Page 21 of Thrones We Steal

“But—”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re giving up an incredible opportunity. Do you know how many people would kill for this?”

“Too many, I’m afraid. Why do you care so much?” I’m beginning to suspect everyone has ulterior motives where it concerns my future.

“I—” She’s momentarily speechless, but she recovers in perfect form. “I’m your friend. I want to see you reach your highest potential.”

“Then as my friend, please respect my decision concerning this.”

“Don’t you at least want to talk to your mum about it before you decide?”

“My mother is never to catch wind of this, understand?” That would provoke a level of mother-interference even Elizabeth Bennett couldn’t comprehend.

“Okay.” Her tone is subdued, so un-Maisie-like that for a brief moment I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. But it only takes one reflection on the aftermath of revealing the diary-dynamite to reassure me I’ve made the right decision.

It doesn’t matter how good anyone thinks I might be at the job. It doesn’t matter that I could change things for the better. It doesn’t really matter what I want at all.

What matters is Wesbourne. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

8

“The Sound of Silence” - Disturbed

The sound of angry shouting filters through the windows of Rosalind’s car. She graciously allowed me to take it to work this morning since my own is at the repair shop for the foreseeable future, but there will likely be recompense to come.

On the block ahead of me where the Historical Society is located, a crowd of people boils like a pot of stew. Some hold handmade signs. Some are cupping their hands around their mouths as they yell. All of them appear angry. Probably another labor union strike, although I don’t know why they’re in front of the Society.

I circle the block to the back of the building, but it’s almost as full as the front. The sidewalks and streets are throbbing with an almost palpable rage.

I briefly consider turning around and going home, but I need to get to work today. After reading the diary, my arguments with both Henry and Maisie, my car breaking down, and spending twenty minutes searching for my phone this morning, I am counting on a long list of to-dos to get my mind off of everything. I find a parking spot, grab my purse, and exit the car.

Maybe I can help these people in some way. If it is another labor strike like I suspect, I might be able to initiate negotiations. But first I need to get inside and clear my head. I pick my way through the crowd and am almost halfway to the back door when someone shouts, “Hey! Aren’t you Duchess Celia?”

Some people will never learn the proper styling of titles, nor respect those who choose not to use them. I swallow the urge to correct his address and instead say, “Yes, I am.”

“That’s her!” another person yells. “She’s the one trying to steal the crown!”

I sense a shift in the tone of the crowd. They turn and hurl insults in my direction.

“Throne-robber!”

“Liar!”

“Power hungry!”

For the first time, I read the signs being held up along the street.

Our King, our monarch.

No stupid notebook is going to change anything.

Love Wesbourne, love the king.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest.

Someone went public with the diary.

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