Page 36 of Thrones We Steal

When I’m finally permitted to get out, I see Ms. Radbury waiting for me on a park bench. She stands as I walk over, my guard dogs sticking to my side like Velcro. I plan to step in if they insist on patting her down, but they stop about ten yards away from us on either side, giving the illusion of privacy.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she says and gives a short bob that I belatedly realize is supposed to be a curtsy.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Kira’s mother is young, only a few years older than me. I wonder how old she was when her daughter was born. “I don’t mean to take much of your time. I just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Kira. Not enough people care about what happens to kids like her.”

On impulse, I reach out and wrap my fingers around hers. They’re icy. “What happened to her was terrible and I will do everything in my power to prevent it from happening to other children.”

She offers a sad smile then, and my heart breaks again for the tragedy this woman has endured. “If only things had worked out differently, and you were actually our queen.”

Her words hit with a jolt, but there’s no way she could know about Parliament’s proposition. She’s only referring to Helena’s secret being covered up for nearly two centuries.

“I’m not sure how much good I’d do from the palace either.”

“Why not? You’d have more power then.”

I look at the trees around us, growing molten in the sunset. “I’d feel like such a hypocrite. I’m not sure anyone would trust me anymore.”

“Sure they would. It’s different when those in power are on your side.”

Is it? Maybe. I’ll have to mull over this later, but right now I’m going to be late getting to Beck’s flat if I don’t leave soon.

I thank Ms. Radbury and ask her to let me know if there’s anything else I can do. She agrees and then I’m being ushered back into the car by my attentive hounds.

The city sweeps past us, and I use the precious minutes I have left to think about what I’m going to say when I see Beck. He deserves the truth. The problem is, I’m not sure what the truth is anymore.

Do I want to be queen? Am I willing to give up everything for Wesbourne? Can I live with myself if I don’t save her? I don’t have the answer to any of this.

As we pull up in front of Beck’s flat, my eyes snag on a deflated balloon caught in a bush beside the front door. A shudder crawls down my spine. It’s just a discarded birthday balloon, I tell myself. But that does nothing to dissolve the taste of death in my mouth.

* * *

Beck has made individual beef Wellingtons, a green peppercorn sauce, fingerling potatoes and fresh green beans, which he picked up at the farmer’s market this morning, along with strawberry almond baklava from the confectioner’s stand. The whole thing is capped off with a very nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

I feel sick.

I was surprised the first time I went to Beck’s flat. Rather than the stark and cold bachelor pad I was expecting, art in a variety of styles and mediums hangs tastefully on the warm gray walls. A supple leather sofa faces the television he only turns on when I’m there, and three stools sit at the bar separating kitchen and living room. All of the surfaces are free of junk mail, magazines, and odds and ends, and are instead decorated with pictures of the two of us and his sisters. An impressive collection of books takes up a good portion of one wall, and they aren’t vanity books either. I know he’s read nearly all of them.

I came across a study during my time at uni that showed couples who live together before marriage have a higher divorce rate than those who wait until after their vows to co-habitate. Beck and I have everything in our favor already. It seemed crazy to tempt the universe. After the wedding we’ll live in his cozy flat for a year or two before moving to Maison de Lierre for good.

Life with him will be easy, comfortable. I won’t have to nag him about his wet bath towel on the floor or putting the milk carton away empty. He’ll indulge me with Gilmore Girl and foot rubs and I’ll buy him a political thriller for every birthday and holiday.

And I’m considering dousing the whole thing in gasoline and lighting a match.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He points at my plate with his fork. I’ve managed to take two bites of the incredible pastry.

“It’s delicious. I’m just not feeling the best.”

“Maybe we should talk about what’s on your mind.”

I nod. It’s why I’m here, but the words refuse to form.

He watches me and when he realizes I’m not going to say anything, he says, “I’m assuming your mind is on the diary?”

I bite my lip and nod again. I’m a coward, pure and simple. The least my fairy godmother could have done is load me up with courage when she rejected my request for transformation into a pumpkin.

“Are you also thinking about the emergency Parliament session?”

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