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EIGHT

ROSE

At any royal event, there are multiple aspects I struggle with. I’m no great fan of small talk, though I manage to force it—if only passably so—and constant social interactions drain me, and it’s all but impossible for my mind not to wander during speeches. But far and away the part I dread the most these days is the balcony appearance.

Ostensibly, the balcony visits are a chance for the royal family to interact with our people—all the while offering a marvelous photograph opportunity. Father, however, has always used it as an unofficial barometer for the family’s popularity. He takes careful note of how sprawling the gathered crowd is, and how loud the cheering, and even how much movement he spies throughout the throng. Our first balcony appearance following that night in Amsterdam, the crowd all but fell quiet when I walked out. I’ll never forget the strained look on Father’s face that day.

I wondered, briefly, if he wished he could throw me off it.

Now, waiting in the attached area before we go out, I keep adjusting the bodice of my dress. I can’t seem to get it in the right position. Finally, Mum places a calm hand on my arm and shakes her head at me, so I move to chewing on the inside of my cheek instead.

If it’s a royal event, I follow Mum, who follows Father. If there is an honored guest at the event, however, they walk out alongside Father, and tonight is the state banquet for the visiting prime minister.

So, Father goes out first, alongside the prime minister of the United Kingdom and the prime minister of Henland. The crowd erupts into cheers. Mum follows, and the cheering swells. I release my cheek from between my teeth and walk out last, and the crowd simmers down. My chest plummets, and I switch to biting down hard on my tongue to remind myself to keep the disappointment and embarrassment off my face.

At least they aren’t booing me.

I wonder what Father would do if they ever did.

Forcing my chin up and plastering on a smile, I wave alongside my family. In the crowd below, hundreds of flashing lights twinkle up at us. It’s as though the stars from the night sky have fallen to the ground.

Taking a leaf from Father’s book, and not for the first time, I silently count the number of anti-monarchist signs I see in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE . Et cetera. It’s my way of ascertaining where we stand this month. How well we’ve done, and how badly our mistakes have affected our standing with the very people we’re meant to be serving. Today, as has been happening often lately, I lose count.

Almost ten years ago, when I was seven, the country held a referendum on whether to abolish the monarchy altogether. Though clearly the monarchy was maintained, the vote was far too close for comfort as far as my parents are concerned. Especially when it became clear from the numbers that many municipalities within Henland are distinctly anti-royalist. Though the theme of my life has always been the importance of maintaining the royal line, the urgency increased enormously following the referendum.

Well, it’s bloody lucky for me that I’m historically such a natural at keeping within the lines and winning over the public, isn’t it? It would be rather awkward if I were so prone to misstepping that I single-handedly prompted the abolition of a six-hundred-year-long line of royalty, now, wouldn’t it?

Yes, thank goodness being perfect comes easily to me. If it didn’t, I might be under the kind of pressure that could make someone crack, right now.

The Hennish prime minister, Urmila Kapoor, falls into step behind me when we leave the balcony. She’s a short woman with an explosion of chestnut curls and a beauty mark just below her left eye. “Rose, how have you been?” she asks. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

Urmila isn’t the type to take digs at people, at least, as far as I know. So, chances are, she means the question innocently. It’s hard to take it that way, though, when it’s approximately the twentieth time someone’s asked me something along those lines today alone.

“Doing my best,” I say with a gritted-teeth smile.

“That’s all anyone can ever do,” she says.

Back inside, the approximately 150 attendees are milling about in formalwear while a string quartet provides ambiance. I spot Alfie with his parents, but I don’t approach him yet. If I don’t work the crowd a little, Father will be out for my blood, especially after yet another failed balcony appearance.

So, I find Mr. Cloughton, whose father was close friends with my grandfather, and I ask after his family, and he asks me if the drink in my hand is nonalcoholic. And I check in with the Spanish ambassador, and she recommends a therapist she says helped her son immensely when he was going through a troubled phase of his own. And I greet Lord Oliphant and his wife, and they ask me if my parents are speaking to me yet—as a joke, of course, just a lark, of course. And I laugh, and they laugh, and Alfie rescues me before I shatter the flute of alcohol-free champagne clenched in my fist.

“Your smile is strained, ” he says to me, linking our arms together as we walk. He’s wearing a tailored navy suit over a shirt of the softest lavender and a tie in a purple so deep it borders on burgundy. I wonder if he has to work as hard as I do to be so polished.

“Everyone is digging at me. It’s just dig, dig, dig.”

“They’re loving it,” he says. “The chance to feel morally superior to royalty doesn’t come around every day. Let them have their smug little moment and don’t let them see they’re bothering you. Right now it’s all over your face.” He pinches my cheek, and I wave his hand away, the corners of my mouth lifting reluctantly.

Alfie’s mood is always chipper at events like these. He has the very disposition I imagine Father bitterly wishes I possessed—charming, a lover of the spotlight, and a natural ease with strangers. I would do anything to sit with Alfie during the meal. Alas, he’s joining his family down at the far end of the country’s longest table, and I mine. I’m to spend the entire four-course meal speaking to the prime ministers, and I had better get my heart rate down while I can, because an hour and a half of small talk tests my patience at the best of times.

I haven’t even prepared conversation topics lest there’s a lull, what with the busyness of our return to school. The best I can come up with right now is “Do you know this cutlery has been in our family since the 1800s?” which is bound to fill fifteen seconds at most. And that’s only if one of the prime ministers happens to be particularly enthusiastic about knives and forks.

If Alfie were allowed by my side, this wouldn’t be a problem, as he always seems to know which personalized-yet-appropriate question to ask to nudge a conversation along. In more ways than one, he would be far more suited to this position than me. If royalty were elected, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell against him. Or in general, to be quite honest.

