Royally Endowed

by Emma Chase

  Nicholas sighs. "Fine."

  "Excellent."

  There's the sound of more shuffling chess pieces, and several quick moves later the Queen declares triumphantly, "Checkmate."

  There's a silent, shocked pause, and then Nicholas stutters, "How . . . did you do that?"

  "You become too aggressive when victory is at hand--you lose sight of anything else. It makes you vulnerable." There's a rustling of fabric as the Queen rises to her feet. "Work on your long game, my boy."

  One month later

  THERE'S A LOT THAT'S AWESOME about living in a palace. The rooms--one huge, historical, beautifully glamorous room after another, are better than any museum exhibit. The flowers--miles of blooming gardens in colors I didn't even know existed, and giant vases filled with fresh-cut blossoms of every kind, set in hallways and on table centerpieces. The servants--a tray of tea is waiting in my sitting room every morning when I wake up, my bed is made for me, my laundry cleaned and folded without my asking and my room is straightened twice a day.

  This is definitely the life.

  But, there's a downside too--not to living in the palace, but to being among the elite who do live in a palace:

  "A stalker? What do you mean I have a stalker?" Livvy asks.

  We're in Winston's office. He's the head of palace security, and from what I can gather, he's like Cher, he only has the one name.

  We were called here--me, Olivia, Nicholas, Henry and Sarah, for a security briefing. Logan is here too, standing close to the wall, behind Winston's desk. And my heart does a flaily, off-beat pitter-pat. Because I haven't seen much of Logan lately. If I were the paranoid type, I'd think he was avoiding me.

  "Stalker isn't exactly the term I'd use," Logan says. "More like . . . an obsessive, who doesn't like you very much."

  Nicholas sits in the chair next to Olivia, holding her hand.

  "But why me?" she asks.

  "Royal pregnancies tend to get the mad ones all worked up," Winston, a gray-haired but solid looking man, replies.

  "How many notes have been sent?" Nicholas asks.

  "This is the third," Winston tells him.

  "What post are they coming from?" my brother-in-law asks.

  "Different every time--West Rothshire, Averdeen, Bailey Glen. No fingerprints, no DNA. Each note is threatening and focuses on Lady Olivia and the children."

  "What do the notes say exactly?" I ask, feeling sick.

  Logan answers before Winston can.

  "The specifics don't matter. We're monitoring the situation. We notified you so you'll all be aware, but . . . don't worry. Nothing is going to come of this."

  "Don't worry?" I parrot. "This is like some Game of Thrones bullshit right here--how the hell are we supposed to not worry?"

  Henry explains.

  "It's not as if we don't ever get hate mail. Or online threats--it happens all the time. I had five stalkers by the time I was sixteen."

  Henry shrugs at my sister. "You're not really a royal until you have a stalker--welcome to the club, Olive."

  Nope. That doesn't make me feel even a little bit better.

  Despite the news about the psycho stalking Olivia and Nicholas, apparently, the show goes on. This is what it means to be a public figure, a royal. With Henry and Sarah's Big Fat Royal Wedding just a few months away, there have been a ton of brunches and lunches and other events all geared toward celebrating the upcoming event. Which is why, the next night, I'm in a limo feeling like a movie star wearing a gorgeous, shiny, silver cocktail dress, with Nicholas and Olivia looking every inch the fairytale royal couple. We're on our way to Starlight Hall, where Henry and Sarah's friends are throwing a party in their honor.

  There are photographers and fans waiting outside, in roped off areas behind a wall of security. I shiver when I think the man obsessed with my sister could be in the crowd. But then the door opens, and Logan is holding out his hand to me.

  When I touch him, when I slide my hand into his and feel his fingers wrap around mine, a mixture of thrilling electricity and warm comfort races through me. Touching him is my drug, my addiction--though I try not to be a freak out about it. And knowing he's here, watching over us like a powerful, invincible guardian angel, settles my nerves and, like always, makes me feel safe and cared for. Because Logan would never let anything bad happen to any of us.

  And I believe with all my heart that there's nothing he can't do.

