Majesty

by Katharine McGee

  No, Nina thought plaintively, she couldn’t just give Daphne a try. She didn’t want to be anywhere near that girl.

  “If Daphne is coming, I should get going,” Nina said, rising awkwardly to her feet. “I—next time I come over, I’ll call first.”

  “Please. You don’t need to call,” Sam scoffed, but Nina didn’t match her smile.

  Sam had been wrong, when she said that nothing could come between them.

  If anyone could, it would be Daphne Deighton.

  Daphne waited for Samantha at the entrance to the Brides’ Room: a small room on the ground floor of the palace, near the ballroom. She glanced down at her phone, her pulse skipping when she saw she had a new text—but it wasn’t from Himari.

  We need to talk, Ethan had written.

  Tomorrow afternoon, meet me at the alley, Daphne typed back, and let her phone fall into her purse. Of course Ethan was upset about what she’d done—but Daphne knew she could handle him. Himari’s continued silence was a far more ominous problem.

  She would just have to worry about Himari later. Right now Daphne was due to meet with Samantha, for…what, a class on likeability? A remedial princess lesson?

  They’d been texting since that morning at the Patriot but hadn’t found a time to meet until now. Daphne wondered if Samantha felt oddly self-conscious about her request, if she’d been delaying the inevitable because part of her wanted to back out of the whole thing.

  The two of them had never really hung out like this. They’d been around each other for years, thanks to Jefferson, but Samantha hadn’t exactly warmed up to Daphne. Daphne always had a sense that the princess could see right through her.

  Well, today was a chance to change all that, and win Samantha to her side. Besides, Daphne never turned down an excuse to get inside the palace.

  Samantha appeared at the other end of the hall. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Nina was just here.”

  Daphne murmured that it wasn’t a problem, even as her mind raced at the news. Natasha should have called Jefferson this morning—had Nina come to find him and apologize? Or was she really just at the palace to see Samantha?

  The princess tried the handle of the Brides’ Room, but the door was locked. She sighed. “Want to go upstairs? My sitting room is more comfortable anyway.”

  Daphne shook her head. “You need to practice in front of a mirror.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can see yourself,” Daphne replied, in a slightly impatient tone. Samantha should have known how this worked; she’d been born to it.

  Unlike Daphne, who’d taught herself everything she knew. She’d read every etiquette manual she could find, had spent years paying close attention to what Beatrice and Queen Adelaide did. Daphne had mastered her curtsy the way ballerinas learned to dance—by practicing with Velcro gym weights strapped around her ankles.

  “So that I can see myself doing what, smiling and waving?” Samantha demanded. “Please tell me you’re not going to make me walk around with a stack of books on my head.”

  “The stack of books is an advanced move,” Daphne heard herself snap, with a touch of sarcasm. “Let’s get through the basics first.”

  “Fair enough.” There was a self-deprecating, amused note in the princess’s voice that, oddly, softened Daphne’s irritation.

  Samantha went to find a butler. When he unlocked the door for them, Daphne saw at once why it had been shut.

  On a seamstress’s table in the corner sat the Winslow tiara, the one that Beatrice had always worn as Princess Royal, surrounded by several bolts of lace. It looked like someone had been comparing options for the queen’s veil, only to pause halfway through the task.

  “Don’t touch anything,” the butler admonished, before pulling the door shut behind him.

  Samantha plopped down onto the love seat. It was the only furniture in the room aside from the seamstress’s table, and the massive three-fold mirror against the back wall.

  When Daphne was a child, she used to sneak up to her parents’ room when they weren’t home. Their closet doors had full-length mirrors on them, and if she opened both doors at an angle and stood in the middle, it reflected her a million times over.

  Daphne had loved it. There was something heady about walking up to the mirror as a single person, only to find that when you stood a certain way, you were multiplied into an army.

  She kept her eyes directed toward the mirror so Samantha wouldn’t catch her stealing glances at the Winslow tiara. But the light kept catching on its filigreed knot of diamonds, each of them burning like a small star.

  Daphne had never touched a tiara before. Either your family owned one, handed one down through the generations, like the Kerrs or the Astors or the Fitzroys—or they didn’t. The Deightons, of course, were tiara-less.

  She headed to the love seat and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she moved. Next to her, Samantha was subtly copying her movements. Their gazes met in the mirror, and the princess flushed.

  “Sorry,” Samantha muttered. “I mean—this whole thing is kind of weird.”

  “First of all, a princess never acknowledges when something is weird. She just suffers silently through the weirdness without pointing it out,” Daphne admonished.

  “Oh my god, who told you that?”

  “I read it in an etiquette book. Probably the same one you were supposed to read years ago, but never got around to.”

  Sam shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it, just as the door swung inward.

  “Sam? I heard you were in here—” Jefferson broke off at the sight of Daphne. “Oh, hey, Daphne. What are you guys up to?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Samantha said automatically, but Daphne heard the note of concern beneath. The princess was clearly worried about her brother.

