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EPILOGUE

ROSE

ONE YEAR LATER

On the afternoon of my father’s twenty-fifth jubilee, Molly and I sneak out of the palace celebrations immediately before the balcony appearance and subsequent banquet to hover in the hallway by the entranceway.

“She said she’s only a minute away,” I say to Molly, who’s becoming noticeably antsy.

“They’re going to go out without you,” she says. “Then the papers will be all like, ‘Scandal as Princess Rosemary skips second half of her father’s big day.’”

“They won’t go out without me,” I say, moderately certain. “She’s almost here.”

The entrance to the gala room opens, and Eleanor and Santi burst through.

“Rose, your parents sent me to check on you,” Eleanor says. “They said to get the hell over there. In those exact words.”

I open my mouth to retort when shouting from the foyer cuts me short. Giving Molly an “I told you so” look, to which she rolls her eyes, I hurry through the doors, followed by the other three.

Danni is standing on the carpet, smiling for the cameras, as the photographers cry out for her to come closer, look their way, take a few steps. She lights up when she sees me, and I make a beeline for her.

We can’t embrace just yet, but I place my arm around her while we pose together. “It’s got to be a quick one today, sorry everyone,” I apologize as the cameras flash and click. “I’m actually meant to be on the balcony already.”

We move on quickly, shoving our way through the doors and into the hallway. We’ve barely cleared the doors before I’ve thrown my arms around her and lifted her off the ground. “You did it, you did it, you did it,” I cheer, managing a small hop even under the weight of her.

“Rose, I nailed it, ” she exclaims, glowing with joy. “They just wanted me to play ‘Dürnitz’! I’ve had that memorized for, like, five years now.”

I lower her back down, and the others close in to hug her in turn.

“Doughnuts?” Eleanor asks as she pulls Danni in.

“No. The first movement of the Sonata in D,” Danni says atop her shoulder. “It’s easy. I couldn’t believe it. I was expecting—”

“It’s not easy,” I stage-whisper to Eleanor, and Santi laughs.

“That’s the last of us done,” Molly says, pumping her fist. “It’s over.”

“It’s over when we get our results,” Eleanor reminds her, but Molly waves a hand.

“We’ll be fine. No matter what, we’ll be fine.”

Danni, still shining, sighs with contentment as she cracks her knuckles. I can relate. I was in her position a week ago after my math exam. The exam period was even worse for Danni, mind. While the rest of us sat our final exams at Bramppath during the school term, the music students had to undertake the practical session of their exams in the Holstenwall Conservatory of Music a full week after the rest of us were all done.

I’ve been on edge all day, all throughout the service at Saint Mariana’s Cathedral, and the procession, and the gun salute this afternoon, wondering how her recital was going. Now that I know she’s okay, I can finally relax and enjoy the festivities. Not to mention, we can finally focus on our upcoming ski holiday. After living in a cloud of exam stress for weeks now, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate our newfound freedom than an intimate week together in a Swiss chalet. Just me, Danni, and my suite of royal guards.

Danni falls into step beside me as we enter the palace ballroom. We still have to minimize hand-holding while at royal events—a rule that’s applied just as sternly to straight royal couples as to us—but I am permitted to place a hand on the small of her back while we walk, which I do immediately. “There was a panel of five judges,” she says, “and I was expecting three. I would’ve thought that would throw me, but I guess after all the Bramppath performances I’m getting kind of used to the pressure? I just pretended we were all at school and eventually I forgot they were there.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

She tips her head back in relief, so far she almost overbalances, and I steady her, giggling. Around the room, people have noticed Danni’s arrival, and she starts waving and nodding to guests as we pass them. I doubt she knows half of their names, but she manages to make warm eye contact with each of them individually as though she does. For someone who was so hesitant to be in the spotlight when I met her, she’s not doing too badly in it.

She only averts her eyes when we past the Paget-Harringtons. Though Alfie isn’t here, she still harbors a very understandable resentment toward the entire family for their role in her near-expulsion. Luckily, they make no effort to speak to us, and we pass them by as though they don’t exist at all.

My parents are waiting for me in the sitting room attached to the balcony, alongside several palace staff members, including Penelope, my publicist. Mum shakes her head when she spots us, though she only seems half mad. “I sent for you ages ago, Rose,” she chides.