  The Starlight Hall is aptly named. It's a beautiful room with murals of lush rolling landscapes on the walls and a domed ceiling of thousands of small white iron-framed panes of glass. The guests are similar to the ones at other events I've attended with Olivia--a mix of young, sophisticated blue-bloods and older aristocratic lords and ladies wearing clunky jewels and big intricate hats.

  Olivia and I sit at a table, chatting with Simon Barrister and his wife, Franny. I've met the couple a few times over the years--through Simon's business with my father and because he's Nicholas's closest friend. Liv met Franny on her first trip to Wessco and she was a good friend to her, fierce and honest, when my sister really needed a friend. Franny is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life, with perfect, porcelain skin, glittering onyx eyes and mahogany hair.

  She's also one of the funniest. Because she's so direct. Practically brutal.

  "Death." Franny tells my sister emphatically. "Childbirth is like death. You'll think that you're dying and the pain is so bloody awful, you'll wish you were already dead."

  Simon and Franny have a three-year-old little boy, Jack, with sparkling blue eyes and red hair just like his dad.

  "So you're saying it's . . . not so bad?" Liv jokes.

  Franny laughs and Simon gazes at her like it's the most magical sound he's ever heard.

  "I'm just trying to prepare you." Franny insists. "I wish someone had prepared me."

  Then she looks over at her husband adoringly and strokes her hand down his arm.

  "But, afterwards, when you haven't died and they place that little bundle in your arms, you feel reborn. Like you've just accomplished the most perfect, important, wondrous thing you'll ever do. And you want to do it again and again."

  Later, the topic turns to nannies.

  Liv holds Nicholas's hand in hers, toying with the wedding ring on his finger.

  "I don't know about nannies--I don't think I want one."

  "One?" Franny exclaims. "You're having twins, you need an army of them."

  My sister tilts her head from side to side, unconvinced.

  "Don't be an American Bitch, Olivia. Nannies are a part of our culture--especially for you and Nicholas. I can't imagine how I would have turned out if I was left to be raised by my mother. It would have been a disaster."

  Simon nods to Nicholas. "Hopefully, you'll have better luck at keeping them employed. Ours quit, often--dropped like flies."

  Franny smirks, looking devilish and beautiful. "I can't imagine why."

  And Simon grins, delighted by her. "It's because you threaten them, darling." He turns toward us. "When they take Jack to the park, Franny reminds them if anything should happen to him, she'll slit their throats when they return."

  Franny shrugs adorably. "I'm just being honest. They should be forewarned."

  Later, I'm on my own, sipping a vodka and cranberry, while my sister and Nicholas are on the dance floor, gazing into each other's eyes. Simon and Franny are there too, clasped together, rocking in time to the music. I see Henry at the other end of the room, talking animatedly, surrounded by a group of people who are listening and laughing in response to his every word. Sarah is a few feet away, chatting with her blond sister, Penelope. She an actress in LA, only visiting for a few days, and then she'll return for the wedding.

  A new song comes from the band--an instrumental version of "Play That Song" by Train. I watch Henry leave his group and go over to Sarah--swooping her up, holding her around her hips, above him--both of them laughing and loving. I can't help but smile when he moves them ont
o the dance floor and slowly slides Sarah down his body until her feet touch the floor.

  If I can find someone who looks at me half as adoringly as Henry Pembrook looks at Sarah Von Titebottum, I'll be happy for the rest of my life.

  I sigh. Because love is all around me. And I'm Ms. Lonely.

  And then my gaze is moving . . . I don't have to scan the room to find Logan, I know just where he is--it's as if my brain has a 24/7 GPS on him.

  But the crazy, awesome, amazing thing that gets my heart pounding so loud it drowns out the sound of the music? When I look at Logan St. James across the room, he's not searching the crowd for threats. He's not looking in front of him, so he's ready for whatever may come.

  Instead, when I indulge in my daily Logan stare-fest . . . he's staring right back at me.

  An hour later, I sip my second drink, and am on my way to an awesome buzz, while chatting with Sarah about her Wessco Blue Coats charity work. She started a reading program a few years ago, and though she won't travel with them, now that she and Henry are engaged, she still organizes book drives and fundraisers. It's surreal to think that she'll be a queen one day. Crazy. Because she's so . . . normal. But she's also gracious, intelligent and genuine, all the qualities a country would want in a queen.

