Page 28 of Thrones We Steal

Photos of the royal family and me crop up everywhere. Nauseating headlines accompany them: Two Royal Families Wage War Over Crown. Duchess Celia Barred From Palace. The Ultimate Game of Thrones. According to many sources, I’m nothing more than a grubby crown-snatcher, intent on ruining the nation if it means finding my way to the glory and power of the throne.

I expected this. If it was anyone else in my shoes, I would have led the chorus of naysayers. How dare anyone mess with our beloved Wesbourne and her monarchy, regardless of how well we like or dislike her current king.

What I didn’t see coming is those who proclaim me the hero of the country. They’ve become information whores for anything they can find on “Princess” Celia—the name doesn’t even make sense, but they love it—they write blogs dissecting my fashion choices, my own blog broke down under the heavy traffic it isn’t used to receiving, and I’m getting so much fan mail I’ve had to open a new, private email account. I’ve even heard that a local designer sold out of a particular day dress I wore two weeks ago.

The whole thing is utterly ridiculous.

I just want life to go back to normal. I have over a million wedding details to take care of, but with tensions running high, I’ve been advised to lay low for the time being. Read: staying locked inside my house, punishment even before the world outside wasn’t a battlefield and I the enemy.

The Crown is reluctant to even acknowledge the issue. It’s like they think that by addressing it, they’re somehow giving credit to the diary or to my supposed claims, neither of which I expect them to do, but their lack of response to the issue only leaves the people more confused and distressed.

I can’t count the amount of requests I’ve received for interviews, some politer than others, some downright demanding. I ignore them all, because what am I supposed to say? By giving an interview, regardless of the words that come out of my mouth, I’d be giving weight to the diary, and the last thing I want to do is further the wedge between my family and the Crown. Despite the headlines, I have no intention of usurping the throne or making any demands. So until the Crown acknowledges it and gives me a clue as to how to handle everything, I intend to remain silent and away from prying eyes.

* * *

It’s been three weeks since the news broke about the diary’s allegations, and I’m in the library working on wedding invitations. I’ve already met with the calligrapher twice. Deciding between the final three sketched designs is proving the most difficult part of this whole process. The problem isn’t that none of them are what I’m looking for. It’s simply that other issues are more pressing at the moment than choosing between copper holographic or silver foil.

“Celia, you’re going to want to see this.”

I look up from my desk as Beatrice walks into the room. Her steps falter when she sees my face. I’m still smarting from her betrayal and the havoc it wreaked, and as a result, am keeping her at arm’s length. “I very much doubt that.”

“Someone set fire to the palace.” She holds out her phone. A news video dominates the screen.

“What?” I take the phone from her hand. A reporter is stationed outside the palace gates. A cloud of smoke billows from the side of the building in the distance.

“—confirmed there was a fire in the east wing of the palace earlier this evening. Police are unsure if it was deliberate or not, but early reports are pointing to an act of terrorism. Fortunately, the east wing is used very little, and no casualties or injuries have been reported. We’re seeing an increase in violent acts, and we advise all citizens to stay inside unless absolutely necessary. Caution is recommended in all—”

I shut it off and the reporter’s face vanishes. I wish I could make the churning pit of bile in my stomach disappear as easily.

Bea looks like a broken toy as she takes her phone back. “What’s happening? It feels like the whole world is falling apart.”

“I wish I knew,” I say.

Henry answers on the first ring.

“I heard about the fire,” I say.

“A bunch of lunatics. Things are getting bad,” he says. “There was a shooting downtown too. A confrontation between two different groups that ended badly.”

“Because of the diary?”

“Seems so. There’s even been talk of taking up arms and storming the palace.”

Acid rises from my stomach and burns the back of my throat. How did things escalate so quickly? And what is it going to take to regain the peace we had less than a month ago?

“I got a threatening letter,” I say. It seems silly to bring it up in light of all the other things that have happened.

There’s a pause, then: “You what? When?”

“Over a week ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” His voice has taken on a lethal edge.

Bea’s mouth has popped open at my words. She’s probably wondering the same thing. I didn’t say anything because I knew she would freak out.

And because I’d rather face whoever sent the letter than my sister at the moment.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say to both of them. I clench a pencil between my fingers and begin doodling on a sheet of paper, hard, heavy lines swirling together. “Nothing happened.”

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