Page 47 of Thrones We Steal

My nutritionist will measure me, chart my weight daily, and craft a diet plan just to shave off the rounded edges. Royals can’t show softness, after all, in spirit or body.

I also have a personal trainer, a posture consultant (what?), an etiquette specialist, a wardrobe stylist, a publicity manager, and a young Asian man whose sole purpose seems to be helping me practice foreign language.

And finally, my personal maid Daphne, who will do things for me that I’m suddenly incapable of doing for myself, like removing my clothes from their hangers and flipping down the coverlet before crawling into bed.

Over the next two hours, I’m analyzed, dissected, and clucked at. Everyone wants a turn at me, and given our tight time frame, they have to share. Someone pinches the underside of my arm—gauging fat content, no doubt—my hair is tugged from its loose ponytail, and icy fingers lift my chin higher.

I snatch at the fleeting directives and stuff them away in my memory, hoping at least a few will do as they’re told and stay put.

Never hold Champagne in my right hand so it’s always dry for greetings.

Always smile, even when I think no one is looking. Someone is always watching.

Never remove my coat in public. It’s unladylike.

Always hold my bag in my left hand to leave the right free for waving.

Never speak to the press, and if I absolutely have to, say as little as possible. Words are so easily manipulated.

Always use a clutch bag to cover any decolletage when exiting a vehicle. The king doesn’t want to see my cleavage in his breakfast newspaper. (Nor do I want him to, but that’s irrelevant.)

Never look down when walking, but keep my chin in line with the floor.

Always, always, always remember that appearances matter. Make it impossible for the press to find fault with me. They’ll do it anyway—they always do—but I should give them a run for their money.

Over the next few days, I’m buffed, straightened, fluffed, painted, plucked, and squeezed into an inch of my existence. I’ve practiced French, German, and Mandarin until my brain is swollen. My daily workouts leave me weak, trembling, and craving cookie dough—which is strictly off limits. The binders of information I’m supposed to memorize threaten to break the desk they’re perched on.

I’m not sure I’ll recognize myself a year from now.

16

“It Ain’t Me” - Kygo + Selena Gomez

Because we’re getting married in less than a month, Henry and I don’t have time for the traditional royal wedding tour across Wesbourne. Instead, the Crown is throwing a large garden party in honor of our engagement and allowed the public to apply for an invitation. There were over one hundred thousand applications. Of those, seven thousand were approved and accepted for attendance.

The sprawling green behind the palace has hosted hundreds of garden parties over the years and will serve as the place for our official presentation as an engaged couple. Through the window of my sitting room, I can already see a large crowd. The women look like a box of French macarons spilled across the lawn in their pastel dresses and hats, and the men like Cinderella’s coachmen with their morning coats and top hats. Large floral arrangements dot the grass. The crowning glory is a long white tent, open on one side where guests will be able to help themselves to a buffet of tea and finger sandwiches.

Despite the nausea that’s been plaguing me ever since this whole thing started, excitement bubbles as I watch the people congregating. They are here to see me, and soon I will be responsible for their welfare as citizens. I will protect their rights and do my best to make Wesbourne a nation they can continue to be proud of.

I give one final glance at my reflection in the mirror, adjust the pleated skirt of my pale pink day dress, and, satisfied that I look the part of a queen-in-waiting, leave to join the rest of the royal family.

They’re waiting near the formal back entrance. Henry and his father both look dashing in their long tails, hats tucked under their arms, and Olivia and Rosalind glow like spring blooms in their sage and lavender dresses and fascinators. Even the royal chocolate Labrador’s coat gleams as he sits at William’s side like a page boy. Beatrice is not down yet. At least there’s something I can depend on.

A few minutes later she appears, not remorseful in the least about her tardiness, but wearing a smile so blinding I nearly squint. She’s wearing a snug-fitting baby blue dress with puffed sleeves, the hemline falling far below the acceptable knee-length and hitting her mid-calf. The reason for her modest skirt length quickly becomes apparent. A long slit inches its way up the side of her dress and stops daringly short of revealing more than her beautifully tanned thigh. A mini skirt would be more modest than the flash of skin that flirts through the folds of her dress as she moves.

My sister has no intention of giving up without a fight.

The crowd awaiting us outside is a welcome distraction. After our small processional, people clapping on either side of the informal aisle, I wind my way through them, greeting both dignitaries and average citizens, chatting with members of Parliament and stay-at-home mums. A group of university students excitedly exclaims that my “modern fairy-tale romance” is extremely swoon-worthy. I offer them a tight-lipped smile. More like modern Gothic horror.

When my hand threatens mutiny if it has to shake one more person’s, I retreat to a grouping of trees, desperate for a few minutes to myself. Although we were encouraged to greet people individually to cover more ground, I can’t help but notice the natural pairings that emerged from our cobbled-together family. Their long-time friendship drew Olivia and Rosalind together, the queen subtly showing my mother the ropes, so to speak. King William isn’t a people person, but even he is accompanied everywhere by his dog, Argos.

And then there are Henry and Beatrice. The two have spent nearly the entire party together so far, linking arms, giggling together, and looking for all the world like they are the ones getting married.

The now-familiar pang of homesickness punctures my stomach.

I watch my sister and fiancé talk with a small group of people near the tea tent. Bea places her hand on Henry’s arm and tosses her head back to laugh at something he says. They look divine together, a couple you’d see splashed on magazine covers and billboards.

Pain claws at my palm. I release the tight grip of my fingernails and toss the contents of my tea cup into the nearby hedge.

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