Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  “Look at this one!” Her mother brandished the tablet before her like a weapon, her face red with disappointment. “ ‘Party Princess Pool Porno.’ ”

  “That’s bad alliteration. I expect better from the Daily News,” Sam replied, with more levity than she felt. Robert let out an aggrieved sigh.

  “Samantha!” Adelaide slammed her fist on her desk, startling all of them. Even the dust motes that floated in the morning sunlight seemed to jump at the noise. “What were you thinking, letting yourself get caught half-naked like this?”

  “I was fully clothed!” At least, technically speaking. “Besides, we were only kissing. You know we have plenty of ancestors who did worse—people who had flagrant affairs with ladies-in-waiting or gentlemen of the bedchamber. And they were married!”

  “Yes, but they weren’t stupid enough to get photographed.” Her mom slid the tablet forward in disgust.

  “Only because photography hadn’t been invented yet.”

  Sam’s eyes flicked to the hundreds of comments cluttering the space below the article. The headlines might have been focused on Sam, but she saw with a sinking feeling that far more of the comments were about Marshall than about her. Some were so overtly racist that they made her stomach turn.

  Marshall had been right when he said that he would take the heat for their relationship, not Sam.

  Queen Adelaide ground her teeth. “What on earth possessed you to let your guests keep their phones? You know better than to trust a group of that size. Especially if you were planning on kissing Marshall Davis, of all people!”

  “What do you have against Marshall?” Sam thought of those comments and drew in a slow, horrified breath. “Is it because he’s Black?”

  She saw a fleeting expression of agreement on Robert Standish’s face, and wished she could slap it right off him.

  “Samantha. Of course not,” her mother replied, startled and clearly hurt. “It’s his reputation I’m worried about. He’s too wild and reckless. And he’s always partying with celebrities,” she added, with a touch of disdain. Adelaide had never understood people who chose to live in the spotlight, when the Washingtons only did so out of a sense of duty.

  Sam scowled. “If you disapprove of him, then why did you put him on the list of potential husbands for Beatrice?”

  “Partying aside, Marshall is a very eligible young man. Orange is one of the wealthiest and most populous duchies in the nation. And you know the monarchy has never tracked as well in West Coast popularity polls,” her mom said matter-of-factly. “It would’ve been a smart move, bringing someone from Orange into the royal family.” She sighed. “But I never really expected Beatrice to fall for Marshall. It was pretty clear to everyone that their personalities wouldn’t mesh.”

  Sam clenched the carved armrests of her chair. “I guess this means you want me to stop seeing him?” She strove for nonchalance, but the ragged edge to her voice betrayed her.

  Robert cleared his throat, a soft “hem-hem” that grated on Sam’s nerves. “On the contrary,” he replied, speaking up for the first time. “We’ve consulted with the PR teams, and decided the best approach is to accelerate the relationship between you and His Lordship. It will help us spin this not as a scandal, but as a gross intrusion upon the privacy of two young people in love.”

  “You…what?”

  “The only way to salvage this situation is to double down on your relationship.”

  Sam’s mind careened back to last night—to that stupid, ill-advised performance of a kiss. Why had she ever thought this was a good idea?

  “His Lordship will remain in the capital,” Robert was saying. “You’ll do a few joint appearances; have dinner at high-profile restaurants, the type of places where people will sneak photos of you and post them all over the internet. There will be no more public displays of affection beyond hand-holding,” he added sternly. “And then, next month, you’ll go to Orange for their annual Accession Day festivities. Her Majesty will be attending as well, since it’s the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Orange joining the union.”

  Sam ran a hand through her hair; it was still frizzy, and smelled of chlorine. “The thing is, Marshall and I only just started dating. I can’t turn it into a serious relationship overnight.”

  “But I can,” Queen Adelaide said firmly. “I just got off the phone with Marshall’s grandfather, the duke. He was as distressed about these photos as I was. It’s all settled.” She nodded crisply, as if to say, That’s that.

