“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” King Edric demanded, glaring at his son.
“No,” Finn replied, voice free of inflection or emotion. Like he had no feelings at all, though just an hour earlier he had been feeling quite a lot of Brinley.
“Here’s what the press is saying.” Everyone jumped a little at the words, made even more unpleasant when uttered by Charles, her father’s secretary. His shiny bald head and nasally voice were things Brinley saw and heard in her nightmares, but he had been her father’s lackey for more than twenty years and could not be banished, despite her most fervent wishes.
He cleared his throat and began to read from the screen, relishing his role as snide narrator. “Princess Elle Vida’s shocking abdication of the throne was a mystery many thought would remain unsolved, but tonight’s scandalizing photographs offer an undeniable answer: after discovering her younger sister’s affair with her betrothed, Princess Elle fled the country in a frantic attempt to repair her broken heart and shattered trust.”
Brinley sat up straight. “That’s not true—”
He clicked to another headline and ignored her protest. “Everyone knows Brinley Cantrella can never fill her sister’s size six shoes, so perhaps she considered this tasteless affair the next best thing.”
“She does not wear a size six—”
Another click and another article. “In a last-ditch effort to salvage the centuries-old Estau-Lenora forestry agreement with the neighboring kingdom of Bellida, Prince Finian threw himself at the mercy of Princess Brinley Cantrella—in more salacious ways than anyone could have imagined...”
“Enough!” King Luke finally shouted. His cheeks were flushed, though whether with outrage or discomfort at his daughter’s indiscretion, she would never know. She had seen the expression so many times that she was pretty sure it was one and the same at this point.
“Is no one interested in the truth?” Brinley ventured, when “enough” quieted the room for an unbearably long time. “It was—”
“The truth is irrelevant,” Queen Vivienne interrupted, her voice level. Brinley’s parents loved her and did their best by her, but there was no one in the kingdom who believed they had ever loved her as much as they had Elle. Their love for Brinley was borne of duty and obligation, and the queen looked at her now with the same strained patience she so often had. “People will believe what they want. They will believe the worst.”
“It’s not like you haven’t given them plenty of reason,” King Edric added. Then, when the queen gave him a glare that would fell a rhinoceros, he reluctantly amended, “Both of you. You have both have given them reason.”
“Yes,” King Luke murmured, suddenly thoughtful. He stroked his goatee, and if not for his inherent goodness and fairness, it would have looked very much like the act of an evil villain. “A reason. The forestry contract.”
Brinley gritted her teeth. No one outside of Bellida would ever wish to extend the antiquated agreement that saw the landlocked kingdoms of Estau and Lenora export half their timber to Bellida in exchange for access to its waterways. Time and technology had allowed the countries to develop their own over-land routes, and while Lenora benefited more from the deal because they were located closer to the waterways, there was no longer any need for Estau to honor a deal that brought so little benefit to the country. Still, the kingdoms were steeped in tradition, and Finn’s older brother had recently wed the first-born princess of Bellida to secure Lenora’s role in the pact, and Finn and Elle had been expected to do the same for Estau.
Until she ran away.
“The first papers have already been distributed in North America,” Charles announced, looking a little too smug for anyone’s liking. “This photo is the front page.” Even more smugly, he turned the computer monitor so everyone could be reminded of exactly what the undeniably scandalizing—and full color—photograph looked like.
“An Act of Desperation...or Passion?” screamed the headline, silent but deafening all the same.
“That’s it,” King Luke said, carefully keeping his back to the photo. “Everyone enjoys a scandal, but more than that they appreciate a good love story. If we let the press tell the tale it will become seedy, but if we move fast, we can control the narrative.”
Brinley glanced at Finn, who managed to look stoic, but also confused. Stoically confused. Brinley was also confused, but more alarmed than anything.
“What are you saying?” The question was for her father, but she looked at her mother, who was unable to meet her eye.
“I’m telling you,” King Luke began, emphasis on the tell. “That the world has now seen what should have been obvious all along. You two have hidden your feelings for each other for years, and tonight the secret came to light.”
“But we haven’t—”
“I know that,” he said sharply. “We all know that. A royal marriage is not based on feelings, Brinley. Love is a byproduct of duty, and perhaps you will one day learn what both of those things are.” He could not quite hide the doubtful look he shot at Finn, as though he knew it would be impossible for such a perfect prince to love such a bad princess, no matter how honor and duty-bound that man was.
“But the world does not need to know what happens inside the castle walls,” he continued, forcing Brinley to bite her tongue to stop from pointing out that if he had not allowed tours, they would actually not know what happened inside the castle walls. “And as far as they are concerned, the secret is out, your love is very much real, and we will replace this embarrassing story with an even better one.”
She darted an uncertain glance at the photo. “What story could possibly—”
“You two shall be married,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
4
FOR A ROYAL WEDDING cobbled together in just fifteen hours, it was pretty damn beautiful. And as King Luke had predicted, the world ate it up, largely forgiving the impassioned lovers’ scandalous interlude in favor of a flowing white gown and regal horses and a thousand pink roses tossed into the streets.
