But why did Daphne even care what she did anymore? She wasn’t a threat; she was with Ethan now.
Nina sucked in a breath as comprehension dawned. “Oh my god. You’re in love with Ethan, aren’t you?”
Daphne gritted her teeth but didn’t answer, which was how Nina knew it was true.
“You’ve always loved him,” she went on, threading the pieces together. “But you wouldn’t date him, because you wanted to be a princess more than anything else. Even more than you wanted Ethan.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” the other girl spat. “You don’t know me at all.”
Nina took in Daphne, the absolute desperation of her ambition, and again felt that disgusted, hollow sort of pity.
“I feel sorry for you,” she declared. How could anyone give up a person they actually loved, to mold their entire life around someone they didn’t?
“You feel sorry for me? Who do you think you are?”
“Who do I think I am?” The sheer condescension of Daphne’s question made Nina stand up straighter. “I don’t have to think about it at all, because I know who I am! Unlike you, I am proud of where I came from, of the brilliant, hardworking parents who raised me. They may not have a title, which clearly means everything to you, but you know what? We don’t care.”
Nina took a step forward to underscore her point, and felt a grim satisfaction when Daphne flinched.
“We don’t fixate on how long our ceremonial capes are, or how high we fall in the list of the peerage,” she went on fiercely. “We care about the things that matter—integrity, honesty, kindness. We don’t look at other people and automatically think of them as our competition; we think of them as our friends.”
Nina was so deeply tired of court, with its layers of pointless and archaic protocol, its titles and precedence, its utter lack of loyalty.
“You know what, Daphne? You win. You can have all of it—Jeff, Ethan, the titles and tiaras. I don’t care. Enjoy living inside this gilded cage, being scrutinized and picked apart by every person on the planet. None of it will make you happy, since none of it will be real.”
Her eyes glinted with defiance as she moved to the door, then turned to deliver one last parting shot.
“No matter what you do, no matter how high you climb, you’ll never have anyone to share it with,” Nina said coldly. “You’ll be completely alone.”
Samantha had never been any good at waiting. But for once she was sitting as patiently as a princess should, one ankle tucked demurely behind the other the way Daphne had taught her. When security came, she wanted to greet them with some degree of dignity.
It had been a split-second decision. She’d seen the expression on Beatrice’s face at Connor’s arrival—a look of anguish, of agony—and felt a sickening wave of guilt.
She had done this, by mailing Connor’s wedding invitation.
Sam didn’t know what Beatrice would choose, but she felt certain of one thing—Beatrice needed time. Time to process the fact that Connor was here. Time to sort through the tangled knot of her feelings.
Before she could second-guess herself, Sam had sprinted up the stairs to Robert’s office and set off the emergency alarm.
She couldn’t have done this a year ago; only now that she was heir to the throne did she have the authority. The system still didn’t make it easy on her: she had to scan her fingerprints and her eyes, and provide one of the emergency security codes that Robert had so irritatingly made her memorize.
At once, steel-reinforced doors had slammed down throughout the palace—doors that couldn’t be lifted until security completed a thorough sweep of the property. Sam had done the impossible for Beatrice, and had made time stop.
Of course, the system had recorded her login; the security team would figure out soon enough that she was to blame. Until then, she would sit here in Robert’s office, waiting for them.
Sam wondered what Marshall thought about all this. Had he made it to the throne room, or had the sirens gone off while he was still wandering the halls? Were things between them ruined forever, now that he’d seen that stupid moment with Teddy?
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, Sam stood.
Robert Standish flung open the door. “You,” he snarled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry for all the confusion I caused,” Sam said carefully. The chamberlain slammed his hand against the doorway, and she gave a startled jump.
“Why the hell did you set off that alarm, today of all days?”
Sam tilted her chin upward, stubborn until the end. “I had my reasons. What are you going to do, carry me out Traitor’s Gate and send me off in exile?”
“I’m taking you to Her Majesty.”
He reached out to grab Samantha’s arm, but she recoiled. “I know how to walk,” she said coolly.
Neither of them spoke as they marched down the staircase and along the main front hallway.
All around them the great machinery of the palace was groaning back to life. Footmen and security guards brushed past, their eyes burning with curiosity when they saw the chamberlain with the princess. Even the historical figures in the oil portraits seemed to be staring. In the ballroom a string quartet were arguing in low tones; the violinist was gesturing rapidly with his bow, underscoring each word with a flourish. Sam wondered what the musicians had thought when the doors closed, locking them in the ballroom alone.
As they turned the corner, Robert broke into an almost-jog. Sam hurried to keep up, though the narrow cut of her dress constricted her steps.
And there was Beatrice, standing at the entrance to the Brides’ Room. She looked like the paper doll versions of herself that they sold at the palace gift shop: pale and crisp, as if her edges had been drawn with a very sharp pencil.
“What’s going on?” she asked, gesturing them inside.
“It was a false alarm,” Robert said tersely. Beatrice let out a relieved breath, but the chamberlain’s eyes fixed meaningfully on Samantha. “Your sister set it off.”
