Glass Castle Prince

by Nicole Williams

  “Sounds like a wise plan,” I said, picking at a stray thread on the cuff of my sweater. I knew Edward had been burdened with thoughts of taking over in his father’s place one day, but I hadn’t realized that day was months away. Most of Norland’s rulers had been well into their fifties or sixties by the time their turn came to ascend the throne.

  “Sure, it’s a wise plan.” Frederick tossed his controller aside again, checking his phone. From the looks of it, he had a lot of missed messages. “If Edward actually agrees to be king.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” I asked, playing dumb. I might have known Edward had his hesitations, but I didn’t know the extent of his reasons behind it.

  “Dude. For a million reasons.” When I covered my heart at James branding me one of the “dudes,” he tossed a half-eaten pretzel at me. “Listen, I know being the ruler of a country might sound like a sweet gig, but there’s a heavy price to pay.”

  “Like wearing suits and ties every day of his life.” Frederick ran his fingers along his neck as though even the thought of a tie was strangling him.

  “Unlike those of you who prefer to strut through life half-naked?” My finger circled Frederick’s hairy legs hanging out of his boxer shorts.

  He shot a disparaging look my way, scratching himself with extra enthusiasm.

  “Or living in fear of making a mistake and having it scrutinized in public for decades to come.” Andrew pitched his empty water bottle into the garbage can. When he missed, he actually went over, picked it up, and put it in the bin. They were learning.

  In tortoise scoots.

  James sat up. “Or having to spend your life with someone you didn’t choose but was chosen for you. That would seriously blow.” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Marriage is both a life and death sentence. Might as well like the chick’s brains as much as you do her boobs.”

  “Poetry. A future Emerson or Frost.” Frederick tipped an imaginary hat at James.

  I interrupted their fun, sitting up in my seat. “He can’t marry who he wants?”

  “The guy can’t even date who he wants. You really think they’re just going to let him marry any old girl off the streets?” Andrew cuffed his ear with his hand, waiting for my answer. “I’d be willing to bet my family’s yacht that his parents have had a wife picked out for him since the week he was born.”

  “And let’s just say she wasn’t picked for her brains or her boobs,” James added.

  I took a second to process all of that. Arranged marriages were a thing of the past . . . but maybe not such ancient history for those in Edward’s position.

  “Yeah, I guess that would be hard.” My throat moved as I thought about him. How could I miss someone so much when he’d thought nothing of leaving me? It didn’t seem fair. Or reasonable. But I knew human emotions rarely tread in fairness or along reason’s path.

  “He gets to be king. But he has to sacrifice every aspect of his life.” Frederick shoved out of his seat, shaking crumbs and god only knew what else out of his boxers. I needed a hazmat suit to come within two yards of these three after an all-day video-game binge. “Would you do it?”

  I plucked the stray thread free at last. “I don’t know.”

  “I would.” James leapt up with the other two. “And I’d say to hell with the rules, I’m king and making new ones.”

  “It’s not that easy, asshole.” Andrew shoved James as they headed out of the room, hopefully in search of a shower, because unless a girl was nose-deaf, none of them were coming within twenty feet of her smelling the way they did.

  “Yeah, well, it should be,” James countered. “Thanks for the goods, doc. I don’t know what we’d do without you looking out for our sorry asses.”

  “Melt into a pile of toxic sludge?” I suggested.

  “One hour. The west hills. Bring a sled, some booze, and an extra dose of daring.”

  I clucked my tongue in acknowledgement, though I would probably skip it and do some laps in the pool instead. It had become a nightly ritual, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to abandon it for a night of sledding with a mess of drunk rich kids who spoke in dudes and insults. Then again, noise and activity had a way of emptying my brain of all things of an unsavory nature, a certain prince’s absence topping that list.

  Pushing out of the chair, I made a mental note to make sure the guys cleaned up the room and deodorized it tomorrow, then I headed for my bedroom.

