by Adora Crooks
“Hi!” Rory chirps. “Yes. Rory March. I’m on the list.”
“Are you filming, ma’am? There are no cameras allowed.”
“What—me? No—I mean… this is just a project…”
Their conversation continues as Rory tries to talk her way out of getting kicked out.
I pause the video. I pinch the screen outward, enlarging the video and scanning the stilled image. There’s Prince Roland, hanging off to the side. The corner of my mouth twitches upward—the man looks like he might faint. I remember that day, the jumble of nerves he’d twisted himself into. And there I am, standing stiff beside him.
I look like a prat. Nothing new there. I scroll on through the rest of the party guests. This was the first time I spotted the scarred man… I know he’s somewhere here. He was wearing a waiter’s outfit, I remember that. I hunt for the waiters and roll my finger up and down the screen until… There. I’ve found him. He’s caught in the middle of the room. I’d recognize that man anywhere. The stocky build, those strong arms that pressed me down underwater…
Swallow that memory back. March on.
I hit Play. Rory is prattling on to the doorman, and I follow the scarred man as he winds his way through the crowd of guests. He comes to a halt and catches a woman’s attention. She turns to him and—
My blood runs cold as river water. No. Not any woman. It’s Princess Iris. The dress is unmistakable, a rush of blood red. I watch as the princess turns away from her guest to engage the scarred man in a conversation. They speak intently for a moment. The princess looks perturbed. Then she reaches out, touches a hand to his shoulder. The scarred man nods and leaves, vanishing into the crowd once more. She turns away as well and plucks a cigarette pack out of her purse.
I stop the video. My heart pounds away in my chest. I’ve paused on Princess Iris’s face. She looks distant, her eyes staring off in a faraway gaze.
What did they talk about? What does the queen of England’s twin sister have in common with a man who tried to kill her nephew?
This is insane. Conspiracy-level shit. I should put the phone down. I should mark it up as a bizarre interaction and let this rest.
Instead, I replay the video, over and over again, until the pieces start fitting into place.
40
Roland
As soon as we get back to the palace, my mum breaks away from me to vanish into her room. She’s retreating. My little “escapades” have taken it out of her. She’s a snake that needs to burrow underneath the ground and recharge. She’ll remain in bed for days and won’t come out until she’s ready. It was the kind of thing that used to drive me insane as a child—Mummy’s gone, Mummy’s broken and it’s all your fault—but now it’s just numb a fact of life. Like splinters and bad weather. It will happen, no avoiding it, and all you can do is keep trudging through.
Perhaps it’s not a bad idea. I feel like sleeping away the winter myself.
As I trudge down the hallway, Iris meets me. She follows at my side and moves her hand to my shoulder. “I heard what happened at the Thames,” she murmurs. “We’re all very happy you’re safe.”
“Is that what we are? Happy?” My voice is clipped, disinterested.
She sighs. “Don’t worry about your mother. She’ll come around. You know how she is. She just needs to have a fit every once in a while. I’ll take care of her.”
“Fine.”
She twists her head side to side. “Where’s Rory?”
“How the bloody hell should I know?”
“Lover’s spat?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I grab the handle of my bedroom door and twist.
“Roland.” I lift my eyes just enough to look at Iris. Her Pennington blues reflect back at me. “Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”
But it won’t. Not anymore. I push into my room and close the door behind me. Closing out Iris. Closing out my mum. Closing out the world.
The maids have come and gone while I was away. My room is clean, my bed made, and a sanitizing lemon scent hangs in the air. My eyes immediately snap to the one item out of place. Rory’s pink masquerade dress is washed, dried, and folded neatly on the foot of my bed. I lift the dress and run my fingers over the fabric. I remember how her body responded to my touch, feeling the hardened peaks of her nipples through the lace of her dress. I lift the bundle of dress to my nose and inhale. Even washed, there’s still a hint of her left. Her unique blend of earthy tones. My wild woman who smelled constantly of fresh rainfall.
My heart aches like an open wound.
