Bad Princess

by Julianna Keyes

  “No,” he said.

  “What do you like?” She perched on the foot of the bed and rested the tablet beside her, hearing the tiny ping that confirmed the order had been received and was being processed.

  Finn’s brows lifted, as though he had never been asked that before. And perhaps he hadn’t, if he was still being served squab and turnips and strawberries. “I like spaghetti,” he said finally. “With meatballs. And garlic bread.”

  “Mmm,” Brinley agreed. “Garlic bread.”

  Another twitch of the mouth. “And I really like hockey,” he added. “Everyone assumes I prefer lacrosse because it’s Lenora’s national sport, but I don’t care for it.”

  “But you were team captain for three years!” she blurted out, wishing instantly that she could take it back because it revealed that she knew he had been team captain for three years.

  Now he did smile, just a tiny one. “Yes, well, we didn’t have a hockey team. I had to do something.”

  “Do you really like...” She racked her brain to recall the magazine articles she had read, articles that promised to tell a girl if she was the perfect match for Prince Finn and, if not, how to become such a girl. It was essentially a checklist of how to be Elle. “Black and white films?”

  “I’ve seen a couple.”

  “Astronomy?”

  “I own a telescope.”

  “Pandas?”

  “Well, I posed for a photo with one when they visited the zoo, but I don’t have a particular affinity for the animal.”

  “Huh.” Brinley strummed her fingers on her knee. “How about—”

  “Let me ask you some questions,” Finn said before she could come up with another.

  “Okay.”

  “Did you really get a tattoo of Chinese characters that said I love noodles?”

  “Er...” There had been a mix-up at the tattoo parlor. It was supposed to be an act of rebellion that said I love freedom, but something had gotten lost in the translation.

  It had hurt like a bitch to have it removed.

  “Is it true that the mullet haircut you had when you were sixteen was because you got a wad of gum stuck in your hair and not because you were trying to start a new trend?”

  “I—”

  “And did you really have an affair with your professor?”

  Brinley could feel herself blushing bright red. Of course all the dreadful things the papers printed about her would have some foundation in truth. And of course he would know about them. Charles had probably texted him a list of facts about his new wife and scared the crap out of him.

  “The tattoo has been removed; it wasn’t gum, it was tree sap; and he was a professor, he wasn’t my professor.”

  Instead of looking horrified, Finn looked impressed. “Wow.”

  Brinley startled. The standard reaction to those stories was exasperated resignation. “Wow?”

  He studied his toes, then glanced up shyly. “I once had the biggest crush on my biology tutor. She wore a charm bracelet with a little bell that tinkled whenever she moved. I secreted away all the money I could until I had enough to sneak into town to buy her a new charm—a heart. My heart.” His cheeks were pink.

  Brinley tried to imagine Finn buying a charm—or having a crush—and simply could not. “What did she say when you gave it to her?”

  He shook his head, a tiny piece of hair breaking free of its perfect mold and falling across his forehead. “I never gave it to her.”

  “Why not? Because you—” She cut herself off before she could say, “loved Elle Vida.”

  “Because I was a coward.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “When you were sixteen you could already fly an airplane. The papers said it was the closest we could get to a modern day knight, ready to slay dragons. What could you possibly be afraid of?”

  A knock at the door interrupted, and they both turned. “Come in,” Brinley called, nodding at the kitchen aide who entered with a small cart and two silver dome-covered plates. She stood so the dishes could be arranged on the trunk at the foot of the bed, where she normally ate when she was alone. The aide left and Brinley lifted one of the lids, the scent of warm meat and bread wafting out.

  “Still hungry?” she asked, selecting a fry. When she looked at Finn she found him watching her with an inscrutable expression.

  “Famished,” he replied.

  Brinley patted the edge of the mattress and Finn stood, almost cautiously, then paused when the chilled bottle of champagne caught his eye. He raised a brow and Brinley nodded, and he scooped up the champagne and both glasses before crossing the room.

