I get that, but it also strikes me as really stupid. If there’s a fire, who cares about art? Even really fancy art.
“Rich people are weird,” I say, and that little baby smile Miles was working on dies immediately.
“It’s priceless art,” he tells me, and I put the knife back into its holster. It makes a little schick noise in the quiet corridor.
“I happen to think my life is kind of priceless, but whatever.”
We face each other, and after a moment, Miles takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says, even though the words come out like someone is holding a gun—or a tiny dagger—to his head. “I shouldn’t have implied anything about you and Seb. He’s . . . it’s just been a long night.”
I notice he doesn’t apologize for his general jerkitude before that, but then he tilts his head to the left and says, “I’ll show you back to your room.”
I don’t want to spend any more time with him, but I’m glad he doesn’t bother to mention how obviously lost I got in the five minutes I was away from him, so I just nod and follow him.
It doesn’t take nearly as long to get back as I’d thought it would, which means I definitely took a wrong turn or twelve, and as we walk down my hallway, I say, “Okay, seriously, how does anyone find their way around this place?”
Miles shrugs. “A lot of people don’t. Sherbet says that in the thirties, his great-grandparents used to give every guest a silver bowl full of a different color of confetti. That way, you could leave a trail back to your room.”
I stop in the hallway, scuffing my foot over the carpet. “You’re making that up.”
But Miles shakes his head. “God’s truth,” he swears. “’Course Sherbet says it was more so that people could find their way to each other’s rooms.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re just giving me hints?” I ask him, then wiggle my fingers. “Might spend all night cutting special confetti to lure Seb into my womanly clutches.”
His lips thin, a thing I’ve already seen him do a couple of times when he’s annoyed. Maybe if I annoy him enough, he’ll do it so much that he won’t even have a mouth. That would probably improve his general personality.
I go to open the door, and as I do, Miles leans in a little. “I really am sorry for thinking the worst earlier, but . . . it occurs to me that you might need a guide,” he says. “Someone to show you the ropes. Make sure you don’t get in over your head.”
Staring at him, I tilt my head to one side, pretending to think it over. “Hmmmm,” I hum. “Hard pass.”
And when he glowers at me, I take great pleasure in shutting the door in his face.
AN REIS
The official start of the Scottish season, An Reis is the annual horse race held along the southern border. The words mean simply “the Race,” and it’s said the tradition began during the “rough wooing,” when Henry VIII harried the lowland Scots in the hopes of taking young Mary, Queen of Scots, for his son’s bride. What was once a test of horsemanship is now, like Ascot farther south, more a social event these days, and attendants of An Reis are just as serious about their headgear as their southern neighbors. A favorite of the younger set of Stuarts, this year’s An Reis should also prove an excellent opportunity for Royal Watchers to observe Prince Alexander with his new fiancée, the American Eleanor Winters. Rumour also has it that Eleanor’s younger sister, Daisy, will be accompanying them this year, providing the Florida high schooler with her first taste of the life her sister is stepping into this winter.
(Prattle, “Och Aye, We’ve Got the Scoop on the Best Events of the Scottish Social Season!” April Issue)
Chapter 13
“I am not wearing that.”
I’m in Ellie’s room at Sherbourne Castle, the early morning sunlight spilling in through lace curtains. It had surprised me that Ellie and Alex weren’t sharing a room, but I didn’t like to think about that part of their relationship, so I hadn’t said anything. There are certain things about her sister a girl should maybe not know.
Ellie looks like summer come to life, standing in a pale pink dress and cream-and-rose heels, her blond hair shiny and smooth underneath a hat that matches her shoes, a little pink netting covering her eyes, a riot of flowers at the crown. It’s a silly hat, don’t get me wrong, but it looks right on her. She’s doing that Ellie Thing where everything that touches her manages to get an extra sheen of class.
I don’t possess that particular talent, which is why the green monstrosity currently spreading its tentacles on the bed is not going to look nearly as fetching on my head.