What have I done?
I’ve made a terrible mistake. This is all wrong. I can’t go back to the way things were. I can’t pretend I don’t need her in life. I miss Rory. I miss Ben. I need to go to them. I need to apologize. I need to wrap her in my arms and never let her go.
I rush to my door and twist the knob. It doesn’t budge. I push my shoulder into it, but it’s no use.
It’s locked. That solid security lock. What the heck?
A switch must have accidentally flipped somewhere. Tanner will hear about this. I reach into my pocket to phone him, but all I feel is loose fabric. I check my other pockets.
Shit. Where the hell is my phone?
I bang the door. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”
“Roland.” A familiar, flower-soft voice bleeds in through the wall.
Thank God. Iris.
“Iris… I’m locked in. I need you to call Tanner and tell him to fix the bloody door.”
There’s a small spot of silence on the other side. I wonder if she hasn’t heard me. Then her voice, gentle and calm: “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “What do you mean?”
“It’s for your own safety, ducky,” Iris sighs. “Perhaps we could have worked something out, but you’re just so… unpredictable these days.”
My blood runs cold. No. No, no, no. They can’t lock me in here. They can’t. My breath goes short, and my vision vibrates, the blood behind my eyes pulsing. The walls seem to be beating, drawing in closer. This room is a bloody tomb.
“Iris!” I shout. “You can’t do this!” I bang my fist on the door. Pure, animal Pennington rage courses through my blood. My temper rears its ugly head. “Let me out!” I roar. “Let me out!”
I unleash my fists on the door, but they don’t budge. If they want to cage me like an animal—fine. I will be an animal! I rip the bedside table off the floor, the contents scattering to the ground, and throw it against the door. The wood splinters, but the door remains unscathed. I smash lamps. I tear up curtains.
Only when my hands are bleeding and my lungs burning do I stop. My room is a mess, and the clutter does nothing for my claustrophobia. I grab my hair by the roots, fall to my knees, and howl.
I’m locked in the palace. For good, this time.
41
Rory
Tea can cure anything, Roland once told me. He was naked, we were postcoital sore, and his lion’s den of a room engulfed us. Ben had brought in scones and a pot of tea, and we all sat up, enjoying breakfast in the prince’s bed. War, sickness, a prolonged eternity of boredom, Roland continued. Fix a cuppa, turn that frown uppa.
I’m not sure if it can cure heartbreak, but I figure it’s worth a shot. My eyelids are swollen, my wound is throbbing, and I feel hungover. Ben isn’t in bed when I wake up, and his gun is gone, but his duffle bag is still tucked under the mattress, so I know he hasn’t run off on me. I rummage through my own bag to pick out some clothes.
Nearly everyone has already left for the day. The Korean girl in the far end of the room sits on her cot, headphones in ears. She shoots me a glare when she sees I’m up.
Oops. I’m normally a better suitemate. I try an apologetic smile and a cheery, “Good morning!”
She doesn’t even respond; she turns back to her device. Well, I deserved that one.
As I pull clean clothes out, a folded-up
map pops out of my bag. I unroll it out onto my lap. It’s my old bus map, most of the routes to Scotland already circled. A tremor of excitement runs through me. This is what I’m good at. I fish a pen out of my bag, open up my phone, and start looking up flight schedules. I jot down a couple of times on the corner of my map, along with the corresponding flight numbers. Then I hunt down bus schedules, hostels, and price match. I’ve got the process down to a science, and it’s not long before I have a couple of options mapped out.
I’m already feeling more like myself when I put my work down to freshen up. The bathroom is bustling now with morning activity, and I manage to snag a sink to wash up. I shimmy into a stall and maneuver out of my sleepwear and into a clean, dark pair of jeans and an oversized band shirt.
No more Principessa Rory, thank you very much. I’m back to plain old Rory March for a while. And honestly? It feels good.
I’ve reached phase two of the breakup: the angry, indignant phase. Screw Roland. Screw Roland, screw his martyrdom, screw his self-importance, and screw his stupidly handsome face and soul-crushing blue eyes.