  Jefferson leaned an elbow against the doorway. “I was thinking we could get a group together and go to Phil’s later. They have that new DJ in from London. I already invited JT and Rohan,” he added, pointedly leaving out Ethan’s name.

  Samantha nodded. “Works for me.”

  The prince turned to Daphne. “You’ll come too, right?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, gratified that events were playing out exactly as she’d planned.

  She had done this: by passing that scoop to Natasha, and insisting that the reporter call Jefferson directly with the news. In one fell swoop, she’d robbed Jefferson of two of the people he’d trusted most.

  And the more isolated he felt, the easier it would be for Daphne to win him back. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d betrayed him.

  Jefferson mumbled a goodbye, and Daphne turned back to his sister. “So. Where should we begin?”

  “No idea.” Samantha shook her head. “This is probably why everyone thinks I’m useless at being the spare.”

  “Actually, you were pretty good at being the spare. But you’re the heir now, and that’s what’s causing you problems.” When Sam shot her a puzzled look, Daphne tried to explain. “Being the spare is all about being a foil to the heir.”

  “Are you saying that when I act out, it’s a good thing, because it makes Beatrice look better by comparison?”

  “I’m saying that when you were the spare, you existed as a counterpoint to your sister. Don’t you know that Beatrice is at her most likeable when she’s in interviews with you and Jefferson? When she’s alone she can come off too…rehearsed, and a little stiff,” Daphne said delicately. “But when she’s with you two, like in those fireside chats your family always does around the holidays, America sees another side of her.”

  Samantha blinked, as if she’d never thought of that. “Except now everything’s changed,” she muttered. “Jeff is the spare, and I’m the heir.”

  “Well, yes. Those are different roles. You haven’t been trained as first in line—
and, really, you shouldn’t have needed to be,” Daphne added softly.

  If the succession had proceeded on a happier timeline—if the king had never gotten cancer, had lived another thirty years—Beatrice would have been succeeded by her own children, not by her sister.

  No child who grew up second in line for the throne should ever become first in line. If they did, it meant that something had gone horribly, tragically wrong.

  “Let’s do a little practice talking to reporters. Here, I’ll give you an easy one,” Daphne said briskly. “How does it feel, being the maid of honor for your sister’s wedding?”

  “It’ll be fun,” Sam offered.

  Daphne tilted her head expectantly, waiting for Sam to say something else. When she didn’t, Daphne groaned. “That’s it? ‘It’ll be fun’?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What on earth is a reporter supposed to do with three words? Samantha, you have to give them something they can use.”

  “I could have said something much worse,” the princess observed, and Daphne let out a breath.

  “Here’s the thing about reporters. All they want is to write a story that will make them money. While you want them to write a story that’s flattering.” Daphne had figured that out long ago; it was why she and Natasha got along so well. “Your job is to make those goals one and the same. If you can give them a story that makes you look good and sells copies, they have no reason to attack you.”

  “Maybe,” Samantha said, unconvinced. “But they’re pretty attached to the party princess version of me. I doubt they’re going to start giving me positive coverage anytime soon.”

  “They definitely won’t give you positive coverage if all you’re willing to tell them is ‘It’ll be fun.’ ” Daphne smiled. “All you have to do is be a little bit…softer, create a temporary moment of intimacy. Pretend you’re excited to be talking to them.”

  “I’m sick of pretending. There’s too much pretending in my family as it is.”

  Daphne’s ears pricked up at that. She tried not to sound too eager as she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone keeps pretending that they’re fine when they’re not,” Samantha said helplessly. “We’re all smiling and waving for the cameras, planning this enormous fairy-tale wedding as if it can somehow make everyone forget we had a funeral earlier this year. My mom is pretending that nothing bad ever happened to us, and I’m pretending with Marshall, and Beatrice is pretending most of all! She doesn’t even love Teddy; she loves—”

  Samantha broke off, shaking her head. “I just don’t see the point. Why are we trying to convince everyone that things are great, when they so obviously aren’t?”

  Daphne’s mind was whirling. What had Samantha meant, when she said she was pretending with Marshall? Did she not actually like him? But what other reason could she have for dating him?

  She realized that Samantha was still staring at her expectantly, and hurried to reply. “The monarchy is all about pretending. When the world feels like it’s falling apart, your family is supposed to paper over the cracks, and reassure people that it isn’t.”

  Samantha seemed almost sad as she replied, “It sounds impossible.”

  “Exactly. That’s why being a princess is so hard,” Daphne said reasonably. “If it were easy, everyone would do it.”

  * * *

  The next day when the final bell rang, Daphne didn’t follow the stream of students out into the parking lot. She waited for a few minutes, then turned into the alley—the narrow strip of grass between the campus of St. Ursula’s and its brother school, Forsythe. She and Himari used to come out here during their study hall sometimes, when they were supposed to be in the library doing homework. But it was so much more fun sneaking out to watch the boys’ sports practice instead.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her, and Daphne’s blood spiked with adrenaline. She whirled around to see Ethan coming toward her.