A beat of silence followed his proclamation: a sticky, strained silence that condensed between them like the sweat dampening Sam’s back. Sam longed to close her eyes, but forced herself to hold her sister’s gaze.
“I see,” the queen said at last.
Robert blinked, evidently startled by the calm of her reply. “Your Majesty, the princess put the safety of thousands of people at risk—”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Sam had never before seen Beatrice like this, in such full, crackling command of her authority.
“Our reputation was hurt! All those guests were sent into an unnecessary panic—not to mention what the media will say when they learn that we halted your wedding without reason. Samantha knowingly engineered a false sense of alarm,” he spluttered. “She needs to be punished!”
Beatrice looked from Samantha to Robert and back again. “You’re right. Sam should be punished,” the queen concluded, and Sam’s chest seized. “But the punishment is mine to give.”
“Your Majesty—”
“What happened today will stay between us. Robert, you’ll make a statement explaining that we received a threat and had to halt the wedding, but that you won’t be providing any details about the threat as a matter of national security. As for punishment…” Beatrice looked at Samantha, her expression unreadable. “Given that she interrupted my wedding, I will decide what my sister has to do as retribution.”
Robert blinked. “With all due respect—”
“That is a direct order,” Beatrice said smoothly.
It was clear from the set of Robert’s jaw that he violently disagreed, but he acknowledged her statement with a stiff nod.
“Your Majesty, almost two hundred of your guests have already departed, including most of the foreign royalt
y,” he went on. “No matter how much we reassure them, they claim that they no longer feel safe. The only one who hasn’t already headed to his plane is the King of Germany, and that’s because he apparently slept through the entire fiasco.”
“Who needs foreign royals anyway?” Sam asked, as brightly as she could. “Don’t we have a backup guest list? Or, wait—you could go grab two hundred people from the streets! Think of the PR opportunities!”
Robert closed his eyes and released a long-suffering breath, as if silently praying for strength.
“There’s no need for any of that. We’re postponing the wedding,” Beatrice declared.
The Lord Chamberlain nodded. “Of course, but for how long? We could wait a few hours, or I suppose we could restage everything for tomorrow morning, if you’d rather start fresh.”
The queen shook her head. “We’re postponing indefinitely.”
When Robert realized what she meant, his eyes narrowed. “Beatrice. I will not let you do this.”
“May I remind you to address Her Majesty by her proper title,” Sam chided, and he clenched his hands at his sides.
“What is your plan, Your Majesty?” he asked, sneering. “You’re going to cancel an expensive, intricately planned, global event just because you’re getting cold feet?”
Sam shot Beatrice a livid glance, desperate to interject, but Beatrice gave her head a tiny shake. And Sam realized that this was a battle her sister needed to fight for herself.
A battle that she’d needed to fight for months, but hadn’t been confident enough to, until now.
“It might be a global event, but it’s still my life,” Beatrice said quietly.
Robert’s face was mottled red with outrage. “If you fail to go through with this wedding, you will destroy your family’s legacy. After everything the monarchy has done—”
“Excuse me, everything the monarchy has done?” Sam cut in. “What part of our legacy are you defending, Robert? The colonizing? The gross human rights violations my ancestors committed in the name of expansion and progress? Slavery?” She shook her head so emphatically that her earrings danced. “You can’t possibly say that’s all fine, but, oh no, if my sister postpones a wedding, it’ll destroy the monarchy forever!”
“What could either of you know about legacy?” Robert’s tone was blistering, all trace of politeness utterly gone. He narrowed his eyes at Beatrice. “You are just a girl sitting on a throne that is far too big for you, occupying shoes you can never hope to fill!”
Beatrice stood up straighter. “I am the head of state, not just a girl in a tiara!”
Robert laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Beatrice, you are a girl in a tiara! That is precisely your job—to smile and do as you’re told and wear the tiara! But if you persist in doing this, you won’t have a tiara for very much longer. As your chamberlain, and the steward of your family’s reputation, I cannot let you go through with it.”
“About that,” Beatrice replied, with a stubborn ferocity as palpable as heat. “You’re dismissed. The Crown no longer has need of your assistance.”
Sam gasped at her sister’s pronouncement. Robert’s brows furrowed in indignation. “You can’t mean that.”
“You’re free to go pack up your things,” Beatrice repeated. “I’ll let the Undersecretary of the Household know that you’re leaving.”
“But—the wedding—”
“Is no longer your concern.”
Robert’s expression was ugly, and twisted with malice. “This country will never accept you ruling alone.”
“No, you were the one who couldn’t accept me ruling alone,” Beatrice corrected. “I’m not sure what the country is going to think, but I’m willing to give them a chance.”
Robert opened his mouth—but drew to a halt at something in the Washington women’s expressions. “Very well, then. Your Majesty.” He spat her title with utter disdain and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Oh, Bee” was all Sam could say, as Beatrice threw her arms around her and held tight.
