Page 46 of Thrones We Steal

I like Olivia. Disliking her would be akin to disliking a songbird. She exudes a Grace-Kelly-mixed-with-Michelle-Obama vibe, and she’s known around the world for her impeccable style. She confessed to me that the fame really belongs to her stylist, because she wears everything he chooses without question.

Olivia is the one who solves the dilemma of my wedding gown. “It was Helena’s,” she says while several maids remove the dress from its vacuum-sealed bag. “It will need altering, of course, but I know how much you love history and thought it might work.”

I want to squeeze her.

It’s such a small, inconsequential thing. I couldn’t care less what I wear down the aisle. But this gesture is almost my undoing.

The dress itself is incredibly gorgeous, in spite of its age. While nothing like the Caroline Spencer gown I’d planned to marry Beck in, this one shines in its own royal way. It has long sleeves of lace, which continues over the bodice, a high collar, and full skirt, with a train that will require several page boys to carry it.

If I had doubts about my acceptance by the royal family, Olivia eases them with her gentle welcome, ensuring I have at least one ally in the palace. It’s been over a decade since I’ve spent any considerable time in her home, but she acts as though I was there just last week.

In truth, I’ve always envied Henry for his mother, with her cheerful smile and offer of cookies whenever I visited. I love my own mum dearly, but Rosalind’s demand for perfection extends even to my sleeping position—on your back to prevent wrinkles!—and sometimes I just wanted to be a kid. Through her friendship with Olivia, my mum secured a spot for her own child as royal playmate long before I was conceived. When that child turned out to be a girl, you could practically hear the wedding bells ringing in St. John’s Cathedral.

I should feel grateful to her. I wouldn’t be equipped for the role I’m about to play had it not been for her careful preparation for this exact thing. I spent the better part of my childhood learning French, Italian, German, Russian, and Mandarin and am still moderately fluent in all of them. While other girls vegged out in front of the telly, watching the latest Pretty Little Liars episode, I was learning how to exit a vehicle without showing any more skin than intended. Hanging out with Henry was the Miralax to my bloated week, even if our time together was highlighted in red (code for ultimate mission) in the two-inch spiral planner Rosalind kept for me.

Of course, her plans fell through when I not only did not become engaged to Henry, but stopped spending any time with him at all. At fifteen, I had little control over my calendar and commitments, but even she couldn’t argue when told Prince Henry had more pressing obligations than our weekly afternoons together. There was a momentary floundering at sea, but Rosalind is back in the saddle, finally able to prepare for the wedding she’d envisioned in perfect detail as soon as the doctor announced I was a girl.

“Which do you prefer for your bouquet: roses or lilies? Roses are classic of course, but lilies signify elegance in a way a rose can never do.” Rosalind frowns at the clipboard in her hand, reading glasses perched on her delicate nose.

The bouquet I intended to hold as I married Beck was white hydrangeas.

“Mum, I don’t care, honestly. Why not let the wedding planners handle it? We’ve still got so much sorting to do.” I gesture around the room. There are still a million items to go through before the movers come to pack things up.

As if planning the wedding of the century isn’t enough, we’re also in the process of packing up three decades’ worth of belongings and memories before relocating to our personal apartments at the palace. Much of the furniture and artwork belong to the estate, having been in the family for more than a century, and will pass to the next Duke of Whitmere. But we have enough personal possessions to fill several moving vans.

“I think we’ll do both,” she says and steps over an open box on the floor of the library. Before I can say anything else, she pulls out her phone to place a call, probably to one of the wedding planners with the update in florals.

I sigh and reach for my father’s box of cigars on the mantel. I can almost feel him in the room. What would he make of it all? Of course, if he was still alive, things would only be further complicated. It’s not like he could have married Henry. Maybe Parliament would have ordered a duel between my father and the king, swords drawn like they were Manet and Duranty.

Bea walks into the room, eyes glued to her phone. She has made herself scarce since our argument, presumably still enraged that I put my country before her budding relationship that was destined for failure before it ever started.

I clear my throat to let her know the enemy is present.

She looks up in surprise, and disdain colors her features. “I hope you’re enjoying destroying our lives.” She brushes past me to grab the photo albums from the shelf. “Thanks to you, these photos are the only thing I still have to remind me of Dad.”

I let her go in silence. She won’t hear me if I remind her that this estate is not only my childhood home too, but the one I planned to share with Beck and our future children. She may be in love with Henry, but I’m giving up the man I was going to build a life with.

How exactly does she think I’m gaining from this arrangement?

* * *

My new suite in the palace is like something out of a fairy tale. The whole apartment consists of a private sitting room, a lavish bedroom with a gold-gilded bed, an enormous bathroom featuring both soaker tub and glass-walled shower, and a closet and dressing room that are nearly the size of my entire bedroom at Maison de Lierre. Everything is tastefully decorated in cream and gold, but I feel like Catherine being removed to Thrushcross Grange and longing only for the simplicity and memories of Wuthering Heights.

I smuggled my dad’s cigars into the cartons of things destined for my suite, and the familiar box brings that nauseous twinge of sadness and impending doom you get when you’re five days into your holiday and you want nothing more than to bury your face into your own pillow in your own bed and suck in that scent that can only ever be found there but you’ve still got another week at the seashore so you do your best to enjoy it even though you know the ache will come back with more and more frequency until you’re finally home at last.

Except I’ll never be home again.

Wesbourne Palace could have come straight from the pages of a fairy tale illustration. It has all the usual turrets whose spikes puncture the cloud cover, windows upon windows grinning like teeth in the stone walls, and an overall stateliness that shouts “Important people reside here!”

It’s Hogwarts on steroids, with less magic and higher expectations.

A dozen of those expectations are marching through my door right now.

Leading them all is Maisie, who accepted my offer (aka plea) of officially becoming my private secretary before the words even left my mouth. I thought it would be comforting to have someone familiar beside me, but looking at her now, I wonder what she’s done with the girl I worked with at the Society. She’s in black pumps, her hair is styled into a low chignon, and she’s ditched the grandma cardigan I’ve never seen her without for a chic, tailored day dress.

Behind her follows an entourage of expressionless staff members, all carrying something that, upon closer inspection, appears to be a magical prop to turn the ugly duckling into a beautiful swan.

Maisie begins the introductions. “This is Cynthia. She’s going to work her magic on your brows. Stefano will add extensions to your hair. Liz will do your nails, and Kerry is in charge of waxing.”

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