Page 54 of Thrones We Steal

Is my shame sizzling like a neon sign above my head?

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Beck says, and his normally warm, friendly voice now sounds like a blast of frigid air. His eyes meet mine once more, and this time I notice a small glimmer of something hard in them.

I want to sink into the floor.

“Mr. Harrison,” Henry says. “Please, come in. Celia was just leaving.”

“Hello, Beck,” I say and excuse myself from the room.

Fresh air. I need fresh air like a politician needs votes. I walk as fast as acceptable for a royal family member wearing heels through the palace halls—which isn’t fast enough.

The sunshine hits me like a spotlight once I step outside, and I turn my face to catch its rays. I wander through the gardens, led by my feet alone, my thoughts much too conflicted to pay any mind to where I’m going.

Ten minutes later I pull up short and regret giving free reign to my body, which is clearly still living on the mountaintop of Henry’s kiss, to have brought me here of all places on the vast grounds.

The stone steps descending into Sunken Garden are clothed in moss and lichens, like a subtle warning to stay away. I ignore it and carefully pick my way down. I’m here now. May as well rip off all my plasters while I’m at it.

A koi pond commands the center of the green, complete with lily pads. The goldfish seem to have disappeared though. Plants spill over the flagstone path, disregarding the border that was once neatly edged. Weeds poke their heads rebelliously through the cracks, and years of dirt cake the surface. The palace employs a crew of gardeners large enough to staff a bustling restaurant. There’s no reason for this particular garden to have avoided maintenance for so long.

The memory of my last time here swells around me and threatens to pull me down into even further humiliation. I won’t let it. I have to stay strong. The future depends on this.

Birds chirp in the nearby branches, oblivious to the state of the garden and the chaos raging inside me. I drop to my knees on the path, the stones warm beneath me from gulping up the rays of the sun.

It was sunny that day too.

I begin tugging at a cluster of weeds. This place makes it easy to shut out the outside world, being four feet lower than everything else and surrounded on all sides by a wall and a thick hedge. I’ve spent more hours in this garden than I can count, creating make-believe fantasies, playing schoolyard games, lounging in the sun, and conjuring up enough freckles to give my mum an ulcer.

And Henry at the center. Always Henry.

Even now, ten years later, I can’t escape his magnetism. What possessed me to kiss him the way I had? Because, while I’ll die before admitting it to him, I participated in that kiss as much as he did.

I yank on a particularly stubborn weed and nearly tumble backwards when it finally comes free.

Beck and I were on the verge of getting married, and we’ve never kissed with half as much passion. That is the trouble with Henry. He doesn’t think. He just does whatever he wants at the moment. And when he pulls you into his circle, you can’t help but do the same.

Guilt eats at me like the caterpillar that’s making quick work of a leaf on one of the nearby plants. This isn’t who I am. I am Celia Chapman-Payne, doer of what’s right and good and just. Follower of plans and maker of lists. Kissing Henry like we are the only two people left on the planet does not fit into the picture.

I look at my nails, thoroughly chipped and dirtied like I’m a little ragamuffin left loose outside, rather than the queen-in-waiting who just spent an hour getting her nails done. Liz—and likely Maisie too—is going to kill me once I get back inside. I toss the small pile of weeds I’ve accumulated aside. The rest will have to wait for another time.

No matter how badly my body might try to convince me otherwise, kissing Henry is going to be strictly off limits.

It doesn’t matter that those few short minutes may have been the best of my life.

It doesn’t matter that Henry tasted much better than I ever imagined anyone could.

And it certainly doesn’t matter that when he looked at me, I saw shadows of the old Henry.

It will not happen again.

18

“Illumination” - Jennifer Thomas

The sky on the morning of the wedding is ominous with clouds as a storm rolls in. Isn’t there a saying about not getting married during a thunderstorm? If there isn’t, there should be. The sky never lies.

I stand in my sitting room, watching the downpour through the window, a princess locked in her tower bedroom. The wind is blowing the trees outside nearly sideways until I’m sure they’ll snap in half, but they never do. It howls and I rub my arms through my lace sleeves.

My hair is arranged in a cascade down my back, a veil and tiara over it. Helena’s dress has been altered to fit me like a glove. My bouquet of roses and lilies teases my nose with its sickly perfume.

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