordered, pulling my chair out from beneath the table.

  I stared down at the floor. A mixture of shame and anger caused my chin to quiver.

  I lifted my gaze from the rug. “I’m not hungry,” I announced, turning away. I felt my eyes fill with tears as I ran down the hallway, too proud to turn back now. I ran and ran until I reached my bedroom, where I pulled the curtains closed and curled up on my bed. Only then did I finally let myself cry. I cried for the summer without our father, for the awful note Jamie had left in his diary, for Polly’s family, for my family, for all the suffering and destruction. I cried until I finally fell asleep from exhaustion.

  A knocking sound awoke me. “Eliza?” Mary came and sat next to me on the bed. “I brought you this.” She placed a plate of food on my lap. “The ball is in an hour. You need to eat something and get dressed.”

  Mary was ready, in her deep red gown with the antique lace on the hem. Her hair was pulled back in a high braided bun, a diamond tiara set atop it. She truly looked like a princess.

  “Is Jamie okay?”

  She shook her head slowly. “He can’t come to the ball. His fever is high again and his coughing is too severe.”

  I felt so bad for Jamie; he would miss out on another piece of his life, alone in his room while the party went on below him.

  “I know you’re angry with Dad. But please try to make this a nice event. I left your dress hanging in your closet.” Mary turned to go.

  “Wait—” I asked, and she stopped in the doorway. “Will you help me get ready?”

  6

  THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED A WALTZ AS THE PROCESSION OF guests made their way through the west gallery. The state ballroom was once the largest room in all of London; even now, entering the enormous space made me feel as though I were shrinking, like Alice in Wonderland.

  Mary and I descended the grand staircase to personally welcome our guests. As tradition dictated, we stood in the main hall under the gilded ceiling, greeting each guest with a smile and a polite curtsy.

  Finally it was time for the Scottish reels, a tradition of the Roses Ball dating back to Queen Elizabeth I. Men were supposed to ask their secret loves to dance, like a valentine.

  I sank gratefully onto the white damask settee next to the very old Lady Eleanor Blume, who had nodded off with her head on her walking stick, and watched as a handsome young man approached Mary to dance. She expertly put a hand into his open palm, and they glided off into the center of the room.

  I touched the intricate embroidery on the hem of my peach-colored dress, imagining the night my parents met and thinking of their true and enduring love. I looked out at all the boys and men in the room, but I couldn’t imagine falling in love with any of them.

  “Now why would such a pretty girl be sitting all alone at the ball?” My father stood before me, freshly shaven with his dark hair combed back. “May I have this dance, my darling Eliza?”

  I glanced up at him. “I’m still mad at you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have explained what was really going on earlier in the summer. But what I said is true. I will never let anyone hurt this family again.” He held my gaze, his arm outstretched. “So may I have this dance?”

  “Dad,” I sighed. “You know I’m terrible at Scottish reels. My feet get all muddled up.”

  “I’m the king of England, and I command you to stand on my feet,” he replied, winking.

  I groaned, but stood up and took my father’s hand in mine. I placed one foot on each of his shiny black shoes.

  “You’re heavier than I remembered,” he teased.

  “This was your idea.” I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes as he struggled to move his feet beneath my weight. Finally I laughed and stepped off, my shoes touching the wooden floor as I followed his footsteps.

  My father twirled me out, then in again, making the room spin dizzily. The other dancers twirled around us, ball gowns of all colors—red, green, gold—swirling like a flock of exotic birds. I thought of the parties we used to have at the palace when my mother was still alive. Mary and I would hide behind the potted plants, sneaking desserts and whispering about whose dress was the most beautiful. If we had been watching this night, I thought, admiring the way Mary’s crushed velvet dress brought out the color in her lips and cheeks, she would have won.

  Suddenly, a shard of glass fell from the window to the floor. Then another, and another—a symphony of broken glass exploding in the air. The music stopped, and the dancers froze. My father grabbed my hand as we stared in stunned silence at the broken windows above. It seemed at first like a fantastic party trick, the shattered pieces sparkling like diamonds as they fell.

