A wave of exhaustion hits me. I stretch my arms overhead to work some of the knots out of my back and groan when the bones crack. I feel like an old lady at the ripe age of twenty.
No matter what anyone says — reading is a contact sport. Five straight hours of hunching over the pages is seriously rough on the spine.
Yawning widely, I turn toward my bed, suddenly desperate to close my eyes and put a stop to this never-ending day. I pick my way across the minefield of scattered letters on my floor. They might as well be explosives, as far as I’m concerned.
When my eyes snag on a thick, pale blue envelope peeking out at the top of the stack, addressed to me in unmistakably feminine handwriting, I tell myself to keep walking, to ignore it, but…
Curiosity wins out.
Bending, I pick it up like it truly might contain a bomb and slide out the thick leafs of parchment inside with hesitant fingers. One bears the Queen’s seal, along with her signature in bold ink. My eyes widen as I skim the official letter of pardon.
On this day, the twenty-first of November… by royal decree… Mr. Owen Harding… hereby cleared of all pending charges pertaining to acts of terrorism against the crown…
It’s signed with her full title, flourishes of black ink crossing the page like a spider’s web.
Her Royal Majesty Octavia Thorne, Queen Consort of Germania
Still reeling from shock that she actually followed through on my demand for Owen’s pardon, I flip to the second sheet of parchment. It’s mostly blank. Only a small note mars the ivory surface — though I suppose she doesn’t need more than a few words to threaten me. Nine are as effective as nine hundred.
“I’ve kept my promise. See that you keep yours.”
Chapter Six
“Oh my god! It’s Princess Emilia!”
“Princess! Princess! Look this way!”
“We love you, Emilia!”
I step out of the sleek Rolls Royce limousine and am met with an explosion of camera flashes and screams from the gathered crowd. I’m surprised to see this many people assembled so early in the morning for something as boring as a hospital dedication ceremony.
Don’t people have anything better to do with their Saturday morning than shiver in the cold on a city sidewalk?
Their shouts grow deafening as I make my way slowly down the cobbled street. As the barrage of sound engulfs us, I begin to suspect they aren’t here for the hospital at all.
“It’s her!”
“It’s the princess!”
“No way!”
“Oh my god!”
Galizia trails slightly behind me, an ever-present shadow. Simms walks directly to my left. Six more members of the King’s Guard surround us on all sides, outfitted in nondescript navy uniforms instead of the elaborately embroidered dress blues I recall from the last time I stepped foot outside the palace, at King Leopold and Queen Abigail’s funeral.
I suppose swords, banners, and full regalia are reserved for formal affairs only.
“Your Royal Highness!”
“Princess Emilia!”
The crowd never lets up — neither yelling nor snapping photographs. I resist the urge to lift an arm and shield my eyes from the visual assault, to duck my head and run for cover back inside the limo.
After being cooped up in the empty, echoing castle for so long, it’s jarring to find myself back in the real world. Everything feels too bright, too bold. I am an ant beneath a magnifying glass, being incinerated in slow degrees by a concentrated sunbeam.
“We love you, Princess!”
As I approach the hospital steps, where the podium awaits, I spot several armed security personnel stationed on nearby rooftops, monitoring the scene from above. Between their sniper rifles, the heavy police presence interspersed throughout the crowd, and the metal detectors erected at every perimeter, glinting in the harsh morning light, I feel more like a high-profile prisoner being transferred before trial than I do a royal about to christen a new municipal building.
The entire block in front of the military hospital has been cordoned off for the commemoration ceremony. People line the sidewalks, pressed tight against the partitions to catch a glimpse of their new princess in the flesh for the first time. The crowd is dense with families, former military personnel, couples of all ages — folks Lady Morrell would no doubt refer to as commoners.
They wave and cheer as I move past them, feeling stiff as a robot as I walk between the barricades. I’m still unaccustomed to being the center of this much attention and I’m sure it shows in my every awkward stride.