Ellie places her hands on her slim hips, that massive emeraldand-diamond ring nearly blinding me as it catches the light. This is not your big sister, that ring seems to remind me, this is a future queen, which means she’s going to make you wear that ugly hat.
Sure enough, the corners of Ellie’s mouth turn down. “It’s tradition,” she says. “The big silly hats. Haven’t you seen My Fair Lady?”
“I have,” I tell her, moving over to the bed to poke at the thing she calls a “hat” but I think might actually be a papier-mâché rendering of the Loch Ness monster. “She wore a pretty hat,” I remind Ellie. “Much like you are wearing a pretty hat. This”—I flick the furled brim of the hat—“is not a pretty hat. In fact, it’s not a hat at all. I think someone just threw some velvet and tulle together, and dyed everything lake-monster green.”
“That hat is a one-of-a-kind piece,” Ellie informs me. “Made especially for you by Lady Alice Crenshaw, who is not only my friend but whose family has been making chapeaux for the royal family for centuries, Daisy.”
“Okay, I was going to listen to you about this, but then you said ‘chapeaux,’ and my brain shut down with how pretentious that was.”
Ellie closes her eyes for a second. In another life, she would have already started yelling. The lake monster comment would’ve done it. But that was a different Ellie, one who didn’t feel watched every second of her life.
That thought makes me feel a little ashamed of the fit I’m throwing over something as silly as a hat, a feeling that only gets stronger when Ellie walks over to the bed, picking up the hat and studying it with critical eyes. “I told Alice you had reddish hair now, so she picked out this color especially for you.”
With that, she crosses over to plop the hat on my head. For something that appears to mostly be made of fluff and feathers, it’s surprisingly heavy. Ellie tugs at the netting, trying to perk up some of the feathers, frowning. “It would look better if you weren’t scowling, Daisy,” she finally says, and I step away from her, making shooing motions with my hands.
“It’s hard not to make a face when you’re wearing something like this,” I remind her, but when I go to look in the mirror, I can admit that hat isn’t too . . . all right—it’s still really, really bad—but it does look a little like the stuff those girls wear in the blogs Isabel showed me. At least I fit in. And it matches my dress.
That had been waiting for me in a garment bag when I’d gotten up this morning, and I’d cringed as I’d pulled down the zipper, sure I was going to see something completely boring with a high neck and long sleeves and no personality at all.
But the dress is actually really pretty. It’s green, like my hat, with cap sleeves, a nipped-in waist, and a fuller skirt, almost like something out of the fifties. The little white gloves that go with it just add to the effect, and it’s just different enough not to be boring.
Maybe Glynnis has better taste than I thought.
The cars are coming to get all of us in less than an hour now, taking us the thirty minutes or so south to the racing grounds. Apparently, this particular horse race is super fancy and, according to Glynnis, “a vital part of the social calendar for the summer.”
The most vital thing I’d had on my social calendar this summer had been Key West, finishing up my summer rea
ding for school, and maybe visiting the new pool they’d built at the Hibiscus Club, the sort of cut-rate country club we belonged to in Perdido.
Instead, I’m wearing a Disney Villain hat and about to go watch a bunch of horses.
With a bunch of cute guys.
I’d seen a few of the “Royal Wreckers” this morning at breakfast. Sherbet, of course, then the two guys whose actual names I couldn’t remember. Spiffy and Dons were their nicknames, but I dare you to say the name “Spiffy” out loud with a straight face. So I hadn’t talked much to any of them, and I hadn’t seen Miles or Seb, either.
Remembering last night makes my stomach give a little nervous twist, and I glance over at Ellie. She’s staring in the mirror, fidgeting with her own hat, and while I really don’t want to get into the whole Seb thing, it suddenly occurs to me that he might mention it today, and that it would be way worse if El hears it from him first.
“Soooo,” I start, and Ellie immediately spins away from the mirror, blue eyes wide.
“Oh god, what happened?” she asks, and I hold up both hands.