“How’s Molly?” Alfie asks as we weave through the crowd.

“She’s furious with me about Amsterdam,” I say, and Alfie’s eyes flicker down, his lips thinning at the mention of that night. “I’ve barely spoken to her since school went back. She’s spending most of her time with Danni Blythe.”

Alfie clears his throat and focuses back in on the discussion. “Who?”

“You met her at Molly’s party. She had the—” I pull at the sleeves of my dress, and his eyes widen in recognition.

“Oh! The girl with the ugly puffer jacket?”

“And the blond hair,” I say. Caramel blond, I would say. With the odd strand of burnt honey.

“I remember her. Wow. Molly’s been spending time with… her? Isn’t she a scholarship student?”

I pause and shoot him a questioning look. “Are you judging her, Alfie? What would your father think about that?”

He looks rather offended by this. I meant it as a reminder of his father’s own middle-class background, not as an insult, and I’m surprised he’s taken it as one. “I see your point,” he allows, but there’s an edge to his voice.

“Please don’t make comments about her being on a scholarship. I’m sure she’s well-aware of it already.”

“Okay, okay. As though I would, anyway. I just thought this was a safe space.” He softens. “What’s she like, then?”

I shrug offhandedly. “Like I said. She’s Molly’s friend. I hardly know her.”

Through the crowd, William Montgomery, one of the family publicists, catches my eye. He cocks his head to summon me, his expression unreadable. “More on that later,” I say to Alfie, who gives me a sympathetic look.

I’ve gotten to know William rather intimately over the past several months. Though I’ve always been aware of him in the peripheries, he’s taken my shattered reputation on as a personal project. Or, perhaps, he was assigned it—I’m unsure. What I can say for certain is that he’s here to keep a close eye on my behavior today: it’s hardly a common occurrence for them to attend state banquets alongside us.

“I’ve been speaking to other people,” I say to William before he gets a word in.

He gives me an exasperated smile. “I haven’t seen you speak to one guest, Rose.”

“I spoke to three of them,” I insist. “Perhaps you were distracted? To think, all that work for nought on my end.”

“Three is a start, but you can do better than that. You have a golden opportunity here to remind some important guests how very charming and mature you are,” William says.

I wonder who he’s describing. It couldn’t be me, surely. “I’m trying. All anyone seems to want to do is gloat.”

“Let them gloat! Laugh with them. This crowd loves a touch of self-deprecation.”

“Almost as much as they love other-deprecation.”

William looks pointedly away from me. I think he’s doing his very best not to laugh. “Have you spoken to the deacon yet?” he asks, still facing the crowd.

“Not yet.”

“Speak to the deacon. If he asks how you’ve been, act repentant.”

“Is this a state dinner, or a confessional?”

“No reason it can’t be both. Oh, and your father wanted me to remind you about Alfie’s birthday.”

“Alfie’s…” I repeat, and then I blanch. Tomorrow is September 7th, his seventeenth birthday. Though he’s in the same year level at school as me, his birthday falls right after the cutoff, so he’s the oldest in his year. How could I have forgotten?

“Don’t panic.” William chuckles. From his jacket pocket he whips out a velvet box and hands it to me. “Your father organized something for you to give him. Just pretend you were building the suspense. He’ll never know. But then, for god’s sake, socialize with the guests, Rose. Do you want me to lose my job?”

Father has never once bought somebody else a present on my behalf. But I’m so grateful, I don’t pause to wonder why on earth Father was so aware of Alfie’s upcoming birthday, or why he didn’t simply remind me to organize a gift myself.

I find Alfie taking a glass of champagne from a table—no one’s chiding him for drinking the alcoholic version, of course—and, sidling up beside him, I hand over the box.

“By the way, Alfie,” I say, “happy birthday.”

Please, let it be something nice. I don’t want to have to explain away a pack of cigars or a pair of cheap cuff links.

When he lifts the lid and reveals the box’s contents we wear matching expressions of disbelief. Inside, on a bed of silk, lays a pristine Vacheron Constantin watch.

Well. It certainly isn’t a pair of cheap cuff links.

Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, Alfie searches for words. “Wow,” he says. “This is… I mean, it’s gorgeous.”

Yes, it is. It’s also outrageously expensive. It’s not something I would have bought for him in a million years. Why on earth did Father? What was he thinking? Is it possible this is a re-gift, and he somehow didn’t notice its value? That must be what’s happened here, though I can’t imagine how. That, or he’s got a concussion I’m not aware of.

This isn’t a platonic gift. It would be too much for even an anniversary present. It’s all but an engagement ring.

“Will you help me put it on?” Alfie asks.

Words failing me, I work the clasp until I manage to attach the thing to his wrist. In my peripheral vision, I discover that Mum and Father are standing with the Paget-Harringtons, and all four adults are watching us with approval.

Was this an accident?

Alfie notices his parents’ attention, and he holds his wrist up to them, beaming. They beckon him over to take a closer look, and as he passes, nearby guests curiously crane their necks to get a better look at the new trinket on his wrist.

I suppose they think this is rather significant. Perhaps they fancy they’re the first to discover a romantic link between Alfie and me. That there is a chance, however small, that they’re looking at the boy who will one day grow up to be their king.

I catch William watching me, and we lock eyes. Of course Father didn’t remember Alfie’s birthday, nor expect that I might not. Not on his own, anyway. It’s not his job to worry about trivial aspects of my life. But it is somebody’s job.

I suppress a sigh and send a subtle, questioning shrug toward William, who shrugs right back, as though to ask me if I’m truly upset. And I suppose, now I’m past the shock of it, I’m not.

William, it seems, has finally figured out how to distract some of our most distinguished subjects from the fact that their future queen caused the death of an innocent boy.

To think, all it took was a thirty-thousand-euro watch.