Page 30 of Thrones We Steal

“Prince Henry and Celia, Duchess of Whitmere.” He pauses and looks down the table at the two of us. “Parliament is asking both of you to consider your loyalty to your country of utmost importance right now. You both have a claim to the throne, depending on the perspective. With that in mind, a suggestion has been made that will require sacrifice, but which may, in fact, save this country.”

Oh god.

My stomach is wound into a ball so tight, I’m afraid to move for fear of rupturing it. I clutch my shaky hands together in my lap and try to imagine what he’s going to say next. Will Henry and I have some kind of competition for the throne? A sword fight or obstacle course? I know the idea is absurd, but whatever he’s about to say, it’s obvious I’m not going to like it.

The prime minister continues. “The only option that appears to stand a chance of preventing a civil war is for the two of you to get married.”

The room is silent.

And spinning.

And suddenly very warm.

Too warm.

But somehow I am cold, my fingers icicles. I’m frozen, a literal statue.

Everyone can hear my racing heart. It’s impossible not to. It’s so loud.

I can’t turn my head to look at my mother. But I can see her hands from the corner of my eye. They are clenched and white. I glance down at my own lap. My hands mirror hers.

I refuse to look at Henry. His eyes pull at me like magnets. He wants me to meet his gaze. I can feel it. We’re a set of Tricky Dogs. He’s the black Scottie. I guess that makes me the white.

I look everywhere but at him.

The wood grain of the table scurries away from me in both directions. My salmon-colored teacup is missing a tiny fleck on its gold rim. A piece of dust floats down and lands silently in my tea. Beatrice shreds a napkin on her lap beside me.

“Forgive me, sir, but I’m not sure I understand how that would solve anything.” Henry’s voice shatters the silence like a wrecking ball. The effect is immediate: people begin to breathe again, to fidget.

“No apology needed, Your Royal Highness. The marriage is only the first part of our proposal. The second is a joint-coronation in three months. These intentions would be announced to the public in the hope they will appease both parties, both those who wish to continue the current lineage and those who wish to—” He glances at me and a red flush creeps up his neck. “—see Catherine’s descendant on the throne.”

“But I’m only the heir. What does this mean for my father?”

“King William has agreed to abdicate his throne for the good of Wesbourne.”

I dart a quick glance at the king’s face. He hasn’t agreed willingly, that much is clear. But then I’ve never actually seen him smile, so maybe his face simply doesn’t know how.

“Of course, since Celia would be rising to the rank of Crown Princess and then Queen, the duchy would be passed down to the next heir in line,” the PM says.

More silence follows his words. The processing part of my brain is currently experiencing a malfunction.

“You must be joking, sir.” My own voice shocks me. I didn’t realize I was capable of speech. That opinion must have been shared. You can almost hear the collective eyes turning in my direction.

“I understand the predicament this puts you in, Your Grace. I know you are engaged to be married to someone else. Parliament was in session for eight hours over this. If there was another way, we would’ve found it.”

“But there must be another option. Can we not persuade the people to keep peace? Surely there are enough level-headed people in this country who are willing to see reason.” The more I fight the hysteria threading my voice, the thicker it grows.

“Even if it were that simple, which it’s not, but if it were, there’s still the matter of the diary’s allegations. People aren’t simply going to forget about it.”

This is absolutely preposterous. They are actually proposing that I marry Henry—Henry.

No horror movie in the world could inspire a nightmare this horrendous.

Either Henry or I would end up dead. Within a week. Probably him. Which means I’d go to prison for life. Maybe I could plead self-defense? If I could hold off until I became queen, could I exonerate myself? Do queens even have that kind of power?

“Couldn’t Beatrice do it instead of me?” If the depths of my desperation weren’t already on full display, the fact that I’ve just offered up my own sister to a wolf flips on the flood lights.

Bea jerks her head up at my words, and a sharp pang flares in my chest. She’s actually hoping it’s a possibility.

---