“How did you know I was going to tell you that something happened? Maybe I was just about to lead into how pretty that shade of pink looks on you. Because it does, by the way, look really nice with your skin tone, and—”
Now it’s Ellie’s turn to hold up her hands. “Daisy . . .” she says. “No. I have been your sister for your entire life, and whenever you start with the ‘soooo’ thing, it’s usually followed by ‘I did something catastrophic.’”
Okay, that’s just offensive, both that she knows my tells while hers are getting harder and harder to read, and that she thinks I do catastrophic things. Catastrophic things happen to me, but it’s not like I’m the cause. Last night was totally a case in point.
“Technically, the catastrophe was Seb’s,” I say now, and that pretty pink blush Ellie had been rocking thanks to her outfit drains right out of her face.
“Seb,” she repeats flatly, and I launch into the sordid tale of “Seb Drunk in My Bedroom,” hoping if I tell it quickly enough and with enough of a blasé attitude, she won’t freak out.
“Anyway,” I sum up, “then that Henry Higgins guy showed up and got him, and my brush with debauched royalty was over.”
Ellie’s perfect brow creases. “Henry Higgins?”
Sighing, I lean against the bedpost, crossing one foot in front of the other. “Honestly, El, we were just talking about My Fair Lady. That snooty dude. Miles.”
I don’t get into the part where he implied I was trying to trap Seb with my wily American girly parts and how I called him a snob before getting lost and learning about knife paintings. Or painting knives? And the whole confetti bowl thing. Does El know about confetti bowls? I’m just about to ask her when she shakes her head, sighing.
“Talk about baptism by fire,” she says, and I nod.
“I can see the tabloids now. Pics of Seb on my floor, me in all my pajamas, headlines like ‘Sleeping Beauty’ . . .”
El makes a noise that would be a snort if soon-to-be princesses did that sort of thing. Then she frowns, tilting her head at me. “All of your pajamas?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “You don’t want to know.”
There’s a discreet knock at the door—Glynnis, letting us know it’s time to head downstairs—and after giving myself a last look in the mirror, I tug at my tentacles and start following Ellie out of the room.
But before we open the door, she turns to me, one gloved hand resting on my arm. “You’re going to be fine,” she tells me, and then she delivers it: the patented Ellie Winters, soon to be Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Rothesay Smile.
In other words, the fakest smile known to man.
And suddenly, I’m thinking that wearing a monster on my head might not be my biggest problem today.
Chapter 14
The racetrack isn’t far from Sherbourne Castle, so I haven’t managed to get over my severe case of tummy butterflies by the time we arrive.
“You know,” I say to El as we get out of the car, “I don’t even like horses that much. What if they sense that and feel disrespected?”
Ellie stops, turning to look at me. There are two men in dark suits on either side of us, not David and Malcolm, the bodyguards I’m used to, but they have that same air of being more statues than people. They’re certainly working hard at both staying close to me and Ellie and ignoring everything we’re saying.
Impressive.
“It’s just a race,” she says, and I can see the reflection of my stupid hat in her expensive sunglasses. “And there are enough people here that we shouldn’t steal the focus.”
“From the horses or the other people here?” I ask, and Ellie grimaces.
“Daisy—”
“Is this the part where you tell me just to relax and be myself?”
Turning to me, Ellie fidgets with the lace on her hat. “Relax, yes,” she says. “Definitely don’t be yourself, though. Just . . .” She steps closer, laying one gloved hand on my arm. “I’m serious, Daisy. I know you come by that ability to say whatever comes into your head naturally, but remember you’re not Dad.”
I want to scoff at that, but she has a point.
A point she’s going to keep making, apparently. “Just smile, be polite, and don’t try to make jokes, okay?”
She gives my arm a squeeze, and as she turns to walk away, I fight the urge to call after her, “Thanks for the pep talk!”
