Page 114 of Thrones We Steal

“Regardless, what does any of that have to do with Henry?”

“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes in that annoying way little sisters do. “You two are so close it’s embarrassing to even be in the same room as you.”

My snort is inevitable. “Henry and I are not close. We haven’t been for a long time.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Even through all of your professed hatred of him, when the two of you are together, nobody else matters.”

“Bea, that’s just not true.”

She props her hands on her hips in that saucy way she perfected when she was three. “Really? You’re always picking on each other, arguing, fighting. You read each other’s thoughts with a single glance. I’ve fought for his attention long enough to know that as soon as you walk into the room, he’s lost to me.” Her voice hovers right above a whisper. “I got so wrapped up in trying to be better at something, anything, than you, that I thought if I could steal Henry from you …” Her voice drifts off.

I pull her into a hug and wish I could take the pain of the last few months from both of our hearts. “He’s never been mine to steal.”

The squeak of rubber soles rings down the corridor and is soon followed by their owners: three maids, each bearing a stack of fluffy white towels. They must think we brought the entire storm inside.

Once we’re sufficiently dry enough to transverse the halls of the palace, we head to our third-floor suites. Bea stops me before we part ways. “He misses you, Celia.”

A branding iron shoves its way into my chest. “He actually said that?”

“He didn’t have to. The man is clearly miserable.”

I shake my head, not wanting to stir up hope I don’t deserve. “You can’t know that it has anything to do with me.”

“I’m not stupid. Henry is crazy about you. He always has been. And if you don’t do something about it, you’re the stupid one.”

36

“When We Were Young” - Adele

I have no recollection of getting to my room, although I must have because the next thing I know, I’m curled in one of the armchairs in my sitting room holding a photo album on my lap. My ruined dress is pooled in the bottom of the bathtub.

I flip the pages of the album with no idea what I hope to find there. Proof that I’m not the terrible sister Bea has painted me to be? That I’m not selfish and greedy? That what she said about Henry and me isn’t true?

Henry’s words the day he gave me a ride home come back like the ghost of Christmas past. We’re all selfish. We only do something if there’s a clear benefit for us.

Am I deceiving myself thinking I’ve given up everything for Wesbourne? Maybe that’s why Henry’s rejection stings so badly. I’ve been craving admiration ever since the day he stomped on my heart on his way out the door.

I run my thumb over a picture of my dad at the stove cooking pancakes. It was something he did every Sunday morning before church. He’d tell us one thing he loved about us for each blueberry he stuck into the batter of our pancake.

Your beautiful smile. Your sharp mind. The way you won’t let me kill a spider, but make me put it outside instead.

That’s what I’m looking for.

Proof that someone is proud of the person I am.

I turn the page to find a collage of Bea and me in dress-up clothes. We’d dig through the giant trunk Rosalind kept in the playroom for coordinating outfits, then parade downstairs and beg our mum to take our picture. Rosalind has more patience than I’ve given her credit for. There are dozens of these photos.

In one of them I’m wearing my dad’s old uniform, standing tall, and saluting the camera. Something about it looks odd though, and I study it for a few minutes before I realize what it is. His service ribbons aren’t pinned to the jacket. But the more I look at it, the more I’m beginning to think it wasn’t his uniform at all. The sleeves hang nearly to my knees, and at eleven, I was getting close to my father’s height.

I call Rosalind. “Do you still have Dad’s uniform?”

There’s silence on the other end, and I start to wonder if we’ve been disconnected when she speaks. “His uniform?”

“Yeah, the one we used to play dress-up with.”

“Oh, that. I’m pretty sure I gave it away years ago.”

“You gave away Dad’s uniform?”

---