“Princess!”
“Princess Emilia!”
“Your Highness!”
As they call out to me, hands extended, I try to heed Simms’ words from this morning’s limo ride.
Smile politely but don’t stop, he advised me, his beady eyes fixed on mine. You’re only here to be seen — there’s no need to speak to them. When you reach the podium, smile and wave. You may say a quick hello into the mic, but the Minister of Veteran Affairs will handle the actual speaking obligations.
His plan was simple enough in theory, but I think he underestimated how excited the crowds would be when I made my debut. There’s a frenzied energy running through the throng. The air feels supercharged with electricity. You’d think I were a celebrity walking an award show red carpet.
After a few moments, the constant flash of cameras becomes practically blinding. Ignoring my burning retinas, I keep my chin up and my feet moving. Somehow, I manage not to bobble on the hunter green high heels Lady Morrell picked out for me to wear with a designer shift dress, black stockings, and an elegant wool peacoat.
In this dignified outfit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror this morning. My nails are painted an appropriate neutral shade and buffed to perfection. My dark hair is swept back in an elegant twist. The artfully-applied makeup enhances my features and covers even the most prominent under-eye circles.
To complete the look: a silver tiara from the Lancaster vault that costs more than a year’s college tuition, plus interest, rests atop of my head. It’s light as a feather and yet… it’s so heavy with the weight of my new sovereignty, I can barely keep my chin up. I think I finally understand that oft-touted expression.
Heavy lies the head that wears a crown.
Despite my many objections about putting on such an ostentatious show of wealth — ‘Everyone already knows I’m a princess, why rub their noses in it?!’ — Lady Morrell gave me no choice in the matter.
Nonsense! Queen Abigail wore that same tiara to her sister’s wedding in Sweden nearly twenty-five years ago. It suits you beautifully. If only you would dress like this every day, Your Highness… I will never fathom the appeal of those dreadful yoga pants you insist upon wearing here at the palace…
Teeth set in a winning smile, I wave and keep walking. It’s only fifty yards to the podium, but it feels more like fifty miles. I’m not sure whether my cheeks or my feet hurt worse by the time I finally near the end of the gauntlet.
“The Princess!”
“Look! It’s Princess Emilia!”
For the most part, the din of the crowd is indistinguishable — a melody of greetings and good wishes blending together into a cacophony of sound. One voice manages to cut through, though: a child’s high-pitched squeal, pure and sweet with little-girl wonder.
“Mama! Mama! She’s a real princess!”
I glance to my right, searching the sea of faces until I find them. There, at the very front, a small girl in a shabby dress is standing with her mother. The woman can’t be much older than I am, but her face is etched with lines — the fingerprints of poverty and pain. Her coat looks threadbare, far too thin for this winter weather. Her little girl isn’t even wearing a hat; I can see the pink tips of her ears sticking out over the top of two braided blonde pigtails.
It’s clear from one glance that whatever path they walk is not an easy one. Still, there’s pure love in the mother’s eyes as sh
e stares down at her young daughter.
Something about them stops me dead in my tracks, makes my eyes sting in the chill morning air. Unbidden, I’m flooded with the image of my own mother — how she’d laughed and turned it into a game when our power was shut off because she couldn’t pay the electric bill.
We’re camping in the living room tonight, Emmy! Grab your flashlight. Come on, let’s make a pillow fort…
I have a thousand memories like that. Her chucking me playfully on the chin when I was feeling sorry for myself because I couldn’t take ballet lessons like the other girls in my kindergarten class. Her waving away my concerns that she wasn’t taking her asthma medication because the refills were too expensive. Her quick smile, covering up the stress of another debt collector knocking at our door. Her empty plate as she set down a full dinner in front of me.
My heart pangs painfully.
Mom.
We never had much of anything… but we had each other. And somehow, that was always enough. Somehow, it was everything.
Stay bold, pure heart.