Instead, I just follow, my knees shaky and my face kind of numb. This is the first time I’ll really be out among these people, and it’s like I’m seeing every tabloid cover, every headline that’s featured Ellie over the past year, and suddenly imagining my face, my name in them. The few brushes with that life I’ve had have been more than enough.
But Ellie is right—as we make our way from the car to the actual track, there’s no deluge of photographers or people shouting Ellie’s name. There’s just . . . a lot of posh people.
And I mean a lot.
This may still be the most horrible hat in all of creation, but at least I blend in. I’ve never seen such an assortment of headgear. There’s one girl wearing a concoction of blue, red, and green feathers on her head that makes me wonder if a parrot crash-landed in her hair. I turn and see another girl with long dark hair and a truly gorgeous black-and-white suit rocking a pink hat with so many frills and furls that it looks like something out of an anatomy textbook.
The hats are honestly so ridiculous and over the top that I wonder if this is just another part of the fancy life. Do they wear stuff like this just to prove they can get away with it? Is this hazing via hats?
The girl in black and white with the slightly obscene hat approaches us, her shoulders stiff. Next to her is a redhead all in light purple, her hat small and actually hat-like. “Ellie!” the redhead says. There’s a glass of champagne in her hand, and some of it sloshes out as she hugs my sister.
The dark-haired girl is a little more reserved, her smile tight as she looks at me and my sister.
“Daisy,” Ellie says, pulling back from the hug, “I’d like you to meet Fliss and Poppy.”
I refrain from saying “Fliss” doesn’t seem like a real name and smile at both the girls, wondering if I’m supposed to shake their hands or curtsy. In the end, I just give a little wave. “Hi.”
“Are you enjoying your stay?” the redhead—Fliss—asks, and I give my best Ellie Smile.
“I am. It’s really lovely here.”
That part is sincere, at least. Everything I’ve seen of Scotland has been gorgeous, and this place is no exception. Rolling hills, green grass, blue sky . . . it’s a postcard of a day, made even prettier by all the ladies wandering around in bright colors.
“I’m sure Ellie is thrilled to have you,” Fliss replies, smiling. Poppy, the brunette, is watching m
e with a weird, almost-hostile look on her face, and I wonder what that’s all about.
Once the girls have drifted off, Ellie tugs me toward the stands and leans in to say in a low voice, “Lady Felicity and Lady Poppy Haddon-Smythe. Sisters. Fliss is wonderful, Poppy is . . . less so. She dated Seb last year, and it was all a bit messy.”
Ah, that explains it. If Seb assumed he and I were meant to be (or at least meant to bone), maybe Poppy did, too.
We make our way toward the royal box, flanked by the guards, and while most heads turn our way, there’s not the crush I was expecting. But maybe that’s because everyone here is fancy, so that would be tacky.
We’ve just reached the steps that will take us up to where we’re supposed to sit when I hear someone call my name.
Glynnis is approaching, dressed in bright red except for her hat, which is stark white. It’s a pretty contrast that weirdly doesn’t make her look like a candy cane, so extra points to Glynnis. That can’t be easy to pull off.
I wave, and then see Miles just behind her wearing the saddest gray suit I have ever seen in my life. I mean, I get that I’m wearing an actual sea creature on my head, and therefore have zero leg to stand on, but his jacket has tails, and there’s a cream-and-violet-striped tie at his throat, and it’s all just so . . . tragic. I’d feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been such a jackass last night.
“Your first big event!” Glynnis says happily, her teeth practically winking in the sun. “Are you excited?”
“Super pumped,” I reply, giving her a thumbs-up, and behind her back, Miles rolls his eyes, muttering something to himself.
What a fun outing this is going to be.
“Excellent,” Glynnis says, then steps back, sweeping an arm out. “In that case, I’m going to steal Ellie away, and I leave you in Miles’s capable hands.”
I really don’t want to be in Miles’s anything, much less his hands. “Wait, what?” I ask, but Ellie doesn’t even look, and Glynnis is already striding off. I watch the bobbing of the ribbon on her hat before turning back to Miles.
Royals Page 9