  “Ethan,” she said gratefully, “I’m so glad you wanted to meet up. You’ll never believe what happened.”

  “You mean, how you completely betrayed me?”

  Just as she’d suspected, he knew what she’d done. Daphne hesitated, then forged ahead, her voice threaded with fear. “Listen—Himari remembered everything. Now she hates me. She accused me of trying to kill her!”

  She waited for Ethan to tell her that it was okay, that they would figure out how to handle Himari, together. But his features were as unreadable as stone.

  “Daphne—I don’t care what’s going on with Himari,” he told her. “I texted you because I want to know why the hell you tipped off a reporter about me and Nina. Don’t bother denying it,” he added swiftly.

  Daphne took a step closer to the protective shelter of the building, angling herself behind a massive blue recycling bin, even though no one was around. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” she offered. “On the bright side, now you can call off the whole thing.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to keep pretending to like Nina.” She shuddered. “I’m impressed you were able to keep it going for as long as you did. Don’t worry, I consider your end of the bargain fully complete.”

  Ethan stared at her blankly. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course,” she assured him. “I’m a woman of my word. It might take a while, but I’ll make sure you get your title.” She paused, tilting her head in consideration. “Maybe one of the vacant ones from the Edwardian era, like Earl of Tanglewood?”

  Ethan just stared at her, shaking his head slowly. He’d stuffed his hands into his jeans, but Daphne could see that inside the pockets they were curled into fists. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I don’t—”

  “You honestly thought I was angry because I was worried about our stupid bargain?” he asked. “My best friend won’t speak to me!”

  Neither will mine, Daphne thought, shoving aside her sudden guilt. “I’m sorry that Jefferson is angry with you, but it had to be done.”

  “Oh, ‘it had to be done’?” he repeated. “Daphne, some of us actually want to keep our best friends, not push them down staircases!”

  That was a low blow. But of course Ethan knew exactly how to hurt her, because he knew her so well. Because he was just as dishonorable and selfish and ruthless as she was. Which was why he would understand, eventually. He would have done the exact same thing if their circumstances were reversed.

  “Jefferson will come around, I swear,” she said earnestly. “Especially after you break up with Nina.”

  Daphne had known, when she’d planted that story with Natasha, that it would drive the prince and his best friend apart. The best plans always left the most damage in their wake.

  She hadn’t wanted to hurt Ethan, but what other option did she have? And it wouldn’t be forever. Later—after Jefferson had asked her to the wedding, when she was more secure in her position—she would make it right, and convince Jefferson to forgive Ethan. She could convince Jefferson of anything, once they were back together.

  Eventually, when they were all friends again, Ethan would see that she’d done what was best for both of them. Things between her and Ethan would be just like before: the two of them scheming and social climbing in tandem, looking out for each other’s interests. Except this time, she would be a princess and Ethan an earl. This time, they would have real power to wield.

  She looked up at Ethan, but he was staring at her with evident disgust. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said heavily. “Unlike you, Nina is a good person.”

  “What are you saying?” Daphne demanded, over the strange twisting in her gut.

  “I’m saying that I won’t hurt Nina just because you want me to.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I realize this may come as a shock, given that the rest of America is always telling
you how spectacular you are, but not everything is about you.”

  Daphne stumbled back a step. Her heel caught on the gravel, sending pebbles flying every which way. Ethan instinctively held out a hand, steadying her.

  She brushed him aside, trying to regain some semblance of her dignity.

  “Of course it’s about me. I asked you to date her in the first place,” she reminded him.

  They both flinched at the sound of a door opening, but it was just a custodian setting a bag of garbage outside the opposite door. Music blared from his headphones, and he didn’t even notice them.

  When the door shut behind him again, Ethan sighed. “I can’t handle your games anymore, Daphne. You never play fair.”

  “I play to win.” The words were a reflex, spoken with half a thought.

  Ordinarily Ethan might have smiled at that. But now he just looked at her steadily, his dark eyes heavy with fatigue—and resentment.

  “Whatever you’re planning, leave me out of it.”

  They stood there for a long moment, their heartbeats chasing each other.

  “Fine, then. You can get your title from someone else,” Daphne declared.

  Her head held high, she walked away from Ethan as serenely as if she were leaving a palace reception. It wasn’t until she was back in the parking lot that Daphne let her steps slow, then slumped wearily against her car door.

  It didn’t matter; she could do this on her own. She didn’t need Ethan.

  She was Daphne Deighton, and she had never needed anyone except herself.

  “Jeff?” Sam called out, as she walked around the palace’s garage. She’d checked her brother’s bedroom first, but when he wasn’t there, she’d asked Caleb to radio Jeff’s Guard, Matt, and find out where he’d gone. She’d been surprised to learn he was shooting hoops at the old basketball net their dad had installed when they were kids.

  The sky was a cloudless blue, the air bright with the promise of summer. Sam pulled her sunglasses lower over her face. Up ahead, she heard the steady thump of the ball against the pavement. She turned the corner, and paused when she saw that Jeff wasn’t playing against Matt, as she’d thought.