Now for that cuppa.
I pack everything up back in the room, except for the map, my wallet, and Oscar. Those, I tuck in a lumpy purse that I hang over my shoulder. I shove the rest of my stuff in my locker along the far wall and head downstairs to the common area. There are a couple people up and about, working on their laptops, reading, or chatting over breakfast. I find the beverage station. I fill the electric teapot with water, stick it in, and pick out a tea bag as it boils.
“Make me a cuppa while you’re at it.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Ben sitting alone at a circular table. I don’t know how I didn’t notice him before—maybe it’s because he doesn’t look quite as out of place as he did the first time we had tea together here. He’s dressed down in loose jeans and a soft coal-gray shirt that cuts off around his bulging biceps.
Ben has an assortment of papers scattered in front of him. As he studies them, he scratches the side of his face absently. He hasn’t shaved yet. He’s got morning stubble. It looks really good on him. Really, really good. I’d-like-to-feel-that-bristle-against-my-inner-thighs good. My sex pulses and my legs squeeze together at the thought.
Dear God, Rory! Focus!
“Yes, sir.” I wink and make a second cup.
I expect one of his small amused smiles or that smoldering you’re being a naughty girl look from his dark eyes. Instead, he barely looks up when I set the cup down in front of him. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
I take the seat across from him and wrap my hands around my mug. I try another tactic to get his attention. I unzip my purse, pick the map out, and spread it out across the table. “I found a couple cheap flights to Edinburgh,” I inform him. “Most of them are about sixty euros one way, but if we take the red-eye, it’s practically half the price. Most of the buses are shut down at that point, but there’s a shuttle that’ll take us into the city—”
“That’s great,” Ben says. His tone is curt, distracted, and his eyes flicker up to me. “You should book it.”
I should. I try not to flinch. My heart drops like a stone into my stomach. I try to remain upbeat and tuck my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I mean… I can. No problem. But am I booking for one or two? Because… last night you were pretty clear about the whole where you go, I go thing, but now I feel like I’m talking to Frosty the Snowman here…”
Ben’s lips thin and he finally diverts all of his attention to me. “I found something last night,” he tells me. His voice is all official. Bodyguard Ben mode.
Okay. I can deal with this. He’s not mad at me; he’s just locked up in his head. I relax my stance and nod. “What kind of thing?”
“I couldn’t fall asleep, so I started watching your March On videos.”
A grin lifts the corners of my mouth. “You were watching my videos?”
“Yes.” Plain. Simple. As though that’s the obvious answer. It’s such a small, sweet gesture, and I feel my heart grow wings again. “I found the video you took the night of the masquerade ball.”
I sip on my tea and sigh at that. “I could barely use any of the footage I got from that. You bodyguards are a piece of work.”
“The man who kidnapped you—he was there. At the masquerade.”
Chills run up my spine, and I feel goose bumps tighten the flesh on my arms. The thought of him there, only a couple of feet away from me while I danced and laughed with Roland… it makes me queasy. “Are you sure?” I chirp.
Ben picks a page out of his folder and turns it toward me. It’s a blown-up image from my video of that night. I can see the man with his bald head, stuffed into a tuxedo. I try not to look at him for very long. I don’t want another panic attack, not now.
Ben taps the image, redirecting my attention. “Here he is, speaking with Princess Iris.”
I blink at the image and then back at Ben. “They know each other? How?”
“That’s the question of the day. So I watched the rest of your videos, did a little research, and I found a couple of other interesting images.”
Ben lines up a few other printouts in front of me. One is from Sorrento; I recognize the brightly colored stone walls and beach hats. It’s an image of the small crowd of people taking our photos. Roland’s arm is wrapped around my shoulder. I look incredibly happy. So does he. The memory feels like warm sun on the back of my neck, and it draws a little smile from me.