“Your Highness?” Simms prompts, confused by my sudden stop in the middle of the street. “Are you all right—”
I don’t even look at him. I’m busy straining to make out the little girl’s words as she sways on her scuffed shoes.
“Mama, can I grow up to be a princess, too?”
The mother’s expression falls a bit. Her mouth opens, presumably to break the bad news.
No, you can’t, sweetheart.
Before I can stop myself, I’m in motion — diverting from my path to the podium, heading toward their spot on the sidewalk instead. Behind me, Simms makes a sound of distress and Galizia hisses something indecipherable, but I ignore them both as I approach the barricades.
The crowd’s screams grow deafening when I come to a stop a few feet away, everyone crying out my name, attempting to catch my attention, taking photos rapid-fire with their phones and selfie sticks held aloft. My gaze never shifts from the mother-daughter duo.
“Hi, there.”
The woman’s eyes have gone wide as saucers. The little girl is staring up at me in awe. I crouch down to her level so our eyes meet through the metal bars of the partition. She’s no more than four or five years old. There’s a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose.
“What’s your name?”
The girl looks up at her mother for approval before whispering, “Annie.”
“Hi, Annie. I’m Emilia. It’s nice to meet you. Where are you from?”
“Hawthorne.”
My heart turns over when she mentions the small neighborhood in Vasgaard where I grew up. A few months ago, she might’ve been my neighbor. A few years ago, she might’ve been me.
“Are you really a princess?” A slight speech impediment softens her consonants, turning her r’s into w’s. Pwincess.
I nod. “I am.”
“Do you live in a castle?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Like in a faiwy tale!”
“Oh, yes. It’s just like a fairy tale,” I lie.
“When I gwow up, I’m going to be a pwincess like you!” Annie declares proudly. “Wight, Mama?”
Her mother turns beet red. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t understand—”
I shake my head, smiling genuinely for the first time since my eyes cracked open. “You know what, Annie? I grew up in Hawthorne, too.”
Her brows shoot upward. “Weally?”
“Really. And if I can be a princess, so can you.” Reaching up, I remove the small tiara from my head. It sparkles brilliantly in the daylight. Without a thought, I reach through the bars and set it atop Annie’s blonde hair.
I hear gasps from the surrounding onlookers — a wave of shock breaking like a great tidal shift. The little girl is staring at me with total adoration.
“There you go,” I murmur, adjusting the delicate headpiece with a wink. “Beautiful.”
Annie reaches up to touch the tiara, her lips spreading into a huge smile. She’s missing a front tooth. “Do I wook wike a pwincess now?”
“Totally.”
She beams bigger.
“Can I tell you a secret, Annie?”
“Uh huh!”
I lean in so only she can hear my words. “There’s magic in that tiara. It makes whoever wears it brave enough to follow their dreams. So, whenever you feel scared or uncertain, I want you to put it on. And I want you to remember that you’re a brave girl, who can be whoever she wants to be when she grows up. Okay?” I pull back a bit to stare into her light brown eyes. “You can do anything you want, Annie. You just have to be brave. Understand?”
She’s wide-eyed with wonder. “Yes, Pwincess Emiwia.”
When I rise and meet her mother’s gaze, she looks almost fearful. “Your Highness — we can’t possibly accept—”
I wave her words away. “Of course you can. Besides, it looks better on her, anyway.”
Shooting one last smile at Annie, I turn and walk back to the middle of the street. Galizia’s eyebrows are up by her hairline. From my peripheral, I catch sight of Simms’ pinched expression. I’m sure he’ll ream me out later for giving away a priceless piece of jewelry, but I honestly don’t care.
It was worth it to make that little girl’s day a bit brighter. It was worth it to lend her a little bit of magic. And the Lancaster vault is stocked with enough jewels to last a lifetime. Several lifetimes. One little tiara won’t be missed.