They stood like that for a while, clinging to each other with such force that Sam couldn’t have said which of them was leaning on the other. Maybe they both were. That was what you did with family, wasn’t it? You grabbed hold of them and didn’t let go. You supported each other’s weight, held each other up, even when you lacked the strength to stand on your own.
“How did you know to pull the alarm?” Beatrice’s question was barely a whisper.
“I guessed, when I saw you and Connor.” Sam pulled back a little, so she could look into her sister’s face. “It’s my fault that he came to the wedding. I’m the one who mailed his invitation.”
She felt Beatrice stiffen.
“I went into your office to talk to you one day, and when you weren’t there, I looked through your desk. Even the secret drawer that Dad used to hide candy in,” Sam confessed. “That was how I figured out that you’d been seeing Connor. I found his invitation and I just—sent it,” she said haltingly. “I’m so sorry.”
Beatrice considered her sister’s words for a long, drawn-out moment, and then she nodded. “Don’t be sorry, Sam. I’m not.”
She looked so painfully bridal right now. Her pair of veils fell in a cascade around her, the fine net of the tulle catching shadows like water. Yet she’d just called off the wedding of the century.
“So—are you and Connor back together?”
“I told him goodbye.” Beatrice glanced down, running her palms over her ethereal shimmering skirts. “Of course, I wish his timing had been better,” she went on, with something like humor. “But I can’t be angry with Connor for fighting for me. We have so much history.”
From the way she’d pronounced history, Sam knew that Beatrice saw Connor as a figure who belonged to her past, and not her future. But…hadn’t she just called off her wedding to Teddy?
“I don’t understand,” Sam blurted out. “If you’re not choosing Teddy, then aren’t you choosing Connor?”
“I’m choosing me!”
When Beatrice turned, her eyes were lit up with a new, confident glow. Sam realized that in getting rid of Robert, Beatrice had shed a stifling and oppressive weight.
Now that she was free of him, she could step into her own power at last.
“I’m the queen. By definition, I’m different from the eleven kings who came before. But the moment I marry Teddy, I won’t be that woman anymore.”
“Even if you marry Teddy, you’ll still be queen,” Sam pointed out.
“I’ll be a queen with a king consort. Not a queen ruling on her own.” Beatrice sighed. “Dad always reminded me not to underestimate the power of symbolism. What kind of symbol would I be if the first thing I do as queen is get married?”
Her sister was right. There was little imagery as powerful as the Crown. And Beatrice, sitting on the throne, alone—that kind of image could make a real difference.
“Bee. You’re a rebel,” she said, with an incredulous smile.
Beatrice shook her head. “I fell for someone who was in Mom and Dad’s binder of approved options. And, by the way, so did you,” she added. “That’s not especially rebellious.”
Sam felt a pang of regret at the reference to Marshall. “It doesn’t matter who Teddy is. What matters is that you’re choosing not to marry him. You’re a runaway bride! I can’t wait for the made-for-TV adaptation of this,” she went on, trying to coax a smile from her sister. “As long as it doesn’t star Kelsey Brooke.”
“Runaway bride.” There was a note of fear in Beatrice’s voice, as if she’d only just processed the full extent of her decision.
Sam reached for her sister’s hand. “How can I help?”
“Actually…there is something you could do for me,” Beatrice said slowly.
“Name it.”
“Will you do the royal tour that Teddy and I were supposed to go on?”
Sam blinked. “You aren’t going on your newlywed tour?”
“As much as I’d like to spend the summer traveling, I need to stay here for a while, figure out how to actually start doing my job.” Beatrice’s eyes were bright. “Besides, I think you’re overdue for a royal tour, given that you’re my heir.”
“I doubt anyone really wants to meet with me,” Sam began, but Beatrice shook her head.
“They do, Sam. You inspire people,” she said urgently. “Not just because you’re with Marshall—though it would be nice if our family looked more like the nation we’re supposed to unify.”
Sam bit her lip but couldn’t bear to interrupt.
“The monarchy is over two centuries old, and I’m the very first woman to ever be in charge of it. The world keeps getting more diverse, but our family is changing at a snail’s pace! We can’t go on like this. If we want to survive into the next century, we’re going to have to find a way to stay relevant,” Beatrice insisted. “I need you to help forge our way forward. You’re the one who realized that I should walk down the aisle alone. You’re changing the way people view our family. You can see problems that I’m too removed to see.”
Sam shifted her weight from one foot to the other, dazed. “Are you sure I’m ready? I never finished Robert’s lessons.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Forget Robert’s lessons. The important thing is that you do exactly what a princess is meant to do.”
“Which is?”
“Help people believe in themselves.”
Sam shook her head. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Of course you do. You did it with me,” Beatrice said gently.
Sam had always thought of herself as the black sheep of her family. The one who took a perverse delight in breaking the rules, just to prove how pointless the rules were in the first place.
Was it possible that all her rebellious energy could actually be useful?
“I’ll do it,” she said hoarsely, excitement blossoming in her chest—though it was edged in regret, when she thought of Marshall.
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