Page 13 of Thrones We Steal

CELIA!!

You need to read it! You promised!

I’m not sure if I should be mad or worried that you’re not answering my messages but given your propensity to lose your phone I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. But I’m not going to stop until you assure me you are READING THAT DIARY!

I completely forgot. Between my car breaking down, the disastrous ride home with Henry, Bea’s startling announcement, the dinner, and attempting to keep my sister from becoming another of Henry’s victims, the diary drifted into the dusty and cobwebbed recesses of my mind.

It’s not that I’m opposed to reading it. I wouldn’t be the director of the Historical Society if history didn’t fascinate me. It’s that Maisie lives in a world where drama lurks around every corner, waiting to be discovered (or manufactured). The diary is probably a semi-fictional account of the founding of Wesbourne, in which it’s revealed that - surprise! - Wesbourne should actually be spelled without the u.

But I know this isn’t fair. As melodramatic as Maisie can be, she wouldn’t make this big of a fuss over nothing. I now have a burning curiosity to know exactly what she discovered in that little book. I retrieve the pages from my bedroom where they lay forgotten in my bag.

Back in the library, I settle myself in an armchair near the fire and text her back: I’m starting it right now.

Less than a minute later there’s a reply.

It belonged to Queen Helena’s lady-in-waiting. Yes, your 4th-great-grandmother, Helena. Start at the entry dated 16 May 1837. Prepare to have your world turned upside down.

Why didn’t she tell me this sooner? I would’ve blown off my meeting and the dinner party. Maisie knows Helena is my family’s last link to royalty.

A movement in the doorway catches my eye. Henry is leaning against the heavy, wooden door frame, hands in his pockets and watching me.

I glower at him.

“Escaping?” he says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. We both know you couldn’t leave that party fast enough.”

“Correction: you don’t know anything about me.”

“You suddenly enjoy small talk?”

I ignore him and start rifling through the pages, looking for the date Maisie mentioned.

“That’s what I thought. You’d rather peel off your own toenails.”

“You’re disgusting. And egotistical,” I say without looking up.

“Admit it. I’m right.”

“I won’t because you’re not.”

I sense him walking into the room, the thick Persian rug muffling his footsteps. “So this is where you spend your time,” he says and I finally glance up.

He’s at my desk, running his hand over the smooth surface of my private sanctuary. He’s seducing it right in front of my eyes. I can almost feel him running that same hand up my arm. I shiver.

“Where’s all of your stuff?” he says.

“What stuff?”

“You know, pens and sticky notes and stacks of paper. Normal people stuff.”

“In the drawers, where it should be.” I clear my throat. “Do you need help finding the door?”

He doesn’t move away from the desk. “I know where it is.”

Since he apparently has no intention of leaving, the only thing to do is pretend he doesn’t exist. I turn back to the photocopies on my lap.

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