  “I know you have a sword here somewhere,” he said, glancing pointedly at the sealed bottle. Brinley bit her lip and reached beneath the bed to retrieve one. Finn’s mouth quirked but he did not laugh as he sliced off the top with impressive finesse, then poured two foaming glasses.

  The bed dipped as he sat on the far side of the trunk and they each took a glass, sharing an unspoken agreement to merely drink and not toast. They had toasted themselves into this mess in the first place.

  “Maybe we should have ordered spaghetti,” Brinley said around a mouthful of fries.

  Finn picked up his burger and paused, a prince at odds with his royal image, holding a burger and champagne, wearing wedding pants and a plain T-shirt. “No,” he said. “This is perfect.”

  5

  THE NEXT MORNING BRINLEY peered around the dim bedroom, groggy and disoriented, trying to locate the source of the terrible knocking inside her skull. Just as she realized the knocking was at the door and not in her head, Finn was doing the same thing from the sofa. On cue, they recognized their predicament—if they were discovered sleeping on opposite sides of the room, they would generate even more gossip than they already had.

  At her panicked look, Finn sprinted across the floor and leapt into the bed just as Brinley called, “Come in,” to whomever was visiting at the ungodly hour of eight a.m.

  Charles, her father’s secretary, wrenched open the door and squinted into the hazy interior. If it were anyone else Brinley would have bid them turn on a light, but she hated Charles and the only reason he would run an errand as simple as fetching the princess was because he wanted to be the first to report on any seedy gossip. What he saw instead was a sleepy young couple sitting in a tousled bed, recently woken, and not at all gossip-worthy. Even in the gloom his disappointment was notable.

  “You are wanted in the king’s office,” he said, mouth pinched with irritation. “In ten minutes. Do you under—”

  “Yeah,” Brinley interrupted. “Get out.” She wasn’t at her best first thing in the morning, but she always seemed to be at her very worst where Charles was concerned.

  “What do you think it’s about?” Finn asked when they were alone again.

  She turned to see him lying on the mattress, managing to seem very much like he belonged there. With his sleep-soft mouth and tousled hair, he looked like every one of her fantasies come to life, so close she could feel his body heat mingling with hers.

  “I have no idea,” she said, flinging her legs over the edge of the bed to escape the traitorous urges trying to bubble up. “Perhaps time has given him inspiration for yet another punishment.”

  Brinley padded to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and brush her teeth. At least she didn’t look as horrid as she had last night. Her eyes were no longer puffy or red, the smeared mascara was gone, and she wasn’t bawling her head off.

  “Erm, do you mind?” Finn asked from the door. She hadn’t closed it all the way, and now he hovered uncertainly at the threshold, toothbrush in hand. “I just need—”

  “Of course.” She spoke around a mouthful of bubbles, then hesitated before dipping her head to spit in the sink and hastily rinse her mouth. The boys she had been with during her years at university wouldn’t have qualified as boyfriends, exactly. They were friends, sometimes less, sometimes more, b
ut though she had done far more intimate things with them, she had never done something that felt quite as personal as brushing teeth side by side.

  For a minute the only sound was the brushing, and slightly awkward spitting, then more rinsing and the passing of hand towels and polite thank-yous. At some point during the night Finn had removed his pants and slept in his T-shirt and boxer shorts printed with little cartoon frogs. The striped socks were gone, too, and without the trappings of his regal finery he seemed younger, more real.

  As though sensing her gaze, he met her eye in the mirror and held the stare until she shot him a nervous smile and hurried out of the room. It hardly seemed fair to have to endure an awkward morning after when there was no before to speak of.

  They dressed with their backs turned, Finn in a button up shirt and trousers, Brinley in a plain wrap dress and flats. She rarely paid attention to her appearance if she was just lounging around the castle, but because she was already on thin ice with her father, the token effort couldn’t hurt.