  Then there was panic and screaming. The ballroom floor was covered in shards of glass, some of them glistening wetly with blood. I knew that my arm had been cut, but I ignored it. “Mary!” I cried, pushing my way through the chaos.

  The palace guards charged in on horseback, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But as they began overturning tables and chairs, and lighting the curtains on fire, I realized with a jolt that they were not the guards who had protected me my entire life. They were impostors.

  “Mary!” I shouted again, but the room was full of screams and my cries went unheard.

  My father pushed me back to the wall. “Stay here,” he told me firmly.

  The men on horseback stampeded toward him from across the room, knocking down everyone in their path. An elderly lady moaned on the floor of the ballroom, her white hair stained with blood from a gash on her temple. I watched in terror as my father stood in front of one of the charging horses, trying to grab the reins from the rider before he trampled the old woman to death.

  “Why are you doing this?” I screamed into the room.

  A guard turned his horse on me suddenly, backing me up against the wall. “What did you say?”

  I looked up into a pair of cold blue eyes. I recognized him instantly. The bright blond hair, the gleaming white teeth—this was the face that haunted my nightmares. The man who had killed my mother. Cornelius Hollister.

  He had been watching us. Waiting. Somehow my anger overpowered my fear. If he was going to kill me, I wanted him to at least answer me first.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” I repeated, loudly and yet more calmly this time.

  He turned, looking back at his army as though searching for an answer. “Because you represent an era that must come to an end. Because while England starves, you are having a ball.” He dismounted. I willed myself not to back away as he stepped closer. He pulled his gun and held it to my chest.

  The cold metal pressed against the silk of my dress. I didn’t dare take my eyes off him. All it would take was one move of his index finger, and I would be dead.

  “I’m sorry, Princess Eliza,” he said, not sounding sorry at all as he clicked back the hammer on his pistol. I closed my eyes, body tensed, hands in tight fists, and waited for him to shoot.

  “Put the gun down now.” It was my father’s voice. He stood utterly still, aiming a golden, pencil-thin revolver at Cornelius Hollister. Without warning, he pulled the trigger.

  As if in slow motion, the bullet hit Hollister’s vest, making a pinging sound as it fell to the floor. I stared in confusion at the useless bullet, lying there like a lost penny. Hollister was unharmed. In that moment of distraction, my father ran to me. I felt for one last, brief moment the safety of his arms. Then Hollister looked up, his cold blue eyes narrowed to angry slits.

  “No!” I screamed as he pulled the trigger. The
bullet entered through my father’s back and exited through his chest. He fell to the floor, his body going limp.

  “Dad!” I cried, pressing my hands helplessly against the flower of blood already staining his white tuxedo shirt.

  “I-I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice trembling. He tried to reach for me, but his hand dropped to his side and his body went still. I knew in that moment my father was gone.

  Everything around me, the chaos, the noise, the fighting, all fell away as I stared at him in numb disbelief. A pair of hands was gripping my shoulders, pulling me up, away from him, and I tried to shake them off.

  “Eliza! Come on!” Mary’s voice awoke me from my trance. She deftly wove a path through the confusion, pulling me to the hidden servant’s doorway beneath the back stairs.

  As we ran for our lives through the hail of bullets flying around the ballroom, I risked glancing backward one last time. The body of our father lay still, his blood as red as the roses strewn across the floor.

  7

  MARY FUMBLED WITH THE LATCH TO THE SERVANTS’ STAIR, HER hands shaking. I covered my ears, trying to block out the screams, the sound of gunfire, the crashing of horses’ hooves. Finally she yanked the door open and rushed inside, pulling me sharply behind her.

  I followed her up the narrow stair, clutching my gown so I wouldn’t trip. Mary moved with purpose, her quick, sure steps conveying what I refused to face: She was now the queen of England.

  At the top of the stairs we came to a long corridor with Persian rugs and dark wooden moldings, where a row of shaded candles illuminated our way. Somewhere in the great maze of halls I imagined I could hear Hollister’s army approaching.