Page 59

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “He didn’t, but I figured as much. An heir would give them a blood right to the throne that they can’t get by marriage alone.”

Costello had easily linked the dots. He’d heard again and again the way our lineage worked; Dad had drilled it into the perfect little firstborn would-be prince’s skull since birth.

“Thorne,” he said, pulling me back to the moment, “you say you won’t give them that. Are you sure you can ...?”

“Resist?” I snorted. “I’m not an animal. Plus, there’s this fun invention called birth control.”

“Surely Nova will think it’s weird you’re using condoms.”

“Then I’ll pull out,” I said, growing frustrated. “Jesus, Costello. I’ll do what I have to, to keep a kid out of this.”

The car honked; he glanced at it, then back. The ice blue of his eyes had warmed, disarming me. “Brother, is your plan to just draw this out as long as you can?”

“It’s all I’ve got. Now get out of here before you miss your flight, or Scotch kills you. Or both.”

Costello ducked into the car. Scotch waved at me through the gap, then she vanished behind the tinted windows. I kept waving anyway, waiting until they were far past the gates to stop.

He thought my plan was drawing this marriage out? He was wrong. It wasn’t my plan ... because Ihadno plan. But if I could keep Nova from getting pregnant, I could give myself extra time to figure one out.

On my way up the driveway toward the front doors, I spotted someone coming toward me: Drake, the young servant I’d met before. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

God, that’s worse than being called sir.I missed the sharp-tongued maids who always busted my balls. “Don’t do that, please.”

Drake looked up at me through his fringe of hair. “Do what, Your Majesty?”

“That. I hate that.” Gripping his shoulders, I forced him to stand straight. “Just call me Thorne. I prefer first names.”

He sucked on his teeth loudly. “I’ll try. But it’s not very ... traditional.”

“Good. I hate traditions.” Letting him go, I asked, “Did you need something?”

“Ah. I’ve got a package for you.” He slid out an object wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a dictionary. “Mr.Finbar said to give it to you.”

“This is from Glen?” Turning it, I hefted it and felt the light weight. “Did he say why?”

Drake shrugged. “He didn’t. Sorry, Your Maj—Thorne—sir, ah.”

I hurried into the castle.What would Glen give me?Driven by curiosity, I jogged down the west wing, dodging a few servants in my rush to open the package. I shut my door behind me and sat on the corner of my bed. The brown paper was rough; I got the impression Glen didn’t do much gift wrapping. When I peeled it away, a small, folded piece of paper dropped onto my knee.

Turning it, I read the messy handwriting:

Hawthorne,

Consider this a late wedding gift.

I kept this in secret since the day your father went missing. No one knew I had it, I doubt even Hester knew it existed. I didn’t know what to do with it, but now, I understand that I hung on to it all this time for a purpose.

Maybe it will help you understand your father better.

—G

“Huh.” Setting the note on the crumpled paper, I held the gift in front of me. It was a medium-size book, the outside cover thick, mustard yellow, and faded in spots. There was no title. Tipping the book open, I revealed the first page.

January 3rd, 1976

Mom gave me this journal because she thinks she’s very funny. That, or her suggestion that I write my thoughts down for a year to help understand myself better was genuine. She’s not much for pranks, so I guess she’s serious.

I’ll give it a go. What’s the harm?