  Finn knocked on the office door at precisely eight-fifteen. Charles swung it open a second later, most likely lurking on the other side, hoping to catch them in some nefarious act. As it stood he encountered only two people waiting politely.

  “Move,” Brinley said, shouldering her way past.

  Well, Finn waited politely.

  King Luke sat at his desk, his expression slightly less thunderous than it had been two nights earlier. He had put on a good performance during the wedding—they all had—but unlike most of the kingdom, he hadn’t forgotten that humiliating photograph and likely would not for some time. For weeks Brinley had rued her sister’s departure, but now she saw the small upside to her absence: without Elle for comparison, her parents had no choice but to make do with the daughter they still had. All those years of testing their patience had built it up strong, and it was evident in the king’s stiff posture.

  “Good morning,” he said gruffly. “Sit down. Sleep well?” He coughed. “Don’t answer that.”

  They sat and waited. Brinley could sense that Finn felt the need to fill the silence with some dutiful comment, but she shot him a quelling look and he remained quiet as the king chose his next words. “You’re going to an orphanage,” he said finally.

  For a second, Brinley’s heart stopped. When she was a child, her angry nannies had used that as a threat to keep her in line. Though she had eventually grown old enough to realize it was an empty threat, hearing it again still hit her with a pang of terror.

  “To visit,” King Luke added. “This afternoon. You shall tour the orphanage, engage with the children, smile for photos, and behave yourselves.”

  “Of course,” Finn said.

  “An orphanage?!” Brinley exploded. “Are you—” She stopped herself from saying “an idiot.” “How wholly unoriginal and unimaginative. It’s antiquated and—”

  “Old-fashioned values won’t harm you, Brinley.”

  “It’s the 21st Century! Who visits orphanages for photo ops? Who sincerely visits them for photo ops?”

  “If you are sincere, it will be sincere.”

  “It’s offensive,” she fumed. “You assume the kingdom is so naïve as to believe—”

  “That will be all,” King Luke interrupted. “Your car leaves at noon.” He nodded once at Charles, who scurried to open the door.

  This time it was Finn who shot Brinley a quelling look, taking her elbow and guiding her into the hall.

  “Good day,” Charles murmured.

  “I hate you,” Brinley murmured back.

  “Is it really so bad?” Finn asked as they walked to the dining room. “Visiting children?”

  “He may as well ask me to sit for a public exorcism!” she exclaimed. “This is exactly the kind of task Elle was suited for—they’re trying to reshape me in her image. No, worse—take me to pieces and rebuild me as her.”

  “They don’t want that,” Finn said patiently. “She left, after all. They realized their mistake.”

  Brinley scoffed. “Or she realized hers and was wise enough to correct it before she was shackled to—”

  Finn’s flinch stopped her in her tracks.

  “This place,” she finished. “I was going to say ‘this place.’ Not...you.” It was true, but she could tell Finn didn’t believe her. The stoic mask was slipping on again, so smoothly she had failed to appreciate it when it was gone.

  “Good morning, Brinley,” said Magda, the kitchen manager. Her appearance muddled the growing tension. “Here for breakfast? You must be famished after yesterday. What would you like? The usual? Three chocolate chip pancakes and four pieces of bacon?”

  Upon hearing her regular breakfast order, Brinley blushed. “Er, just toast, please. And...one pancake.”

  Magda waited.

  “And four pieces of bacon,” she mumbled.

  Finn kept a straight face. “The same,” he said, when Magda turned to him. “Plus two more pancakes.”

  THE FOOD HELPED EASE Brinley’s sour mood, and when they arrived at the Estau City Orphanage in the center of the bustling old downtown, she felt more like herself. Which posed something of a problem, because she was now part of a motorcade of a dozen matching black sedans winding through cobblestone streets lined with well-wishers and cameras. Whether they were hoping to glimpse the newlywed couple or the historically bad princess remained to be seen.

