Page 8 of Reign

“I wasn’t actually trying out. I mean—I don’t expect to get a part.” Why was she telling him any of this? She shook her head, flustered. “I’m only here because my roommate is one of the producers, and she bullied me into showing up.”

“Really? I thought you were a great performer.”

A performer,Nina thought bitterly. It was an apt descriptor, in some ways. Hadn’t all her years at court taught her how to be false and artificial, to put on a show? After all, that was what the royal family did best—pretend that things were normal even when the world was falling apart around them.

“So you’re not a theater major?” the boy pressed. If only to stop thinking about the Washingtons, Nina answered.

“English major.”

“Of course.” He gave a knowing smile. “Let me guess, nineteenth-century fiction. You’re all cotillions and corsets and Heathcliff brooding on the moors.”

She said nothing, because his assessment was all too accurate.

“Look, you’re clearly upset. Can we talk about this more?” he went on. “Where are you headed? I’ll walk you.”

Her grip on her tote bag tightened. “That’s really not necessary.”

“It’s getting dark. You plan to walk across campus by yourself?”

“I do it all the time!” She shook her head, exasperated. “You can spare me the gentlemanly overtures, okay?”

He barked out a laugh. “I assure you, Nina, I’m no gentleman.”

Something in his tone gave her pause. “Sorry, have we met?” she asked bluntly. “Were you in my Brit Lit class last year?”

He studied her for a long, slow moment, and she shifted beneath the weight of his gaze. Then he let out a breath. “I’m James. I just started at King’s College this semester.”

“Well, goodbye, James.” Nina took a few steps past him, and this time he made no move to follow. Belatedly, she realized she was still holding his scarf, and gritted her teeth.

“This is yours,” she forced herself to say, turning around.

“Keep it. It looks better on you anyway. As I’m sure most things do,” James replied. She wondered if his flirtation was automatic, as reflexive to him as breathing. “And good luck with the audition—not that you need it.” He grinned. “You’re the type of actress that Old Bill wrote this part for.”

“Did you just call ShakespeareOld Bill?” Nina almost shouted, but James had disappeared back through the door to the stage wings.

She crumpled his expensive navy scarf into a ball and held it over the trash can—yet she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Not something so wonderfully soft. It felt like butter against her skin.

Nina stuffed it into her tote bag, then headed brusquely outside.

She wished she could tell Sam about this exchange. She wished she’dheardfrom Sam, but so far there had been nothing, not even an anonymous postcard.

Wherever her best friend had gone, Nina hoped she wasokay.

Princess Samantha Martha Georgina Amphyllis of the House of Washington leaned out the side of the small fishing boat, trailing her fingers in the ocean.

“Careful,” snapped Brad, his eyes half closed, and she shifted back. In her old life, no one would have barked at Sam like that—at least, no one except her family and her best friend, Nina. But Sam was very far from her old life right now.

The ocean really was beautiful this time of day, the water as ink-dark as the sky, the horizon an indistinguishable blur in the distance. Sam and Brad weren’t far out enough to hit the major swells; she could see the coast to her left, the waves cresting magnificently before crashing and hissing over the sand. Flecks of volcanic ash made the beach incandescent in the predawn light. She wondered which beach Marshall and his new friend Kai had driven to this morning, and whether Marshall would reappear grinning and exuberant, or covered in coral scrapes from a fall off his board.

It was amazing how many hours he could spend in the water. He taught surfing lessons every afternoon—he’d amassed a surprising number of clients in the month since they’d arrived, from excited ten-year-olds to high schoolers who were thinking of getting into competitions. Sam wasn’t surprised at his popularity; Marshall had always been at ease with other people. If only his family could see that. They’d been tellinghim for years that he wasn’t good enough, because of his dyslexia.

When they had first arrived on Molokai, Sam had felt a bit aimless, uncertain what to do while Marshall was busy surfing. Until one morning when she and Marshall had wandered over to the docks in search of fresh ahi, and she’d stumbled across Brad.

“Hey, kids,” he’d called out, his voice gravelly. “Either of you looking for a job? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

There was no telling how old he was; he was as tanned and wrinkled as a raisin, with a shock of white hair and a perpetual scowl. Though Sam suspected that underneath his gruff exterior, Brad was a complete softie.

“I can help,” she heard herself offer. “I’m a quick study.”