Her Royal Highness

by Rachel Hawkins

  “That wasn’t really what I was asking, and I feel like you know that?”

  Turning to face me, Flora pulls her sunglasses over her eyes, giving me that appraising look she’s so good at.

  “Playing Nancy Drew, Quint?”

  “Just being nosy, actually,” I reply, and Flora’s cheeks dimple as she struggles against a smile.

  “No one talks to me like you do,” she says, and I scoff.

  “Honestly, Flora, I think that’s half your problem.”

  Flora snorts at that, but when we move down the stairs, she reaches out and plucks a rose off a nearby bush, twisting it almost nervously.

  “Tamsin is a girl I used to date,” she says finally. “Not that anyone really knew that. She’d been earmarked for Seb, but that was a no-go, obviously. But then,” she adds, pulling a few petals off the rose, “I suppose I was a no-go, too.”

  She says it lightly, but I think there’s actual hurt behind the words, and I know how she feels.

  So I step forward, almost laying a hand on her arm before I think better of it. Instead, I ask, “Flora, did she break whatever it is you have in place of a heart?”

  Bursting into laughter, Flora swats at me with the mangled rose. “You’re the worst,” she says, but then she grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s go down to the beach.”

  We spend most of the afternoon down there, just walking and talking. Not about anything all that serious, but still I’m kind of amazed at how easy it is just to . . . talk to Flora. Like a person. She actually listens, for one thing, and seems interested. Maybe that’s just a Royal Skill, being able to feign interest in anyone and anything, but it feels genuine.

  We enjoy the beach so much that we’re nearly late getting back to the house, and then it’s a rush to get ready.

  I take a bath, marveling at how big the tub is even if the hot water doesn’t last nearly long enough to fill up to the top, and when I get out, I discover someone has laid a black garment bag on my bed.

  Crossing the thick carpet on bare feet, I tug down the zipper.

  Thirty minutes later, I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to reconcile the Millie who likes jeans and boots and rocks with the girl in the gorgeous dress in front of me.

  Flora wasn’t kidding when she said she could scare something up. The dress is a deep forest green, so dark that it almost looks black, and it fits like it was made for me. The green makes my brown eyes look deeper, bringing out flecks of gold, and my tan is pretty against the rich fabric. I even like the little plaid bow affixed to the waist.

  Turning slightly, I hold both sides of the skirt out, unable to keep from grinning at myself. Who knew I liked dresses this much?

  There’s a knock at the door, and I turn toward it, dropping my skirt before someone catches me posing like I’m about to go on Toddlers & Tiaras. “Come in!” I call.

  It’s Flora, and if I thought my dress was nice, it’s nothing compared to hers.

  She’s decked out in the full Baird tartan, which should look ridiculous, but on her, is almost absurdly beautiful. The purple, green, and black set off her creamy skin and her golden hair perfectly, the black velvet belt around her waist giving her an hourglass shape. There’s even a tiara of emeralds and diamonds nestled in her golden hair.

  But it’s her smile as she looks at me that has my heart suddenly knocking against my ribs.

  “Well, well, Quint,” she says. “You clean up even better than I’d hoped.”

  Smoothing my hands down the front of the skirt, I shrug, awkward all of a sudden.

  “I can’t believe you managed to find something that fits me this well,” I say now, turning back to the mirror, because if I’m looking at myself, I won’t be looking at her, and that seems like the best idea right now. “Who here is my size exactly?”

  Flora is still standing in the doorway, her hand on the knob, and she lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “No one. I guessed and sent an email to Glynnis to have something sent up.”

  I turn around again, mouth dropping open slightly. “You guessed?” That seems impossible. The dress fits too well and looks too good on me. Flora and I may know each other well by now, but I didn’t think we were at the “know your measurements on sight” level of friendship.

  “What can I say? I have an eye for these things,” Flora replies, but her eyes don’t quite meet mine. Then she gestures out into the hall. “Well? Shall we?”

  CHAPTER 26

  People are gathering at the bottom of the stairs as we head down, and I see Sherbet, who waves cheerfully to us.