  After layering on the usual four layers I needed to face the outdoors, I left the castle, carrying an old cookie sheet from the kitchen as my “sled.” Off to the west, I could make out several bonfires and the faint sound of voices. It was a Thursday night in November and dozens of young people had gathered for a sledding party, which was more a cover to drink and hook up, if previous parties were any indicator.

  Most twenty-somethings I knew were either too busy studying or working to be able to drop everything and attend a party at a few hours’ notice, but these twenty-somethings came with trust funds, family fortunes, and titles that seemed to exempt them from everyday responsibility and structure. That didn’t make them wicked people, just . . . disillusioned.

  That was why I’d decided to come tonight. To escape. To forget. To believe what I wanted to believe and feign ignorance where reality was concerned. To convince myself I hadn’t foolishly fallen for the prince of the country I was a citizen of, and still bore feelings for him weeks after he’d basically bailed on me right after I offered my virginity to him on a silver platter.

  A night of disillusionment was exactly what I needed, I thought, trudging through the billowy blanket of snow. It came halfway up my boots, and it was just cold enough that little crystals were forming on the surface of the snow, making it sparkle.

  My legs and lungs were burning by the time I made it to the top of the hill everyone had gathered on. As anticipated, most people were more interested in other pursuits than sledding.

  “I said a sled, Everly. What the hell is that?” James shouted at me, eyes dipping to what I had tucked against my side.

  “It’s a sled. For those of us who came from working class families.” I gave him a look before setting my cookie sheet on the snow.

  James separated from the group, tromping through the snow with a bottle of beer in his hand. “No, that’s what homeless people use as a makeshift tent.” James pointed his bottle of beer behind us. “Those are sleds.”

  My eyes lifted after surveying the stockpile that no one was, had, or probably would use tonight. “Those are show sleds.”

  “What the hell’s a show sled?” he asked.

  “An object that appears as though it could rip down a hill of snow at a roaring speed. The kind rich kids like yourself would buy but never use because having fun one doesn’t pay for is a foreign concept.” I finished my diatribe with a smile as I tugged my stocking cap over my ears.

  James appeared to be processing what I’d said. Unsuccessfully.

  “How about if I show you what I mean? Makes for a better visual.” I motioned at the lineup of sleds. “Take your pick, but choose wisely.”

  James huffed as he stomped toward the sleds. “So the opposite of what you chose, pretty much?”

  I settled on top of the cookie tray, trying not to laugh when I caught him enlisting the help of a few guys, who appeared as flummoxed as he was when it came to picking out a proper sled.

  “I’m getting frostbite over here!” I called when he began turning over each one and running his glove over it.

  “Meet thy doom.” James held up his selection at last, the guys around him grunting in support.

  I had to look away so he wouldn’t see my evil grin. He really had zero sledding experience, as his choice proved. It was one of those old Radio Flyers with two red blades and strips of wood making up the platform. An amazing sled if you were a five-year-old wanting your mom or dad to pull you or if you wanted to cruise down a gentle hill covered in a couple inches of snow. But in half a foot of fresh powder, he’
d be lucky to get that thing going. And if he did, he’d be lucky to stay on.

  “What’s the smug look for? You haven’t won the race yet.” James dropped his sled beside me, too focused on me to notice that his sled almost entirely sank into the snow.

  “Call it reserved confidence.” I grabbed the front corners of my tray, wiggling my butt to loosen it from the snow.

  “You’re not thinking of cheating, are you?” James blinked at me inching myself forward as he cleared the snow from his sled.

  “I’ll give you a three-second head start.” I waved down the hill as he climbed onto his sled.

  “Someone’s feeling more than reserved confidence.” James bounced around in an attempt to dislodge his sled, but he didn’t get far. “Is a push start allowed?”

  “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

  James glanced back at the gathering crowd. “Hamilton, give me a push, will you? I want to be at the bottom of this hill before she’s even picked up any speed.”

