Page 41 of Thrones We Steal

A frown creases her smooth brow. “But doesn’t the happiness outweigh the pain?”

I think of the grief. It’s agonizing, crippling, debilitating. Nothing can overshadow it, not even the mess I’m currently in. “I’m not sure it does. Not always.”

“What about memories?” She rubs her hand across the album cover. “You’ll always have those. Thinking back to the good times can at least diminish the pain.”

“Yeah, sometimes those help.” And sometimes they only intensify the pain. A haunting reminder of what could have been, should have been.

“I’ll always be a believer that it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” She stands and re-shelves the albums.

“You’re more of a romantic than I am.”

“Do you have a single romantic bone in your body?”

“Not anymore,” I say.

“Why can’t you see that you are hurting people by doing this?” She says it quietly and I know the moment we just shared was only a temporary reprieve.

“I see it better than anyone, Bea. I’ve got a knife buried up to the hilt in my own heart.”

“We’re going to lose this house.” Her voice breaks. “So not only are you taking Henry from me, you’re also taking Dad. What kind of sister are you?”

Her words hit their mark, bullseye dead center. Henry is no loss—he was never hers. But our father—

“We’ve established that you’re willing to hurt everyone you love.” She dashes the tears from her cheeks, but she’s not done dolling out wounds like candy. “But what makes you think Henry will agree to marry you?”

14

“Mr. Brightside” - The Killers

Until she said the words, the thought has never crossed my mind.

What makes you think Henry will agree to marry you?

Why didn’t I take his calls? In refusing to talk to him, I may have destroyed my own future without cause. Because if Henry isn’t willing to go ahead with this whole thing, I’ve lost Beck for no reason whatsoever. He’ll never take me back if he thinks the only reason for my return is Henry’s unwillingness to marry me.

I manage to get a few hours of sleep, and the next morning I call Henry. It’s our last day. Parliament will expect our decision first thing tomorrow. We make plans to meet at the palace tonight because there’s no way I’m having this conversation over the phone.

The day leaks by, and I mark the passing of each hour with a spoonful of cookie dough from the tub Rosalind thought was hidden in the back of the refrigerator. I’ve managed to avoid any real conversation with her about my decision, but the only reason she’s leaving me alone is because she assumes my despondency can only mean one thing.

I should have demanded that Henry clear his schedule and meet me earlier, but I’m putting off seeing him for as long as possible. The last place I want to be is at his mercy—which is exactly where I’m going to find myself in a matter of minutes.

Is it possible to taste dread? Because the sour taste in my mouth won’t go away, no matter how many times I brush my teeth.

A footman ushers me through a series of furniture-stuffed rooms, one leading into another, each winding further into the groaning heart of the palace. I’m going to need a map of this place, or I’ll meet my demise by becoming lost and starving to death. It’s been ages since I played hide-and-seek here and the longer we creep along, the more suffocating it becomes.

I glance up at the sound of voices and giggling above me. Henry is escorting two women down the staircase on my left, both wearing dresses that would have been considered underwear in other countries. My high-waisted trousers and navy sweater are a nun’s habit in comparison.

He spots me at the bottom and has the decency to flush. “Celia.” He attempts to disentangle himself from the women draped over each arm. “I’ll be just a minute.”

The two women give me mocking smiles and toss their hair over their shoulders as Henry leads them away.

I silently call him every foul name I can conjure, including a few I’ve never used before and am surprised come to me with rapidity. I follow the footman into the small drawing room and accept the drink he offers to pour for me. The room is dark, the handful of lamps throwing only a tepid light, the corners shrouded in shadow. I ignore the stiff-as-a-board leather sofa and cross to the single window, then shove aside the heavy velvet that smothers the night sky from view.

My fingers find the bracelet at my wrist and twist the charm round. The whiskey scorches a blissful path down my throat, and my shivering lessens. I still have that awful taste in my mouth though.

A few minutes later, he walks into the room and closes the door softly. I can smell him without turning around. Amber. Pine. Vanilla. And the gagging hint of floral perfume. I take another gulp of my drink.

“I didn’t know you drank,” he says.

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