Page 16

SIXTEEN

ROSE

When I was younger, my aunt Belinda, the wife of my father’s brother, Albert, told me a fairy tale. It was the story of a handsome prince who met a beautiful maiden. She was everything he wanted in a wife; kind, and smart, and with the same sarcastic sense of humor he valued so much. Only, the maiden came covered in scars. They weren’t visible, but they were there all the same, betraying a history unbefitting a future queen. Aunt Belinda never told me the maiden’s exact crimes, but, she assured me, it was enough to make the king and queen despise her.

At first, the prince ignored his parents’ wishes, and courted the maiden, regardless. But every day, the king and queen grew angrier and angrier. Finally, the prince told his parents that love conquered everything, and he planned to make the maiden his wife. He was certain that once they got to know her, they would love her as he did.

The king and queen knew there was nothing they could say to change his mind. And so, they sent the maiden away on a ship to the land of her birth. She would never be allowed to return to the country. The handsome prince would have to find somebody else to marry.

“So, you understand, Rose,” Aunt Belinda said to me at the end of the story, “you must be mindful of who you give your heart to. Choose unwisely, and you risk both your heart and theirs.”

“My parents would never do that to me,” I said.

“Hmm,” she replied. “Your father thought the same thing, once. He learned, though.”

And that was when I understood that Aunt Belinda’s story was not a fairy tale at all.

As the congregation rises from the cathedral pews, I spot Aunt Belinda through the crowd, and wonder if she would have done the same to her own children, had she ended up queen. Her daughter, Sukey, is third in line after myself and Uncle Albert. Sukey’s three-month-old, Augustus—the one whose christening just concluded—is fourth. Third-in-lines do not face much restriction in regards to who they marry. Not when the first in line is poised to take the throne without obvious complications. So, I suppose, it’s more than likely that baby Augustus’s parents were a true love match.

What a luxury. I wonder if Sukey appreciates her luck.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text. I check it surreptitiously, and break into a smile when I see Danni’s name. Unfortunately, I will have to respond to her later. It would be unforgivably rude of me to be caught on my phone during an event like this.

It was difficult for me to see Augustus during the christening—though the royal family enjoy front-row seats at an event like this, Saint Mariana’s Cathedral is notoriously large, and the altar is approximately three miles ahead. Now, however, I manage to get a better look at the bundle of joy as the guests file out of the cathedral into the dreary day and mill about in the attached gardens. Baby Augustus has a pursed mouth, a wrinkled forehead, and no hair. He waves tiny clenched fists in midair and scrunches his face up in a squishy, pudgy frown. Cheer up, I want to tell him. You get all the benefits of being a little prince, but none of the pressure. It’s a good deal.

I don’t mean for my lip to curl. It does it of its own accord. Luckily, the swarm of paparazzi bordering the gardens don’t see me, as I’m angled away from them. Unfortunately, Alfie, who attended the christening with his parents, does.

“Why’d you look at the baby like that?” he asks in a low voice.

“Oh,” I say, before blowing a noncommittal raspberry. “He’s just a bit…”

Alfie patiently waits for me to elaborate. I hold back until we’ve cleared enough space between us and the nearest potential eavesdropper to reply. Sidney and Theodore break away from my parents and follow Alfie and me down the dirt path.

“Well, he’s a bit ugly, isn’t he?”

“Rosie.”

“He looks like a grandpa!” I say, indignant at his indignance. “He’s got all those wrinkles, that little frown, like he’s reading a newspaper article that’s outraged him. That is an old man who’s been shrunken down and clothed in a little terry cloth one-piece.”

“Rosie.”

“But he’s not fooling me.”

Alfie folds his arms and gives me a stern, if somewhat amused, look. “Rosie,” he says, and I mouth my name along with him. “Where’s your soul?”

“Traded it for beauty.”

We slow our steps as we reach a number of cone-cut trees and stand together beside one, surveying the crowd of attendees. The trees block us from the paparazzi. It’s instinctual for us to seek out a photo-opportunity obstacle, though I’m sure my parents will be furious if they notice. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to be seen on my Very Best Behavior, after all.

“You won’t feel that way about your own, you know,” Alfie says, still gazing ahead. “Wrinkles, frowns, all of it. Once it’s lived in your stomach for nine months, it’ll look like a diaper model.”