Ben points to a woman in the crowd wearing a slim dress and a black hat. “I found this image off an Italian paparazzi gossip blog. This woman was at the bar the night you were kidnapped. She flashed me. I think she was in on it, possibly trying to distract me—”
I nearly choke on my tea. Jealousy is a petty, completely inappropriate emotion to be feeling right now, but it rears its head up suddenly. “Rewind,” I say. “A woman showed you her tits, and you didn’t think to mention this before now?”
Ben narrows his eyes. “I rejected her. Obviously. And you got stabbed. When exactly should I have told you?”
Right. He has a point. Still. I pout. “Her distraction worked. Obviously.”
Ben sighs. “No. It didn’t. Our drunken prince distracted me. A mistake I won’t make again. Can we move on?”
“Please.”
“Right.” Ben procures a final image. Two mug shots, side by side. “So I did some sleuthing and I found them. Martin Hindel, fifty-four, arrested in 1987 and again in ’94. His charges included assault, robbery, and—you guessed it—kidnapping. The woman is Sara Ryan, thief and con woman.”
I blink at the images. My brain is pounding with all this information, and the printouts blur before my eyes. “Don’t they do background checks on everyone who comes into the palace?”
“Yes. Extensively. So you have to wonder what two felons were doing near the royal family, unless—”
“Unless they were invited,” I blurt out, finishing his thought.
Ben nods slowly. “Exactly.”
“But that doesn’t make sense!” I toss up my hand. “Why would Iris send a couple felons after her nephew…?”
“That’s what I intend on finding out.” Ben quiets me and reaches across the table. He slips his hand over mine and traces his fingertips over my wrist. “Which is why I can’t come with you to Scotland right now.”
My throat tightens. “But…”
“I know what I promised last night,” Ben continues. “And I intend to follow through on that. You should go. Just in case things get hairy here. Get settled at a hotel. I will meet you in Edinburgh. I promise you, Rory. I just need a couple of days to sort this out. As much as I… hate his bloody guts right now, I can’t leave if Prince Roland is still in jeopardy. Hindel is dead, but the woman…” Ben’s eyes wander. I can practically see all the worst-case-scenario thoughts flickering through his brain. He fixes his gaze back on me and says firmly, “I need to make sure he’s okay.”
I nod at that. “I understand,�
� I tell him. I thread my fingers between his and squeeze his hand. “You promise you’ll find me?”
Ben’s dark eyes soften at that. “I swear to it.” He stands suddenly, leans over the table, and pulls me into a kiss. His kiss is strong, unrelenting, and it nails his point home. I’m not letting you go, his lips say, and I believe them.
When he seals the kiss, he pulls back and picks up a pen. Then he turns my map toward him. “Are these all the flights?” he asks.
I nod. He draws a circle around the last flight and turns it back to me. “Twelve forty-five. The red-eye. I’ll be on that one.”
My heart is still hammering, but it slows at that. The black circle on the page has the same effect on me as Ben’s hand around my throat. It’s security. My anxiety bubble pops, and I settle when I look into his eyes.
“Okay,” I say.
Ben’s shoulders sink with relief. He picks up the pages he’s scattered about the table, then sticks them back into his folder. Watching him, my heart begins to patter again.
“Ben?”
He turns his gaze away from the pages and looks back up at me.
“Be careful.”
A smile inches across his face. “Don’t worry about me, kitten,” he says and closes the folder.
“Now boarding Zone 3 for Flight 106, heading to Edinburgh,” the voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
The chairs are hard semicircular plastic bits that are curved in such a way that make it impossible to get comfortable. My giant backpack takes up the whole seat next to me. I curl up against it, rubbing Oscar’s soft, velvety ears.
This is usually my favorite part. Onward to adventure! I’m probably the only person in the world who still loves traveling through airports. They’re the closest things we have to portals. You enter in one country, you exit in another a few hours later. It’s amazing, really, how quickly someone can turn their life around.
So why this sinking pit in my stomach?
I’ve got my phone charging in the outlet beside me. My one-way plane ticket juts out of my pocket. I haven’t been this nervous since my first flight out of Michigan.