The crowd is newly energized as I walk the remaining distance up the stairs to the podium. They scream so loud I worry I’ll end up with premature hearing loss, their individual calls blending into a crush of sound. Even after I shake hands with the Minister of Veteran Affairs and step up to the microphone, they continue to cheer until Simms gestures for silence. Glancing over at me, he gives a stern look that clearly conveys his orders.
Smile nicely. Say hello. Step away.
I try not to roll my eyes as I turn to the crowd and clear my throat. “Wow. Thank you all for the warm greeting!”
I jolt when I hear my own voice booming out from the speakers, echoing off buildings. It’s a strange, disembodied sensation. My gaze drifts across the many faces in the crowd — young, old, male, female. I see a group of grey-haired men in military uniforms who must be WWII soldiers clustered beside a group of schoolchildren on a field trip, their yellow primary school jumpers a visual assault even at this distance. I see a young couple holding hands beside an elderly pair pressed up against the railing.
So many different faces, all turned toward mine. All with one thing in common.
Hope.
It’s written plainly across every expression in the crowd. And when I recognize it… it’s impossible not to be humbled. It’s impossible to keep thinking of what I’m doing here as a chore to check off my to-do list, or some royal obligation to speed through without consideration.
They’re all looking to you, Emilia.
They’re all cheering for you.
Don’t let them down.
Simms’ plan goes out the window. Because I now know I can’t just say a quick hello and step away. I owe them more than that.
Hauling in a shaky breath, I set my shoulders and swallow the lump of nerves in my throat. Usually, before any event that involves public speaking, I’d rehearse extensively in my bathroom mirror beforehand.
There’s no time for that today.
I’ll probably stumble over some of my words and speak a little too fast and say all the wrong things. As speeches go, it won’t be eloquent or elegant. Not polished or pretty. Still… I’ll try to do it the only way I know how. The way my mother taught me.
Straight from the heart.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “As you may know, I’m rather new to all of this… princess stuff.”
I hear a choked sound from Simms, but I carry on.
“Honestly, the only time I’ve ever made a speech before was during my university’s required oration course — and I
’m sure both my classmates and Professor Albright would be happy to confirm that it did not go well. So please forgive me if I stumble.”
There’s a wave of laughter, followed by a flood of supportive applause. I hear someone shout ‘We love you, Emilia!’ from the back of the crowd, and my smile widens a shade.
“It’s a privilege to be here today to celebrate Remembrance Day. The basic fact is, Germania would not exist without the brave men and women who have dedicated their lives to keeping our great nation safe.”
More applause rings out.
“I know, as a whole, we don’t always agree about politics or religion or, hell, even which rugby team to root for—” Simms inhales an offended breath at my use of profanity, but no one else seems to care. “If there’s one thing we can all agree on, though, it’s that our military deserves recognition. Respect. Remembrance. Not just today, but every day of the year.”
People are nodding along with my words. Many have taken out their cellphones and started filming. Trying not to dwell too much on that, I grab my train of thought before it runs away from me completely.
“We humans have a tendency to make things more complicated than they need to be. But this — this is simple. Our veterans took care of us. Now, it’s our turn to take care of them.”
Their reaction is riotous. I have to wait a full minute for it to quiet down before continuing.
“Without further ado… on behalf of my father, His Majesty King Linus, I am honored to announce the grand opening of the state-of-the-art facility you see behind me. It was built specifically to serve active-duty personnel in our Air Force, Military, General Police, and King’s Guard, as well as retired service members and their families.” Half-turning, I gesture to the gorgeous glass building. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Leopold and Abigail Veteran’s Hospital and Rehabilitation Center.”
The cheers swell to a crescendo when I mention the facility’s namesake — our fallen king and queen, lost so suddenly in last month’s deadly fire. I see several people in the audience wiping tears, overcome by emotion. I see Annie and her mother cheering. I see the WWII veterans saluting proudly. I see a dozen school children clapping wildly.
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