This time when my lip curls, I make no effort to conceal it. “Babies don’t grow in your stomach, Alfie, there’s acid in there. Besides, why on earth would I want to give birth to a baby? Ghastly.”

“Can’t you ever be serious?”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“For just a minute ?”

“I’m not sure which part is confusing you, Alfie.”

Alfie gives me a long-suffering sideways glance. “The part where your job is to produce an heir?”

“Ahh. Yes, now you point it out, I can see the incongruence.” He’s clearly waiting for me to go on, so I reluctantly give him an earnest answer, though it comes out sounding rather less sincere and rather more sulky than I would have liked. “I said I don’t want to birth a baby, not that I won’t.”

It’s not as though I have much of a choice. The Hennish royal family, like most, is a blood lineage. While I may have an array of duties and responsibilities, the most overarching, the most urgent, is to preserve us. That means protecting the institution in the present, and ensuring its continuation. I hardly need to ask what would happen should I announce my refusal to bear children. Father would do everything within his power to change my mind and, should that fail, he would be at liberty to consult with parliament over changing the line of succession to Uncle Albert. A future monarch who refuses to prioritize her duties over her own selfish wishes has no business being a monarch at all. Not when it’s so widely accepted that the symbol of a strong royal family is analogous to the strength of the country itself. Somehow.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a reigning king or queen has skipped over a prince or princess when handing down the crown, though historically it’s been in favor of a younger sibling, of which I have none. Father does, though.

Although I’m sure removing me from the line of succession would break him, it would still be preferable to the potential outcome should I take the throne and shirk my duties. Though there’s no legal requirement for me to have children, and the throne would simply pass to Uncle Albert’s line if I were unable to for any reason—as it would have if I were never born—I’m not sure if I could bear the shame that would be piled on me for the rest of my life should I willfully refuse.

Not to mention, our family is on shaky ground as it is. Stepping outside the lines when ruling a majority-Catholic country is quite the dangerous activity as it is. Doing so only a decade after that terrible referendum is practically begging for a re-vote.

Truthfully, it’s not the prospect of having a child I oppose, anyway. It’s the idea of pregnancy itself that chills me. Whenever I picture it, I think of Mum, lying in a hospital bed, her skin so translucent I could trace a perfect map of her veins. I think of the snippets of information I gathered eavesdropping until I scraped together a shaky understanding from snatches of conversations. I had lost yet another would-be sibling, and had very nearly lost my mother in the process. And though nobody discussed it with me directly, I took a grave lesson away. New life cannot be formed without gambling an existing life. And I’m rather attached to the idea of my continued existence. I suppose I’m selfish like that.

If I set aside the pregnancy issue, I don’t mind the idea of having a child at all. In another life, one where my choices didn’t carry an entire bloodline of pressure behind them, I may have had children of my own free will. Only in that life, I would have wanted my wife to carry them.

“Thank god,” Alfie says mildly. “I wouldn’t want to hear what your father would say if you told him you were planning to go child-free.”

“Plans aren’t always the biggest factor,” I point out. “My mother struggled enough to have me, and she was trying rather a lot harder than I imagine I will. Luck could be on my side.”

“That’s not funny, Rosie.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, just short of a snap. “I’m sure I’ll spend half my adult life creating a horde of heirs. The universe will see to it just to spite me.”

“Why would you say that?” Alfie asks.

“Just a pattern I’m noticing.”

“Oh, yes.” Alfie snorts. “You’re unbelievably beautiful, unbelievably rich, and unbelievably powerful, all by birthright. When will the injustice end?”

“Shut up,” I say, fighting a smile.

That’s when the skies open. There are no warning drops. Rather, we’re unloaded upon in a diagonal sheet of roaring water. The crowd shrieks and squeals, and scrambles to take cover in the cathedral. Alfie moves to follow after them, but I grab his arm and nod at a wooden gazebo only a few feet behind us. Arm in arm, we run through the rain and take shelter beneath it, gasping and laughing. The guards do the same, and take their spots not too far from us.

“ Christ, ” I moan, lifting my arms as well as I can. They’re laden down by the weight of my sodden peacoat, and I’m dripping so heavily the water is bouncing off the concrete ground beneath me.