  She giggles, telling me a story about her friend Willard and his wife, Laura, when all of a sudden she stops mid-sentence. And the color drains from her face--even her lips turn to chalk.

  I put my hand on her arm. "Sarah? Are you all right?"

  She doesn't reply.

  I'm not sure what to do. I know Sarah's painfully shy and I don't want to embarrass her. So I turn around and motion Logan over. He comes immediately and focuses on Sarah as soon as he makes it to my side.

  "Lady Sarah? What is it?" Logan follows her gaze to where it's frozen on the tall, gray-haired man across the room. "Him? The man by the door?"

  Logan takes one step and Sarah grabs his arm in a panic. "Don't! Don't go near him. He's . . . dangerous."

  I take Sarah's other hand in mine--it's ice cold. "It's all right. He can't hurt us. Logan would never let that happen. We're here with you. You're okay."

  She doesn't blink, doesn't take her eyes off the man, and I'm not sure if she heard me.

  "Get Henry," Logan tells me. "Now."

  I give Sarah's hand a quick squeeze and leave her with Logan. Then I weave between guests until I find the blond prince talking with a small group of friends by the bar. I thread my arm through his, smile broadly and use an over-the-top Cockney accent when I say, "Beggin' yer pardon, gents. Have to steal the Guvnah, here, for a minute."

  As I lead him away, Henry asks softly, "What's wrong?"

  "It's Sarah. Come on."

  We cross the room smooth and steady, so as not to draw too much attention to us. Henry smiles and nods along the way, but there's a tension to his features--until he reaches Sarah's side.

  "The lord by the door," Logan tells him. "Do you know who he is?"

  Henry turns to look and his whole body goes stiff. "St. James, take Lady Sarah in the back room."

  "He's smaller than I remember," Sarah says, in a whispery, airy tone.

  "Sarah . . ." Henry tries again.

  "Do you think it's because the last time I saw him, I was a child?" she asks. "Or perhaps I've built him up in my mind to be a monster, when really, he's just a man. A terrible man." Sarah covers her mouth with her hand. "My mother is here . . . Penny . . . they can't see him, they'll--"

  Henry slides his hand into her hair and brings her face to his. "Go in the back with Logan and Ellie. I will take care of this."

  Sarah blinks, breathing deeply. Then she shakes her head. "No. No, I can do it. I need to, I think. Just . . . stay with me?"

  Henry brushes her hair back. "Always."

  With a nod from Sarah, the future king and queen walk hand in hand toward the man by the door, with Logan and me following behind. They stop a few feet away. He bows to Henry and looks Sarah over in a detached, indifferent sort of way.

  "Sarah. You're looking well."

  Sarah squeezes Henry's hand so tight, her knuckles turn white.

  "You were not invited here," she says, with slightly more strength in her voice.

  The man adjusts his cuffs. "I'm the father of the bride. I need no invitation. I still have acquaintances in the city, how would it look if I didn't attend?"

  Sarah's laugh is harsh. "Father? No." She shakes her head. "No, you lost that privilege the moment you put your hands on my mother. And on me."

  My head whips around at the confession. Oh, Sarah. Logan's face is immobile and his attention on Sarah's father remains unflinching.

  "You are nothing to me now," she tells him. "You are not even a shadow in the farthest corner of my mind. I have put you behind me. We all have. And that is where you will stay. I'd like you to leave now. You need to go."

  The lord hesitates. "Now you see here--"

  Henry steps forward, leaning in, his voice menacing and sharp--like a blade.

  "Don't go--run. While you can. If you speak to the press or to anyone--if you fucking whisper her name--I will know. And I swear, on my mother, I will bury you alive beneath the palace so Sarah can walk on your grave every day of her life."

  He stares back at Henry for a few tense beats. And then--without even glancing Sarah's way--he turns around and walks out.

  "I think . . ." Sarah almost wheezes, her voice soft and gasping. "I think I'd like to go in the back now."

