Page 24 of Kingmakers, Year One

“Of course,” he says, in his cool, clipped voice.

“Was that . . . did you . . . tell them to do that?”

He sits up, so we’re looking at each other once more. I resemble my father more than my mother. Same pale skin without a hint of freckles. Same blonde hair. Same glacial blue eyes.

Those eyes are terrifying when they’re fixed on you.

“You are my heir,” my father says firmly. “You’re my eldest. It’s your birthright.”

“But Whelan . . .”

“It’s my choice to consider gender or birth order,” my father says. “Before you were even born, your mother and I agreed.”

My heart stopped for a moment. Now it beats twice as fast as normal, trying to catch up.

“Good…” I fight to quell the slight tremor in my voice. “I’m glad.”

“It will all be yours if you want it,” my father says.

“I do,” I whisper. “I want it.”

My father nods. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me close so he can kiss me on the forehead.

“You will have everything you want in this world, Anna. I knew it from when I first held you in my arms. I knew you would take it all, and hold it tight.”

We sit quietly, not speaking.

I love my mother. I love her intensely. It’s impossible not to—she has all the good qualities I lack. Endless kindness. A complete lack of selfishness. An internal joy that lights the room, that buoys up everyone around her.

I’m not like that. Sometimes I’m sad for no good reason. Sometimes I want to sit in silence, thinking about the passageof time, and how painful it is to remember the best and worst moments that have come and gone so swiftly.

Then I’d rather be with my father, because I know he feels the same way. He and I are alike inside as well as on the outside. For better or worse, I’m not sweet and I’m not always happy.

The only time I see that part of myself in my mother is when she choreographs her dances. Then I see that though she may not be dark herself, she understands sorrow and fear. She sees the beauty in damaged and disturbing things. That’s why she understands my father and loves him. It’s why she understands me.

Dance is how we bond. It’s how I’ve channeled my worst and most destructive impulses. I keep control of them, so they don’t destroy me.

But there won’t be a dance team at Kingmakers.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the feelings that build up inside of me. They mess with my head. They make me want to do things I know I’ll regret.

“You should go to bed,” my father tells me. “You don’t want to be tired as you travel.”

“I can sleep on the plane.”

“Unlikely,” he says, “if you’re sitting next to Leo.”

I smile. Leo is always full of energy and excitement—particularly when doing anything new. He’ll probably talk all the way to Croatia.

“It will be difficult at the school,” my father says. “You can handle that. But if anything goes seriously wrong . . .”

“I’ll call you,” I promise.

We flyfrom Chicago to Frankfurt at ten o’clock the following morning, from Frankfurt to Zagreb, and then Zagreb to Dubrovnik.

My family and Leo’s both come to the airport to see us off.

Aunt Yelena looks pale and strained. I know she doesn’t want Leo to go to Kingmakers. She thinks it’s dangerous.

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