  He’s talking to a blond girl in a blue dress, and I glance over at Flora, wondering if this is Tamsin.

  But instead, Flora cries, “Oh, Baby Glynnis!”

  The girl glares at both of us as we approach and steps away from Sherbet.

  “It’s Nicola,” the girl says, and Flora waves that off.

  “I know, but Baby Glynnis is so much more apt. Quint, Baby Glynnis. Baby Glynnis, Quint.”

  “Nicola,” the girl says again through clenched teeth, and I reply, “Millie.”

  She shakes my hand, and as she does, tilting her head down a little, I suddenly see the resemblance to the woman who accompanied the queen to Gregorstoun.

  “Oh, you’re literally Baby Glynnis,” I say, and the girl’s hazel eyes shoot up toward the ceiling.

  “Ni. Co. La,” she says. “But yes, Glynnis is my mother, which is why I’m stuck out here in the backwoods of Scotland instead of being at home.”

  I wonder what kind of life she lives back “home” that a castle is the “backwoods,” but Flora leans in and says, “Baby Glynnis is usually in California with her dad, but I’d heard Glynnis brought her up for a bit.”

  “Literally standing right here,” Nicola says. “Can hear everything you’re saying.”

  “What are you doing on Skye?” Flora asks her, and Nicola jerks a thumb at Sherbet.

  “Sherbet invited me, and since I was bored and Skye is far from my mother, I agreed.”

  Sherbet, apparently hearing his name, waves Nicola back over to him, and as she walks away, Flora leans in close. “For a hot second two years ago, Nicola was the only girl Royal Wrecker,” she murmurs. “She and Seb were thick as thieves.”

  “Thick as thieves in the sexy way or the friend way?” I ask, and Flora’s lips tilt up at the corners.

  “Friends only, believe it or not. I think it might have been the first time Seb actually had a girl who was a friend. But even without any sexiness, it was quite the scandal. Glynnis nearly lost her job over it. Nicola went back to California, and we haven’t seen her since. But Glynnis has always wanted her here, learning the ropes. Glynnis’s mum worked for my granddad, her dad worked for his father. That family has acted as the right hand to the monarch since . . . lord, I don’t know, Mary, Queen of Scots, probably? Needless to say, Nicola is less than enthused about it.”

  Before I can get any more gossip, there’s a loud gong, and I glance up to see Lord Henry standing in front of a set of double doors at the other end of the hall. “I’m sure there’s some fancy thing I’m supposed to say here,” he calls out, “but instead, I’ll just say dinner is served, so move your arses already.”

  Everyone laughs at that, and we make our way to the dining room.

  Lady Ellis is as elegant as her husband is charming, and I remember what Flora said about them being scandalous in the ’60s. It’s hard to imagine, looking at them now, but then, as Lady Ellis passes by her husband to lead us all into the dining room, I see his hand briefly pat her backside.

  Okay, then, maybe scandal is not so hard to believe.

  Flora must have seen it, too, because she leans in and murmurs, “They are such goals.”

  I glance over at her. “Are your parents like that?”

  She snorts, linking her arm through mine again. She keeps d
oing that, and it keeps making it harder to remember that I’m not Flora’s date this weekend, just her roommate she’s brought along as a charity case, more or less.

  “My parents sleep in separate wings of the palace. Not just rooms. Wings.”

  “Isn’t that how all royal people do?” I whisper back, and her eyes meet mine.

  “It’s not how I would do,” she says, then she nods toward Lord Henry and Lady Ellis. “It’s definitely not what they do. They have seven kids.”

  “Seven?”

  Flora nods. “Seven. And they were basically an arranged marriage.”

  I wouldn’t mind hearing more about that, but we’re in the dining room now, and Flora drops my arm, moving toward the head of the table. As a guest of honor, she’ll sit up there with Lord Henry, while I’m relegated to somewhere near the middle. Luckily, I’ve got Baby Glynnis—sorry, Nicola—next to me, so at least there’s a familiar face and accent.