  “I don’t know if Marshall will want me in Orange with him….” They may have agreed to act like boyfriend and girlfriend until the wedding, but Sam wasn’t sure how Marshall would feel now that their families were stage-managing their relationship.

  “I believe he’ll agree once his grandfather speaks to him.”

  Sam heard the meaning beneath Robert’s words. Your feelings on this matter are immaterial. You are both going to do as you’re told, for the good of the Crown.

  “We can’t afford any more negative publicity,” he added. “Your relationship with His Lordship needs to go smoothly—at least until the wedding. Afterward, you’re free to break up, of course.” He gave a narrow smile. “We’ll just release a statement that things didn’t work out, but you’re still friends.”

  Robert clearly assumed her relationship with Marshall wouldn’t last. Sam hated that she would prove him right.

  “Fine, I’ll make sure we stay together through the wedding. God forbid anything overshadow Beatrice’s big moment,” she said sarcastically.

  Her mom’s eyes flashed. “Samantha, Beatrice never baited the press like you did last night.”

  “Sorry I’m not as perfect as she is,” Sam snapped.

  “Perfect?” her mom repeated. “All I’m asking for is acceptable. Daphne Deighton didn’t grow up in a palace, but she has a better understanding of appropriate behavior than you do!”

  “Then maybe I should get Daphne to teach me how to be a princess!”

  Queen Adelaide pursed her lips. When she finally spoke, her words were cold and without inflection. “I expected better of you, Sam. And you know who else did? Your father. He would have been appalled by your behavior last night.”

  Sam stood up, scraping the chair so violently on the floor that it nearly tipped over. “Well then, sorry I’m such an epic failure.”

  It was immature, but she couldn’t resist slamming the door behind her as she stormed out of her mom’s study. The hallway’s crystal light fixtures swayed in response, shards of light shuddering wildly over the walls.

  How would her dad have reacted, if he were here right now?

  Hey, kiddo. I love you, he would have murmured, the moment she walked into his office. Do you want to tell me what happened?

  He would have let her explain, never interrupting or condescending. Even when Sam was young he’d always made time for her, listened to her childish concerns with utter seriousness. Then, instead of dictating terms, he would have asked, “How do you think we can fix it?” And they would have come up with a solution together.

  It wasn’t fair of her mom to claim that he would’ve been ashamed of Sam—to use him as a weapon to win a fight.

  But then, it really wasn’t fair that they had lost him at all.

  If only Sam could go back in time, request a do-over, push some cosmic PLAY AGAIN button like in a video game. She would do everything differently. She wouldn’t act out to get attention, wouldn’t waste time on Teddy. Most of all, she would tell her dad how much she loved him.

  Sam didn’t even bother alerting security to her departure. As she swept out the palace’s front gates, she heard the guards’ startled protests, their radio messages back toward headquarters about a princess on the loose. To his credit, her Revere Guard, Caleb, only asked once where they were going. When she didn’t answer, he just kept walking
doggedly alongside her.

  On the streets, a few tourists squealed at her sudden appearance, or turned to each other and whispered, “Look, there she is! Can you believe it, after last night?” They cried out her name, shoving their phones forward to snap photos of her. Sam flashed them a peace sign as she turned the corner onto Rotten Road—route du roi, it had been called in Queen Thérèse’s time, “the king’s route,” which had somehow devolved in English into rotten.

  Past an enormous trash bin was a door that read THE MONMOUTH HOTEL: STAFF ENTRANCE.

  The Washington twins had been coming to the Patriot—the cozy, unassuming taproom at the back of the boutique hotel—since they were sixteen: always walking in this way, through the back. They loved it here. The atmosphere was casual enough that no one ever bothered them, and if they drank too much they could, literally, stumble around the corner home. One time when she’d stayed out past curfew, Sam had tried to climb the palace’s outer wall to sneak back in. She’d ended up with bruises on her butt for weeks.