  Henry nods and guides her away. Logan walks in front of them, clearing a path through the guests, and I follow. The room is small--a little sitting area with just one table and a pitcher of water, and a chaise lounge. A "fainting couch," they used to call it, and I wonder if this is the room they used to bring the ladies for smelling salts, when their corsets were too tight.

  As soon as Logan closes the door behind us, Sarah covers her face with her hands and sobs into them. Henry sits on the lounge and pulls her down onto his lap, holding her close, rocking her in his arms. I pour a glass of water from a pitcher and set it within his reach.

  "I don't even know why I'm crying," she stutters. "It's just . . . overwhelming."

  Henry strokes her jaw and kisses her forehead, whispering, "You did so well, my love. So brave. I'm so proud of you."

  "This is the last time, Henry." Sarah looks into his eyes. "This is the last time I will ever cry because of him."

  Henry nods and tucks Sarah against him.

  Logan and I discreetly slip out the door, and close it softly. I stay with him while he guards the door to make sure Henry and Sarah aren't disturbed. Because even though the party hasn't stopped, standing beside Logan is the only place I want to be.

  OVER THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Queen Lenora takes me "under her wing." She says I have "potential" and she wants to see me reach it. I'm not going to lie, it's exciting to have her attention, to be in her presence, and I've started taking notes on my phone on the little gems of advice she gives out. She's so elegant, powerful--I've never met a woman with such a commanding attitude and self-possession. And she can compartmentalize like a boss. Queen, Grandmother, Diplomat, female version of General George fucking Patton.

  I don't know what her idea of my potential is, but if she's thinking of me as the future in-palace psychologist, count me in. I could really sink my teeth into the issues of the royal family--relationship conflicts, political conflicts, passive-aggressive internal resentments galore. It'd be a dream job--better than Dr. Melfi analyzing mob boss Tony Soprano.

  Nothing exemplifies this more than the recent afternoon we were having tea in the east garden--me, Queen Lenora, Livvy and a friend of the Queen's, Mayor George Fulton. We're surrounded by tulips and bluebells, at a white wicker table with butterflies flapping past, like a page straight out of the beginning of Alice in Wonderland.

  "Tell us about the new transportation initiative you're working on, George," the Queen says.

  George Fulton seems young to be a
mayor--maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He's cute in a tall, blond, lanky JFK sort of way. His accent is nice and he smiles easily.

  He explains the cutting-edge technology they're installing on the Tube that would propel the trains with magnetic power instead of electricity.

  "That's brilliant," the Queen comments. "Isn't that brilliant, Eleanor?"

  I don't correct her about the name. I'm not an expert on etiquette, but I get the feeling if it's rude to correct your host, correcting the Queen of Wessco is a major freaking no-no.

  So I nod and smile. "It's really interesting."

  "We're planning on renaming the first renovated station the Margaret-Ana, after your mother, Your Majesty."

  "That would be lovely," Queen Lenora says. "Mother was a forward thinker--ahead of her time." Then she turns to my sister, motioning to her big baby belly. "And speaking of names, Olivia, I've been meaning to discuss the children's names with you."

  Liv sets her teacup down. "Their names?"

  "Yes. Although we don't know if it will be two boys, two girls or one of each, it's crucial that they are well thought out. Symbolic and representative. Nicholas's grandfather's side of the family has been neglected in recent years, so you and he will be expected to make up for that now."

  "Oh. Uh . . . well, what were you thinking?"

  "Ernstwhile."

  There's a pause in the air--even the bees stop buzzing--and the word just sort of hangs there, like a bad smell.

  My sister's not sure if she heard right.

  "Ersntwhile?"

  She heard right.

  "Yes. A fine, strong name, with history behind it. And for the boy--"

  "Ernstwhile is the girl's name?" Liv asks, wide-eyed and horrified.

  "Yes, of course. Nicholas's great-great-aunt Ernstwhile; she was a very resilient woman."

  With a name like that, I think she'd have to be.

  "And for the boy--Damien," the Queen declares.

  Cue The Omen music.

  Olivia's one, true fear. She watched the movie secretly when she was nine, after our parents went to bed one night, and it scarred her for life. I still remember her combing through my four-year-old hair, searching for a 6-6-6 tattoo--just to be safe.

  "Nicholas and I were thinking of more . . . common names."