  “So how are you liking Scotland?” she asks me as a bunch of men in fancy suits bring us plates. I’m so distracted by the ceremony going on around us, I can barely answer her question.

  “Um, it’s good,” I say as a tiny plate is placed in front of me. There’s a fish on it, staring up at me with its fishy eyeball, and I swallow hard. “It’s . . . you know. Scotland,” I say to Nicola, but she’s already smirking slightly, tapping one fingernail against the tiny silver fork to my left.

  “That one. Also, you don’t have to eat it. Just poke it a few times while making conversation, no one will notice.”

  I don’t even want to do that—poor fishie—but I pick up the fork Nicole pointed at and give the fish a few half-hearted stabs.

  “See?” she says, smiling, and in that second, she really does look a lot like her mom. “You’re a pro.”

  I snort at that, glancing up the table to where Flora sits, having a fairly animated conversation with Lord Henry, who’s smiling at her, clearly charmed.

  “I will be competing in the amateurs for the rest of time, I’m pretty sure,” I reply, and Nicola grins back at me, turning to her own sad, dead fish.

  “I wish I could get back in the amateur division, believe me.”

  There are multiple wineglasses around me, but I pick up the one that seems like water and take a cautious sip. Yes, water, okay, good. “How long are you staying here for?” I ask, then wave a hand to amend, “I mean in Scotland in general, not here at the castle.”

  Nicola heaves out a sigh that ruffles her glossy bangs. “I leave after the wedding. Mum needs an extra hand, or, let’s be real, an extra pair of eyes.”

  I raise my eyebrows at that, but Nicola just waves me off. “It’s boring shop talk. So you’re from Texas, right?”

  We chat a little bit about back home—me about Houston, Nicola about San Diego—both of us agreeing that Scotland is gorgeous, but awfully cold for girls used to a sunnier locale. And before I know it, the plates are being cleared, and I’ve done it—survived my first royal dinner.

  From there, we move into the ballroom just off the main dining room, and as a string quartet starts up, my stomach sinks. I’d been relieved to get through dinner unscathed, but dancing, too?

  I watch the couples moving across the ballroom floor. Lord Henry and Lady Ellis are elegant, and even Nicola acquits herself well, dancing with Sherbet.

  And then I scan the people gathered at the edges of the ballroom, looking for a girl who might be Tamsin. I’m not sure why I feel this deep need to see Flora’s ex, but I do. Maybe I’m just curious as to what kind of girl could dump Flora. Is she a goddess, too?

  I keep looking. The tall brunette in purple? Maybe her? Or—

  I feel an elbow at my side, and turn to see Flora smiling at me. “Well?” she asks. “Are you ready to take a turn around the room? There are several blokes looking for a partner, it seems like.”

  There are a few guys hanging back, but the idea of trying to dance has me shaking my head and nearly backing up into a potted plant. “Oh, no, I don’t . . .”

  “You don’t what?”

  “I don’t dance,” I finish, feeling sweaty and a little sick at the very thought. “I’m, like, catastrophically bad at it.”

  A glint comes into Flora’s eye, and I know I’m in trouble.

  Then her hand lands in mine. “We’ll just have to remedy that, then, won’t we?”

  CHAPTER 27

  Flora doesn’t drop my hand as she leads me down one hallway, then another. We pass tall windows that look out onto the gardens, but I can’t see anything except our own reflections, and I’m struck by how wide-eyed I look, and how very un-me I am in my dress. But maybe this is me? Just another version of me I didn’t know was in there.

  We come to a pair of glass doors with ornate golden handles, and Flora tugs at one, opening the door. A wave of warm air and the smell of green, growing things washes over me.

  “What is this?” I ask, and she pulls me into the room, shutting the door firmly behind us.

  “An orangery,” she replies, and I glance over at her. She’s dropped my hand by now, and I chafe my palms up and down my bare arms, even though I’m definitely not cold. In fact, if we stay in here much longer, I might start sweating.