  She smoothed the royal blue tweed of her skirt and fiddled with the pearl buttons of the matching jacket. She had balked at the sky high heels suggested by the castle stylists and wore black flats instead, but had let them attempt to tame her unruly hair until it had been arranged in something vaguely resembling a chignon. She felt like herself, but she did not look like herself. And she prayed she did not behave like herself.

  Beside her Finn sat up straight, looking dignified and very attractive in a dark gray suit and silk tie in the same blue shade as her dress. It made his eyes look darker, more intense, and when he turned to her as they stopped she felt it again, that same awareness, that same sad spark of hope. This was her life, but it was not. She wanted it to be, but she did not.

  “Brinley,” he said seriously. “I have heard rumors of this orphanage being haunted. There is supposed to be a secret passageway behind one of the shelves in the library, and a set of antique swords hangs over the headmistress’s desk.”

  Brinley already knew all of this and was quite hoping—

  “Try to control yourself around the swords,” Finn continued. “There will be children present, and if you behead one, not even a royal wedding will save you.”

  Brinley bristled. “I would never—”

  “And if you should somehow manage to sneak away and find the secret passageway, do come find me so I can see it too.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. “Dammit, Finn. I cannot tell when you are joking.”

  “I assure you, I am absolutely serious on both counts.”

  But the corner of his mouth quirked, that small restrained smile she wished she could see more fully.

  “I shall do my best,” she said solemnly.

  “Then Lord help us all,” he replied.

  The car door opened, the driver and security team flanking them. The streets roared with the shouted greetings of Estau’s citizens, most likely the same ones who had lined up yesterday to watch the wedding cavalcade. The first photographs would later show Brinley and Finn smiling as they exited the car, Finn extending a hand to his wife, who very carefully kept her knees together as she stepped out, loathe to be featured in the Estau Tattler’s annual Crotch Shots edition.

  The orphanage was a red stone building with painted white trim and the flag of Estau flying out front. Brinley turned in a complete circle to take in the ancient stone structures that lined the street, their old exteriors sheltering completely modern interiors, coffee shops and book shops and cell phone stores and more coffee. It was a bright and sunny day and she wished desperately that she could have an afternoon free to
explore, unburdened by her royal responsibilities. But she knew she was being selfish—she had had nearly four years of freedom, and a practical role in the kingdom had long been her dream...just not like this.

  They were ushered into the orphanage foyer, its arched ceiling creating a grand, echoing effect. The cries of the citizens faded behind them when the heavy wooden doors closed and locked, but they were far from alone. In addition to Brinley and Finn and the orphanage’s headmistress, Ms. Shire, there were eight bodyguards, two public relations experts, and four royal photographers. Brinley winced as camera flashes flared around them, capturing the charitable moment of their entry, and beside her Finn reached down to take her hand, its weight reassuring.

  She clutched his fingers, feeling like the same scared princess who had peeked out from behind her mother’s skirts on her first public outings as a child. She had known even then that she was not cut out for this position, that she would never fit the perfectly hewn mold of “princess.”

  “Welcome,” Ms. Shire said, stepping forward to shake their hands. “Thank you for visiting today.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Finn replied. He made all the right remarks as Ms. Shire gave them the tour, Brinley on the brink of having a heart attack the entire time. She knew in her mind that she was not actually going to be abandoned here, but she had developed such clearly defined ideas about what an orphanage would look like that it was hard to recognize the very plain, matter-of-fact reality. In her young mind the children were posed behind glass, like mannequins in a store window. They stood frozen in a practical tableau where they performed some useful household task, like ironing or making a bed. Orphan Brinley—who, even in dreams, was not actually an orphan, simply rejected—stood helplessly behind her own wall of glass, with nothing to offer. And much like pet shop visitors passing by a sickly puppy, no one stopped for her.

  The actual orphanage resembled a school on the ground level, with a large cafeteria and library and suites of offices for administration and nurses. Upstairs were two levels of dormitory-style rooms and common areas, divided by age. The younger children had play stations and toys; the older children had books and television.