Page 1 of Thrones We Steal

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“I Dare You” - The Regrettes

It’s just an old diary. Exactly like a thousand others that have passed through the Historical Society: decrepit, brittle, and smelling like a musty attic. Much like the people who donate them.

One thing is certain. It doesn’t have the power to change my well-organized life. The thought is laughable.

But Maisie isn’t laughing.

“I’m telling you, Celia. Once you read it, you’ll never be the same.”

I glance at my watch. “I need to leave for my meeting, but I’ll do it on Monday, okay?” I close the task manager on my screen and shut down the computer.

“Monday is too far away. It’s gotta be now.” When I don’t respond, she says, “Like, right away. I copied all of the pages.” She places a stack of photocopies next to the antique book on the desk between us.

“Maisie, I swear I’ll do it first thing next week. Can you search the archives before you leave for anything we have pertaining to ‘J. Thompson?’ Mrs. Kelley thinks there may be a link to her grandfather who was killed in the First World War.”

She moves to block my way before I can reach the door. “I don’t think you understand. This is, like, really important.” She grabs the pages and shakes them. “There’s information in here that will change everything.”

“I can’t afford to be late simply to read about life in the eighteenth century. Also, make sure Ethan gets access to the online database. He was having some trouble earlier.” I take another step forward. She refuses to budge and I find myself close enough to smell her lavender and vanilla body spray.

She shakes her head and her blonde ponytail wags. “It’s not just an old diary. You have a personal interest in this one. It’ll change your life. I promise. Like, big-time change. As in, read-it-and-never-look-back kind of thing. And not just you. All of Wesbourne. This country as we know it will change if this gets out.”

She’s either melodramatic or high on caffeine. One option is as likely as the other.

“Just give me a quick summary. And maybe lay off the coffee.” I look at my watch again. I need to leave now if I want to make it on time.

“Okay, okay. How about this?” She holds her hands out on either side of my face, like she’s framing a portrait. “Right now you’re Celia Chapman-Payne, Duchess of Whitmere and director of the Wesbourne Historical Society. After you read these,” she says and holds the papers in front of her, “you will no longer be any of that.”

“I don’t style myself like that anyway.”

“That’s not the point! Everything will be different. I can’t tell you how though. You’d never believe me.”

I doubt her already but I purse my lips and hold out my hand. “Fine. I’ll read it tonight.”

“Trust me, okay?” She shoves the papers into my outstretched hand. “You won’t regret it.”

I was planning to draft a proposal tonight for the next board meeting of the Wesbourne Nature Conservancy. It looks like I’ll be reading through someone’s daybook after my mother’s dinner party instead.

The reception area of the Historical Society murmurs with quiet activity as I leave my office, typical for a late Friday afternoon. The receptionist hands a brochure to a middle-aged couple at the front desk with information on the types of historical items the Society will accept. One of our interns carries a cardboard box to the archive room.

Sunlight streams through the glass wall at the front of the building and reflects off the marble floor. It gives everything a chic, modern look that belies the centuries of history preserved within the walls. The building was home to the Society for years before I became the director two years ago. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

A group of high school students descends the staircase after their tour of the second-floor museum. Their guide, Dame Adelaide Mansfield, follows. Her white hair is cut into a wavy bob and she looks as regal as a queen, although her closest connection to royalty is being knighted in 1994 for her work in foreign relations. She shoots me a look of exasperation.

I step back to allow the students to file out of the building and wait for her to join me at the door.

“A bunch of bloody twits. All of them more engrossed in their phones than in genuine history right in front of their faces.” She rolls her eyes at the retreating backs of the kids. “How are the wedding plans coming along, poppet? It’s been ages since we’ve talked.”

“Let’s grab tea together soon and I’ll catch you up on everything,” I say. “I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to make my meeting with the petition committee.”

“I won’t keep you, dear. You’re going to need all the favor you can get.”

I’m terrified she may be right.

* * *

Like always, Adelaide is right.

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