  I froze for a moment when I saw Theo, but not for long. After the night of our first or sixth or whatever date, he’d left a few messages and texts apologizing and asking for another chance. After forty-eight hours, the messages came to an abrupt halt and, judging by the girl he’d had to un-velcro from him to help James, he’d moved on.

  Great to know I was worth all the effort a guy could exert in forty-eight hours. Super feeling. Not that Theo Hamilton was the kind of guy I should use as a measuring stick for anything, but still, it stung.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about.” Theo’s boots crunched through the snow, his hulking form hovering above James on his sled. “Charlotte is a slow mover.” A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but when it wasn’t joined by one of James’s, it cut off rather abruptly.

  “Most women usually are where you’re concerned, isn’t that right, Theodore?” James shot a wink at me, the kind that read I’ve got your back.

  I hadn’t dished the details to my housemates as to why Theo and I had cut things off—I wasn’t sure they’d even noticed—but they seemed to have arrived at their own conclusions.

  Theo didn’t give a warning before rushing at James, looking as though his goal was to shove him into the next district instead of down the hill ahead of me. I began counting the moment Theo’s hands connected with James’s back.

  “Three!” I hollered, sliding back and forth a few times before hurling myself down the hill.

  I was flying, the crust forming on the snow creating the perfect conditions for my DIY sled. The hill was both long and steep though, and I had to close my eyes thanks to the wind-chill. When I kept speeding down the hill, my speed not tapering off, I had to force my eyes open to make sure I wasn’t about to crash into a tree. The tree line at the base of the hill had seemed far off from up top, but I was about to charge into it.

  I had a solid two seconds to react, but I only took one. Diving off the cookie sheet, I crashed into the snow instead of the tree I was heading straight toward. My trusty homemade sled collided with it instead.

  Lying in the snow for a moment, I let myself bask in the exhilaration firing in my veins, the rush pulsing in my head. I used to sled these hills as a child when I called the groundskeeper’s cabin home, but it had been years since my last time sledding, despite the crap I’d given James.

  “Hey, Everly! You alive down there?” James voice boomed down the hill at me.

  Tipping my head back, I discovered he was still at the top. I waved my arm in answer.

  “Sledding sucks!” he yelled.

  “Sore loser,” I muttered, a grin on my face when I sat up.

  It looked as though everyone had gotten back to drinking and making out, huddled around one of the campfires. A warm fire and a drink sounded good, but I wasn’t in the mood to play Dodge the Theodore all night long. The asshole was smug enough I knew he’d parade his latest conquest in front of me whenever the chance arose.

  I might have been all for disillusionment for one night, but a girl knew her limits. After collecting my “sled,” I tramped through the snow, hugging the tree line. I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

  The brightness cast off from the snow made my journey an easy one, though I had a decent chunk of ground to cover. The cabin came into view about fifteen minutes later, but I wasn’t expecting to find light glowing from the windows, a gray curl of smoke rising from the chimney. The scene was familiar—cut from the pages of my childhood memories—though it wasn’t one I’d expected to witness ten years later.

  When no one was supposed to be living at the old groundskeeper’s cabin.

  The healthy amount of fear my parents had raised me with instructed I should turn around and gather one of the guys before pounding on the front door to find out who was squatting inside. After all, I was in charge of overseeing Valmont, the cabin being under that umbrella of responsibilities.

  But the curiosity I’d been born with, paired with an inflated sense of self-resilience, had me moving toward the front door.

  Peeking in one of the windows, I didn’t see anyone inside. A fire was glowing in the fireplace, so someone had to be close by, though that was the only sign of life I could find. No boots warming by the hearth, no dishes stacked beside the sink, nothing to indicate who might have been hiding out.

  After setting my cookie sheet beside the front door, I debated knocking. Was it better to announce myself? Or take the trespasser by surprise? Neither answer seemed to be the clear winner, so I went with rapping on the door a couple of times before trying the doorknob.