“I got caught up. I’m here, sorry.”

Father, wearing ceremonial garb of black and gold, draped in sashes, looks far too elated to be annoyed with me. Instead, he claps me on the shoulder, then turns to Danni, his eyes softening warmly the way they often do lately when Danni’s around. I’m not entirely sure whether he’s so very fond of Danni because of who she is as a person, or because he associates her with all the things that have gone so very right since the public learned of her significance to us. More likely than not, it’s a combination of both.

“How was your examination, Daniela?” he asks.

“Great, really great,” Danni says. “Congratulations on your jubilee. Has it been a good day?”

“It’s been an excellent day,” Father says. Then he gives a short laugh, as though he’s marveling at the thought.

I suppose, when Father pictured his future jubilee celebrations this time last year, he hadn’t imagined quite so large a crowd, and certainly not the overwhelming level of positivity and revelry we’ve seen from the people in attendance today. But a lot can change in a year.

Trumpets blast outside, announcing his cue to head onto the balcony. Because it’s his jubilee, he goes out alone at first, to have his moment. The crowd breaks into enthusiastic cheering and whooping, and Danni spins me around to check me over, ready for my own appearance. “You’re perfect,” she whispers, letting her fingers rest below the emerald tiara that’s been sewn into my chignon. It’s only my first time wearing it since I was finally allowed to debut it on my eighteenth birthday, as per the custom. Danni leaves her hand in place much longer than she needs to, letting her thumb brush my temple. Even after all this time, her touch still makes me shiver.

Mum walks out now, and the cheering rises again.

“I love you,” I say to Danni.

“Love you, too.”

“Shall we?” I ask, pressing my lips against hers quickly, while we have a moment of semi-privacy. Then, I straighten my back, and together we walk onto the balcony last.

Traditionally, only the royal family appears on the balcony. However, some months ago, Father decided that, while we were discarding the time-honored tradition of heterosexual royal romances, it couldn’t hurt to very slightly alter this particular tradition alongside it. He first asked Danni to join us several months ago as something of a test, I believe, after seeing just how enthusiastically the public—most especially, the younger members of it—responded to Danni’s and my relationship. And the near-hysterical response from the crowd at Danni’s appearance alongside us that day cemented his decision to continue extending the invitation.

He always has been one to prioritize anything that would improve the reputation—and the reception—of the royal family. It’s only surprising because it never occurred to me—or him, I imagine—that my relationship with Danni could ever be one of those things. Last year, it hadn’t seemed possible. It hadn’t been done, so therefore it couldn’t be done. But I suppose the problem with clinging too tightly to tradition is that you can miss it when the public sentiment toward what has always been done has marched on ahead of you.

In the end, it wasn’t our family the country was losing faith in. It was the past they were rejecting. A past we used to represent.

Until me. Until Danni.

Squinting as the sun bursts into my eyes, I raise my hand to wave at the crowd below as it explodes into ear-splitting applause. The sea of people spreads almost as far as I can see, writhing and gesturing and calling out to us. Calling out to me. I wave again, raising my arm higher, and it ripples out over the crowd like a current as the volume and movement surges further.

I don’t know all the answers yet. I don’t know if things will change should Danni and I become engaged, or what will happen if we have children. I couldn’t say for certain what would happen should another referendum take place, and I don’t know if there is quiet resentment brewing where I can’t yet see it. It’s not possible to know the future in its entirety, nor has it ever been. All I can do is observe the present, and use it to fuel my hope.

So, like I always do, I count the signs in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE. I only spy a couple, scattered sporadically. The number grows smaller with each count, as the months tick by. And, as usual, I check for angry signs calling Danni and me disparaging names, something I initially assumed we would see a lot of.

As usual, there’s not a one.

After all those months post-Amsterdam, walking onto the balcony to an icy hostility from the crowd below, I can still scarcely believe the reception. It’s an odd and wonderful thing, to barely dare to hope you might be tolerated as you are, only to find out the real you is beloved the way the false you never was.

I steal a look at Danni. She looks confident, and beautiful, and utterly self-assured. She catches my eye, gives me a radiant smile, and gestures for me to turn back to the crowd. “Look. They’re excited to see you,” she mouths.

I should, I absolutely should.

But I can’t tear my eyes away from her.

Nor do I want to.