Alfie looks much the same. He runs his hands down his face to wick off as much water as he can, then takes one look at me and bursts into peals of laughter. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Mm. Thanks very much.” I shoot daggers at him as he approaches and tries his best to push back the hair sticking to my forehead in tendrils.

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. More awkward. He gives me a funny look, and then takes a step back to get a better look at me. “Much better,” he says, referring to my hair, I think. “Just let me…” He comes closer again and fiddles with my coat collar. “There.”

He’s extremely close to me. So close that it takes me by surprise. I notice, with his hands only inches from me, that he’s wearing the watch “I” gave him.

“Thank you,” I say, but it’s rather difficult to speak at full volume to someone standing so near, so my voice comes out quite softly. Something about that rings an alarm bell in the back of my mind, but I’m slow to cotton on to just where the danger is.

The paparazzi are still standing right where we left them. Most of them have pulled the hoods of their waterproof jackets up, and they have umbrellas. Some of them have started to make their way closer to the gazebo.

Alfie looks pensive. “I wish we saw each other more, Rosie.”

“Oh. I did only just see you at Mum’s birthday… and the rugby game…”

He lowers his lashes and looks down at me. “It’s not nearly enough though, is it?”

The thought hadn’t really occurred to me. But it feels rude, even for me, to continue disagreeing, so instead I say nothing. I just look back at him, hoping he changes the subject to something that makes a little more sense.

I realize too late, far too late, that I look in his eyes for too long. Too long, given how close he’s standing to me. Too long, given his hands are still resting on my collar, from when he was fixing it.

Too late to pull back before he leans in to kiss me.

At first, I barely process what’s happening.

The only thing I’m aware of is Danni’s name echoing inexplicably in the back of my mind.

When I return to myself, I freeze. I don’t kiss him back, but I don’t pull away. The first thought that springs to mind then is that if I pull away it would be an obvious rejection. In front of all of those cameras. I can’t do that to him.

I suppose my stillness somehow gives the impression that I’m not opposed to the kiss, because he wraps his arms around my neck, looping his fingers through the soaked strands of my hair. In response, I place an awkward hand on his arm, half for show, half so I can give him a subtle push. I’m horribly aware of his lips on mine, of his closeness. It feels unnatural, wrong.

When he finally pulls away I stare at him in what I hope doesn’t look too much like horror.

He doesn’t seem embarrassed. Bashful, perhaps, but nothing more. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he isn’t. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

I clear my throat, and the camera flashes strobe in the distance. I have to smile at him. If I don’t, they’ll spin a story out of it. Either way, there will be articles. Oh, Father’s going to kill me. He will quite literally have me done away with at this point, surely. One job. I had one task today: be on my best behavior for the cameras.

I force my lips to stretch apart in a mockery of a grin. “Um, just so you know, we’re not supposed to do that in public,” I say. For goodness’ sake, my parents don’t even hold hands when there are witnesses, let alone make out in the middle of a garden gazebo.

Oh, now Alfie finally looks appalled at himself. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Nothing to worry about.”

Plenty to worry about. Myriad worries. Worries here, there, and everywhere.

“Private next time,” he says, smiling with relief at my assurances. “Got it.”

I have a near overwhelming urge to wipe my first kiss from my mouth. Somehow, I manage to keep my hands pinned to my sides, balled into tight fists. I want to tell him there won’t be a next time. I want to gently explain to him that I did not, in fact, mean to give the impression that I wanted to kiss him—that sometimes I drift off separately from my body, and it can result in intense staring and silence that is in no way intended to be romantic. That it’s not personal at all, only, I don’t like any boys, though I’m sure if I did I would like him kissing me perfectly well. Probably.

That I’ve been picturing my first kiss a lot lately, and I never wanted to give it to him.

But I do not, and cannot, tell him anything of the sort. So, I bury it until my breath is no longer trembling and my heart is no longer pounding and I can’t feel much of anything at all. Then, and only then, do I trust myself to smile—much more convincingly, now—and say, “Shall we head back inside?”

At least the rain has stopped, so I’m able to walk smoothly and calmly, head held high, as my photograph is taken a hundred times a second all the way back through the gardens and to the cathedral.