  It wasn’t locked. The old door creaked open the exact same way it had when I’d been a child running in and out.

  “Hello?” I called, taking a couple more steps inside.

  No response came.

  “Is anybody here?”

  My psyche cringed when I realized I was setting myself up to play the real-life leading lady role in a slasher movie, shouting all the expected lines into a seemingly empty cabin, continuing to creep toward danger when anyone with sense would have been sprinting in the other direction.

  No one responded.

  Pausing in front the fireplace, I scanned the room for any signs of who might have been here. Something caught my eye right as I heard a sound outside. I’d left the door half open, to make for an easy escape . . . which also made for a quick entrance for any mass-murderer in search of instinct-handicapped young women.

  Grabbing the poker leaning against the fireplace, I rushed behind the front door, waiting as the crunching of snow became louder. Lifting the poker when I heard the stomping of boots right outside the door, I froze when I saw who came inside.

  “What are you doing here?” I shrieked, expecting to find anyone—anyone—else out here.

  Edward’s back tensed, though that was the only surprise he showed that he’d arrived to an unexpected guest. When he turned, his gaze lifted automatically to the poker still raised above my head.

  “Thank you for exercising restraint before swinging this time.” He closed the door with his foot, his arms full with firewood.

  “What are you doing here, Edward?” I repeated, lowering the poker and following him toward the fireplace.

  “I could ask you the same question.” He crouched beside the fire, stacking the wood one piece at a time.

  “I saw lights. I came to see why, as I was under the impression no one lived here anymore.”

  “You’re right. No one’s lived here for years.” He studied the fire then tossed a fresh piece of wood inside. “Not for nearly—”

  “Ten years,” I answered.

  He dusted off the sleeves of his jacket before sliding off his leather work gloves. “Now how did you know that? And please don’t tell me you’re one of those royal fanatics who knows every piece of trivia and life story dating back three generations.” The corner of his mouth twitched when he noticed I was still holding the poker. “It would ruin the whole image I have of you believing we’re all just a bunch of unnece
ssary, elitist buffoons.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.” I placed the poker back where I’d found it. “I came out here because I spent my first ten years calling this cabin home.”

  His forehead creased. “Home?”

  “My father was the Valmont groundskeeper. He and my mom brought me home from the hospital to this place. I broke my arm swinging from the tree just outside, and lost my first tooth after tying a string to that door and slamming it closed.” I pointed at the door that had been my bedroom’s a lifetime ago.

  “You spent ten years here? At Valmont?” For all of the shock and surprise Edward had a talent for hiding, he wasn’t concealing it now.

  “My home wasn’t Valmont. This”—my foot tapped the worn wood floors—“was my home. My parents wanted me to have a normal life and didn’t let me come within fifty yards of Valmont Manor itself. That’s why my dad resigned and we moved. They didn’t want me to grow up under a ‘false veneer.’” I quoted the term they’d used, the reason they’d wanted me to grow up around people like us, facing obstacles everyday citizens faced. Out here, it was easy to embrace an idealized false reality.

  “And yet here you are, ten years later, back at the very place your parents obviously felt was important to take you away from.”

  My shoulder lifted through my layers. “So now you know why I’m here. But you haven’t explained why you are.”

  He rose from the fire, continuing to stare at it, brow drawn.

  “Okay, let’s start with something easier,” I said, when he remained quiet. “How long have you been back?”

  He slid out of his boots and placed them beside the fire. “A while.”

  “Define a while.”

  He angled toward me. “I thought I just did.”

  “Where’s the cavalry that follows you everywhere you go?” I asked, checking the room to make sure I hadn’t missed a dark-suited, sharp-jawed guard.

  “I sent them back to Stratford. Okay, I ordered them back,” he added when he noticed the disbelief on my face. “I needed to be alone.”

  Peeling off my jacket, I threw it onto the sofa. “Why did you leave?”