  She cast a quick glance around the room, with its dark-paneled walls and scattered knickknacks: an old American flag behind glass; a set of beer caps arranged in the shape of the royal crest; a Revolutionary War sword, mounted firmly to the wall in case anyone tried, unadvisedly, to use it.

  The bar was nearly empty right now, just a few hotel guests reading newspapers, which made sense given that it was barely noon. The brunch crowd were all in the glamorous dining room at the front of the restaurant—though Sam and Jeff had long ago convinced the bartender to let them order brunch back here, in the peace and quiet.

  With uncharacteristic nervousness, Sam took a seat and pulled out her phone. Her screen was lit up with dozens of messages. She swiped past most of them, zeroing in on her thread with Marshall.

  7:08 a.m.: Hey, are you okay?

  An unfamiliar warmth blossomed in her chest. No one except Jeff and Nina ever checked in on her like this.

  Sam knew it was her fault. She kept people at a distance, held them back with her breezy attitude and her attention-seeking clothes and her repeated insistence that she didn’t need any help, thank you very much. And then Marshall had come along, and had somehow seen her barricade for what it was—because he’d built one of his own, too.

  Her breath oddly shaky, she tapped out a reply. I’m so sorry about everything.

  His response was immediate. I’m the one who should apologize. I pushed you in the pool, after all.

  I’m still sorry. People said some really ugly things about you in the comments. Sam hesitated, her fingers paused over the screen, then added, Have you talked to your family?

  There was a long pause, as if Marshall was debating what to tell her. There are some protesters outside Rory’s apartment. But the police are already clearing them out, he added quickly. It’s nothing she hasn’t handled before.

  It made Sam slightly nauseous that Marshall’s family took this kind of vitriol as a given. She wanted to scream at all those anonymous people, logging on to their computers and writing nasty comments simply because they liked being hateful.

  Sam swiped at her phone to pull up a gossip site, and stared again at the photos—at how her tanned, freckled arms looked next to Marshall’s brown ones. Underneath that skin they were the same, a frame of bones supporting a tangle of nerves and muscles and a steadily beating heart. It seemed ridiculous that anyone should care what color wrapped around it all.

  She wished she knew how to make things better. Except…maybe, in some small way, she and Marshall were doing just that.

  If they kept up this relationship, the entire world would see Marshall in a place of honor at a royal wedding: dancing the opening song, standing next to the Washingtons in official photos. Sam was aware how powerful that kind of imagery could be—maybe even powerful enough to change the national discourse.

  But at what cost to Marshall and his family?

  I’ll understand if you want to call the whole thing off, she forced herself to write, pulling her lip into her teeth.

  Nope. The media attention sucks, but it’s worth it.

  Sam’s heart gave a strange lurch. She began tapping at the screen, but before she could reply, another text appeared from Marshall.

  Kelsey texted this morning. Your plan was genius.

  She leaned back on the barstool to catch her breath. Right. This was all just for show.

  Of course I’m a genius, she managed, striving to match his irreverence. Btw, next time we make out, can we face the other way? I want to make sure the photos get my good side.

  Sam stared at her phone, but there was no immediate answer. She turned it over, shoved it away from her, leaned her chin in her hand, then impatiently flipped it back over. The three little dots of the typing bubble had appeared on Marshall’s side of the conversation.

  Sure, he replied. Lucky for you, both my sides are gorgeous.

  Sam sent an eye-roll emoji, then tossed her phone forcefully into her bag.

  Her eyes caught on a girl sitting across the bar, in sunglasses and a green dress with wispy sleeves. She’d hunched her shoulders forward, deflecting attention, though no one seemed to pay her any mind.

  “Daphne?”

  The other girl removed her sunglasses with obvious reluctance. “Hey, Samantha,” she said, and glanced down at her phone.

  “You’re waiting for someone,” Sam realized. Of course, girls like Daphne didn’t sit at the bar of the Patriot alone. The way Sam did.

  “No. I mean, I was waiting for someone, but he probably isn’t coming.”

