Page 20 of Thrones We Steal

“So what do you want to do?”

“Right now, I intend to enjoy every drop in this cup of coffee. Then I’m going to take a shower.”

“I mean about the diary!”

“I think we should keep it in the Society’s safe. I don’t like the idea of displaying it in the museum.”

“You want to put it in the safe.”

“Correct.”

“Just until the news is out though, right? After that, I thought we could have an entire feature wall dedicated toward it, with the pages detailing the pregnancy blown up so people can read it, along with pictures of Helena and maybe some of her gowns—”

“No, I mean for long-term safekeeping.”

“You don’t think people would be interested in seeing it? It’s going to become a historical sensation overnight. I just thought—”

“It’s not going to become anything, other than yet another daybook someone found in their attic.”

There is a beat of silence. I imagine her blinking repeatedly behind her glasses.

Finally she says, “You don’t want to say anything.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

“I see.” Her voice is almost too quiet to hear.

“Did you really think I would?”

“To be honest, yes, I did. I thought this would be your dream come true.”

“Disrupting the country, informing people they’ve had the wrong monarchs for almost two centuries? Becoming Wesbourne’s pariah? It sounds like a nightmare.”

“It wouldn’t need to be like that. We could approach it properly, have a detailed plan before we make a move.”

“A detailed plan to blow up the country? We don’t even know if the diary is legitimate. People would only need a shred of doubt to tear me to pieces over this. I like myself too much to let that happen.”

“We’ll find substantial proof. There have got to be things we can check, records, evidence. Something.”

“Let’s ring up Helena and ask her.”

“This isn’t funny, Celia.”

Of course it isn’t. It’s as un-funny as something can get, but try explaining that to the part of my brain that’s short-circuiting. “Just trying to help.”

“I don’t understand why you’re responding this way. I thought you’d be thrilled. Imagine what you could do as queen!”

I did. For almost an hour last night, lying in my bed unable to sleep, my brain playing the scenes on repeat like they were actual memories. Meeting foreign dignitaries, sponsoring charities, traveling across the country to meet my citizens, listen to their requests, and find a way to make their lives easier, better.

But none of that changes the fact that sharing this diary with Wesbourne will bring more harm than good. And that’s something I can’t stomach.

“It’s too big of a risk.”

“Think of Kira. You could make a difference for people like her.”

The thought is a stab, but one I’ve already considered. As queen, I’d have the power to push laws through Parliament without getting signatures on a petition. But there’s no guarantee I would ever become queen, even if the diary were made public. Most likely, it would only cause me to lose all credibility I’ve earned to date.

“You won’t change my mind. The diary stays secret.”

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