Even Brinley, who so rarely fit the role of a perfect princess, looked the part, her dark curls twisted artfully on top of her head, romantic and whimsical. Her gown had been sewn so quickly she was certain the fourteen seamstresses woken in the dead of night to sew it would not be able to uncramp their hands for weeks. And Finn. Finn. Without even a moment’s notice he had transformed once again into Prince Charming, replacing his navy jacket with his royal white suit, the gold epaulets and brass buttons bright and gleaming against the luxurious fabric. He waited at the end of the endlessly long aisle in the church, multicolored afternoon sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows and painting the room in a magical palette. The cameras missed none of it, not the way the lights sparkled against the gems that studded Brinley’s flowing gown or the tiara glinting atop her head. Just as quickly as the kingdom was devastated by Elle’s departure, they were swooning over Brinley’s romantic ascension. Or the illusion of it, at least.
Now, on the night of her wedding, she sat in her private bathroom, bawling helplessly as she watched the footage on the tablet balanced on her shaking knees. She knew Finn was in her room on the other side of the door, a door that would never be thick enough to hide her sobs, though in the past hour he had not knocked or attempted to interrupt.
Despite the fact that they were being forced to sacrifice their lives for something they had never been given a choice in, Finn did not seem altogether bothered. For him this was very much the act of duty for which he had been born, and as much as Brinley’s heart had always belonged to the boy who helped her at the foot of the stairs, the thought of being another one of his royal duties shattered it.
She was okay with being a bad princess. She was okay with being second best, the ghost lurking in her sister’s perfect shadow. But she was not okay with being an obligation. Just another noble sacrifice for Prince Finian of Lenora.
She paused the video at the moment she reached Finn at the altar, when the priest
looked between them and Finn took her hand in his and nodded at her once, solemnly, as though confirming the deal. Only those watching closely would see the faint tremor in his fingers, the tiniest betrayal of his nerves, the only glimmer of emotion he could not hide. It was the fairy tale wedding of books and movies, with all the trappings of a timeless love story—and it was a farce. A heartbreaking, soul-shriveling farce.
She had wondered how her parents would punish her, and now she knew. For years they had tried taking away the things she loved—a favorite book, a pair of shoes, thirty-six swords—and now they had done quite the opposite: they had given her the thing she loved most and forced her to confront the fact that he did not love her back.
“Brinley?” A tentative knock nearly toppled her off the lid of the toilet. The tablet slid from her knees, gliding down the mountain of fabric that was her dress to land on the floor without a sound.
She smothered her sniffle with a tissue and managed a passably calm, “What?”
“Are you...all right? You’ve been in there for some time.”
When Brinley was twelve she had crawled out the bathroom window onto the eave below, and scooted across to the roof of the south wing before a palace guard spotted the movement. After she was retrieved and frog-marched to her father’s office for an exasperated scolding, they had bricked over the window. Now she stared mournfully at the buried space, wishing she had saved her great escape for this day.
“Give me a minute,” she said, though he had already given her an hour.
She rose to look at herself in the mirror and cringed. Her swollen eyes were ringed with smudged mascara, and she had long since forsaken the tiara, her hair now tumbling loose and sticking out haphazardly around her head like a sparkler candle. She looked much as she had the day she fell off the banister for the umpteenth time and cracked her head against the wall, managing to give herself two black eyes and a bloody nose. It was humiliating to think how little had changed in the intervening years.
She quickly washed her face, ignoring the way the soapy water ran down her wrists and soaked the long sleeves of her gown. She had nothing in the bathroom to change into, all her clothing was in her room. In their room. Finn lived here now, and trunks of his belongings had been shipped over that morning and were now stacked neatly along one wall, like a barricade.
When Brinley finally exited she found the bedroom surprisingly dim, the lone source of light coming from a reading lamp switched on next to the bed where Finn, still in his wedding attire, lay reading. At her entrance he closed the book and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge. The sight of his feet in striped gray and yellow socks tugged at her heart, a reminder that beneath the stoicism and the finery there was a man who had once been a kind little boy.
Her steps faltered when she realized that at some point during her sojourn in the bathroom castle staff had come to sprinkle the bed with rose petals and leave a bottle of champagne floating in an ice bucket on her dresser. Two empty flutes sat next to it, as well as a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. It may well have been accompanied by a flashing neon sign that read “Expectations!”
Brinley’s stomach roiled and she was reminded of so many stories of princesses of old forced to consummate their marriage because it was part of their duty. The modern royals were not required to provide proof of consummation, no one would come to check the bed sheets in the morning. But the sight of the blood red petals against the white fabric was almost too much to bear.
“Are you...better?” Finn asked. He stood slowly, like she was a feral animal that couldn’t decide if it should attack or flee. Her instinct was to run, of course, but the bathroom window was gone and the castle was guarded and the only photo that would top the topless photo and the official wedding photo was one of Brinley escaping through the palace gates, her dress fluttering behind her like a specter.
“I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “I’m just...”