  “It was Jeff, wasn’t it?” When Daphne didn’t answer, Sam knew she’d guessed right. “Hey, if it helps, I guarantee he’s not in any shape to be out right now. Not that I’m doing much better.”

  To her surprise, Daphne made a strange spluttering sound that was almost a laugh. “I should have known not to make plans with your brother the morning after one of your parties.”

  “In that case, want to join me?”

  Sam didn’t know what had prompted her to ask. It felt like a violation of her friendship with Nina to sit here with Jeff’s other ex-girlfriend. Although…just last night, Nina had insisted that she liked Ethan.

  And right now, Daphne didn’t seem like her usual shiny, perfect self. She seemed as disappointed at being stood up as any other girl, and Sam liked her the more for it.

  “All right.” Daphne slid down from her barstool and moved to the one by Sam. She crossed her ankles, her hands folded in her lap, the way photographers always asked Sam to sit for her formal portraits. Actually, it looked quite regal.

  The bartender came over, his smile carefully polite. He was far too professional to reveal that he knew who they were, or that Sam had been all over the headlines that morning. “What can I get for you ladies?”

  “Coffee,” Sam groaned just as Daphne murmured, “A cappuccino, please, extra dry.”

  When the bartender turned aside, Sam glanced curiously at Daphne. “So, I saw you talking to Jeff at the party.”

  “For a while,” Daphne said carefully.

  “Are you guys getting back together?”

  “I don’t know.” Now Daphne was the one looking meaningfully at Sam. “I mean, I keep wondering if Nina is still in the picture…”

  So, Daphne was fishing for information. Sam hesitated, feeling suddenly protective of her best friend. She wasn’t about to tell Nina’s secret—but she also didn’t want it to seem like Nina had been waiting around all these months, pining uselessly for Jeff.

  “Actually, Nina has moved on,” she said carefully. “She’s into a guy at school.”

  There was a funny note in Daphne’s voice as she replied, “Oh, you mean Ethan?”

  Sam was too hungover, and too confused, to hide her surprise. “How did…”

  “I saw them together las
t night,” Daphne said easily, and Sam nodded. She hadn’t realized things with Nina and Ethan had worked out, and in such a public way that Daphne had seen them. Then again, Sam had been pretty distracted toward the end of the party.

  The bartender returned to deliver their coffees. Sam was too impatient to wait for cream or sugar; she immediately took a sip. But the coffee’s bitter heat did nothing to settle her nerves.

  “How do you handle the press?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, obviously you never ended up in photos like mine. But still…you never seem bothered by the media.”

  “Oh, they bother me plenty.” Daphne stirred a sugar packet into her cappuccino, then delicately tapped her spoon against the side of the cup. “You think it was fun for me last summer? The paparazzi chased me for weeks after your brother broke up with me, trying to get a picture of me crying. It took every ounce of my self-control to ignore them.”

  Sam felt suddenly guilty that she’d never considered Daphne’s feelings once, not during the entire time Jeff had dated her. It was just…Daphne hid her emotions so well—the way Beatrice did, the way Sam was supposed to do—that it usually seemed like she didn’t have any at all.

  A curious silence fell between them. Sam thought back to this morning’s confrontation with her mom. Suddenly, amid all the insults and sharp words, one sentence stood out. Then maybe I should get Daphne to teach me how to be a princess!

  “Would you help me?” She spoke without thinking, the way she always did.

  “Help you?” Daphne gave a puzzled frown.

  “Teach me how to handle the press, to be more likeable. You know you’re better at it than I am.”

  Daphne seemed surprised by the request—and, really, so was Sam. But where else could she go for help? It wasn’t as if she could search How to be a good princess on the internet.

  Daphne gave a slow nod. “Sure, I’ll help.”

  They both looked up as another figure burst through the back door of the Patriot: Jeff, wearing his favorite state championship rowing shirt and khaki shorts, his hair still mussed from sleep. When he saw Daphne and Sam sitting together, his expression shifted from puzzled disbelief to a sudden, boisterous delight.