  “I like when you say things like that as though they’re actually words,” I tell her, and Flora laughs, walking over to a nearby potted tree that, yes, has a few oranges on it.

  “An orangery,” she says, placing one gloved hand under the fruit and modeling it like she’s a game show hostess. “Those of us from colder climes had to have special places to grow certain things, and oranges were once considered a luxury item.”

  “Ahhhh,” I say, walking over to another tree. “So if you were really, really fancy, you had a special room in your house just for growing oranges.”

  Flora inclines her head with a gracious nod. “Ergo,” she starts, and we both finish with, “an orangery.”

  I laugh a little, shaking my head, and wander deeper into the room, which is all glass walls and potted orange trees. The floor under my feet isn’t the usual flagstone and marble I’ve seen in the castle, but a cream-colored tile, and in the center, there’s a mosaic of a giant orange with a few white blossoms attached. Overhead, the ceiling is painted to look like a bright blue Mediterranean sky.

  “This is a very weird room to have all the way up here in the wilds of Skye,” I murmur.

  Suddenly I realize Flora is right next to me, her own head back to study the ceiling, and I don’t know if it’s all the plants or her perfume, but something smells sweet and delicate.

  “Lady Ellis had it built when she moved up here,” Flora says, still studying the ceiling. “When I was a little girl, and we played hide-and-seek, I always hid in here.”

  I look over at her, my arms still folded tight across my middle. It’s dim in this warm, scented room, the only light coming from sconces placed at intervals around the hexagonal room, and it strikes me that this is kind of . . . romantic.

  Clearing my throat (and tearing my eyes away from Flora’s sharp jaw), I look back at the ceiling.

  “You must’ve really sucked at hiding, then. Everyone would’ve known where to look for you.”

  She shrugs, that Flora Shrug that’s both elegant and careless and seems to sum up Everything Flora. “I never worried about it all that much.”

  That makes me laugh. “You never worried about hiding during hide-and-seek?” I shake my head. “That is . . . very you.”

  That grin flashes. “Isn’t it just?”

  And then she’s taking my hands, pulling me to the center of the room, right over that gigantic orange. “Now, enough stalling. Let’s dance.”

  “So which one of us leads?” I ask, and Flora gives me that look I’m getting used to. That one where she lifts her chin while looking down at me at the same time.

  Now it doesn’t seem hau
ghty to me, though. Now I see it as the joke she means, and I smile when she says, “Me, naturally.”

  We stand there in the conservatory in our poofy dresses, and I slowly place my hand in Flora’s. My other hand lands on her bare shoulder, her skin warm and silky.

  I fight the urge to stroke my thumb over the delicate rise of her collarbone, reminding myself for what has to be the thousandth time that Flora is the least safe of crushes for more reasons than I can count, but that’s hard to remember when she puts her hand on my lower back, pulling me close.

  There are acres of skirts between us, and it strikes me that whoever came up with the waltz prooooobably didn’t imagine two girls doing it together.

  Flora looks down at all that silk and tulle and giggles. “Oh, dear.”

  I go to step back, but her hand tightens on my waist, keeping me from going too far. “This is stupid,” I say, cheeks red. “You don’t have to—”

  “But I want to,” she says, and her head comes up, her eyes meeting mine.

  I wish I could say I got the hang of it immediately and that there were zero crushed toes or awkward spins, but that would not be the truth. I’m not a total disaster, but let’s just say that Dancing with the Stars is nowhere in my future.

  Still, it’s nice, turning in circles in the conservatory with Flora, the smell of orange blossoms heavy in the air, her tiara winking in the soft glow of the lamps. And it’s nice being with her, as much as I hate to admit it.

  “You’re a natural,” she says, and I look up, frowning.

  “You’re messing up my count.” I’d been doing the whole one-two-three, one-two-three thing in my head, not that it had seemed to help all that much.

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t count. Just feel.”

  “Okay, talk like that is for sexy dances, not the waltz,” I say, and one corner of her mouth lifts in that slinky, feline smile she does.

  “Are you saying this isn’t sexy?”

  I blink at her.