“Crying,” he said, proving that even if he did not show human emotion, he could at least identify it. “Because of...this.” He came close enough to touch her, and indeed, almost did, but the hand he raised to touch her chin paused an inch away, then retreated. Still, she lifted her eyes, because he wasn’t a moron and only an idiot would believe anything was fine.
“Why aren’t you?” she asked. “Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you...something? Anything?”
He paused, then carefully shrugged. “It’s not about me.”
“It was your wedding!”
“It was our wedding,” he corrected.
Brinley scoffed. “It was their wedding.”
Finn tipped his head in acknowledgment and a long, painful moment passed.
Brinley could hear the steady ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the corner. Tick, tick, tick. You. Fucked. Up.
Tick. Again.
“Do you wish...” Finn began, eyes on her shoulder, her temple, anywhere but her own. “Do you wish to...”
Her stomach clenched. It was hard to imagine that an unbridled lust for this man had gotten her into this situation, and now that they were in a position to do something about it—indeed, expected to—it was the very last thing she wanted.
“...drink champagne?” he finished, clearing his throat. They both knew champagne wasn’t what he was asking about.
“No,” Brinley said. “I don’t. Do you?”
He paused. “I want whatever you want.”
The words made her lower lip quiver and her sinuses sting. “I don’t want this,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want any of it.” She couldn’t stop her gaze from flicking past his shoulder to the bed, scattered with roses like so many pinpricks.
“Of course,” he said solemnly. “I understand.”
Her heart seized again, sadness and disappointment and relief. She nodded. She knew Finn would never force her, never deliberately do anything to hurt her. But a lifetime with him would be a million tiny hurts, each day a reminder of how much she had and how much she was still missing.
He stepped past her and unbuttoned his jacket, draping it over the edge of the sofa that sat against the far wall, opposite the bed. “I will sleep here,” he said, “and in the morning, we will let the gossip do the rest.”
“Thank you,” she managed.
“There is no need to thank me.”
Brinley hesitated a moment, then went to her dresser to find a pair of pajamas. She normally slept in old shorts and a Spice Girls tank top, but now she retrieved a pair of gray silk pajamas, matching shorts and a T-shirt with white lace trim. She took them into the bathroom and changed, wondering if this was what it would be like from now on, changing in private so her husband did not see her. She did not have a suite of rooms like her parents, and they had made no mention of moving Brinley and Finn to another part of the castle. Brinley had not inquired about the rooms that had been reserved for Elle upon her pending nuptials, correctly assuming she would not be allowed to move into them because they had a balcony she would probably try to jump off.
When she returned to the bedroom she saw that Finn had shaken the rose petals off the bed and swept them into a small pile in the corner, and stripped down to a white T-shirt, but still wore his pants. It was late and, for the first time, Brinley saw the exhaustion stamped on his face, the faint circles beneath his eyes, tiny grooves around his mouth. Then he shifted and the shadows moved and he looked flawless and composed again.
“Here,” she said, going to the chest at the foot of the bed to pull out the quilt she had received as a baby. It was soft and warm and she often slept with it in the winter, appreciating its inherent comfort. She handed it to him and he nodded politely as he spread it over the sofa and sat down. He reached to adjust the throw pillows and froze when a loud crinkling emitted from the fabric. He paused, then shook the pillow again. More crinkling.
Slowly, he looked at Brinley.
Her cheeks were flaming. “That’s quite an old pillow,” she lied,
snatching it away. “You would be very uncomfortable with it. Let me give you a new one.” She grabbed two from the bed, both stuffed with goose down and bearing seals of approval from the royal chiropractor.
“Are there bagels in there?” Finn inquired mildly, nodding at the reclaimed pillow. “It’s been hours since I ate.”
“No, the bagels are in the ward—” Brinley broke off and squinted at him in the dimness. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I don’t imagine you have bagels in your pillow, Brinley. That sounds much more like a bag of candy. Or four.”
When Brinley was punished, she was often sent to her room, and as such, she had taken to making the room a place of fun and sanctuary. She had hidden books, games, snacks, toys, swords... She could hole up here safely for several weeks, if necessary.
“If I were to ask for a hamburger, would you be able to produce one?” he asked.
She wasn’t positive, but she thought she saw his mouth quirk slightly, like he was trying not to smile. Like he was teasing her, attempting to alleviate the tension in the room, the weight of failed expectations.
“I cannot cook or store meat,” she replied. “But the kitchen is open twenty-four hours and can have one delivered in ten minutes. Eight, if you like your meat medium rare. Six, if you don’t want fries.”
“I definitely want fries.”
“I still can’t tell if you’re joking, but now I’m very hungry.”
“I never joke,” Finn said seriously.
“Oh.”
“That was a joke.”
“I don’t think I will ever understand you.”
“Let’s order the burgers,” he replied. “I don’t care for strawberries.”
“You don’t like squab or turnip or strawberries?” Brinley picked up her tablet and placed the order for two burgers and two sides of fries. She had made the request so many times she could still spare half her brain to store away this new information about her husband.
Her husband.
That was one fact she might never be able to absorb.
Bad Princess Page 3
