Page 21 of Nobody in Particular

I remember this version of Danni. This is the version I met at Molly’s party, before the overwhelm of Bramppath forced her into nervous withdrawal. All at once, I recall how she piqued my interest that day. I’d almost forgotten.

The forest floor is slick with mud and sodden leaves, and the air is brisk and thick with the scent of rain. Strolling weather it is not—I have to engage my core just to prevent myself from skidding on the sludge beneath my feet—but at least it’s secluded here. If you don’t count Sidney, anyway, but he’s holding himself at a distance.

I clear my throat, and find myself hit by an unfamiliar spray of nerves. I’m not sure if Danni is causing that effect in me, or if it’s the fear of how she might reply to the question about to leave mylips. Before I can verbalize it, though, she breaks the uncomfortable silence with, “So, Molly tells me you’re into snow sports?”

Unfortunately, the aforementioned adrenaline has taken over my speech entirely, and I have to ask my initial question. I was already committed. “How is Molly?” I ask. “Is she okay?”

Danni seems taken aback. “Uh, okay then, enough about snow sports. She’s okay, I guess.” I nod, and she goes on. “I mean, as okay as you can expect her to be.”

So, she knows about Amsterdam, then. The death. I thought surely she must, but it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to find out she didn’t. His name is never brought up, not even in a whisper. While I’m certain his absence must be acknowledged at Ashford from time to time, other than the assembly addressing his death at the end of last term, Bramppath has continued on as though our brother school is as full as it ever was. I don’t know what I expected—Oscar never attended Bramppath, after all. But somehow, it feels as though he’s been forgotten by everybody but our little group.

“Will you check in on her from time to time?” I ask. “If you haven’t been already, of course. She obviously needs a lot of support right now, and she isn’t the type to ask for it. And she’s made it quite clear she doesn’t want it from me.”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, eyes widening. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Relief surges down my spine, relaxing my shoulders. “I would sit beside her, but…”

“You’re not her favorite person right now. Gotcha.”

My eyebrows flash up, and Danni takes note.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “But no, totally. I’ll hang with her. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Of course.” With that, I feel much better. I’m about to suggest we return to the game, when Danni gives me a searching look.

“How about you?” she asks. “Anyone checking in on you?”

I wave a dismissive hand. “There’s nothing to worry about on my end. I’m perfectly fine.”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a wry smile. “I sort of think it’s a red flag if you feel perfectly fine after going through that, though. Don’t you?”

A red flag? Hardly. I’ve never understood people’s obsession with dwelling within their negative emotions. As though it’s somehow a sign of strength to wallow in sadness and hurt for weeks or months. Who does that help? Certainly not the person hurting. I understand, though, that it’s different for me. I’ve been raised knowing that my life is to be used in the service of my country. What I do and don’t need doesn’t—and could never—measure up against the needs of the masses. And what a privilege that is, to be in a position to help so many.

A red flag is a future monarch who crumbles at a hint of adversity. Henland doesn’t need me out of action any time a friend or family member passes, or a loved one pushes me from their lives, or I make a mistake that’s exposed to the world. It needs me to focus on all the things bigger than me, and perform my duties without faltering. Every day I can’t is a day I’ve failed everyone, including myself. And I’ve already failed enough for a lifetime.

“I’m resilient,” I say simply. Danni seems unconvinced.

Something falls on my cheek. At first, I think it’s water dripping off the tree leaves above me, but then I realize it’s a sprinkle of rain. It’s so light it’s practically weightless, the droplets catching glints of white-gold sunlight as they fall. Danni pulls the hood of her jacket over her hair, but I have no such option. I hurry to take shelter beneath a nearby tree.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Danni says, ducking in beside me. The branches aren’t doing an awful lot to protect either of us, and her jacket is already speckled with raindrops. “All those articles. I think that would destroy me.”

“Ahh, you saw some?” I ask brightly. “Lively reads, aren’t they?”

“They’re harsh. And you don’t feel any way about them?”

I suppose it depends which articles she means. The media has been writing about me incessantly since six months before my birth. The coverage was positive enough until I was around four years old and started crying during a military air show, at which point it was decided I was rather ill-behaved. My delinquency only continued from there. Insider sources informing the papers how rude I was in the classroom when I was seven, photos of me yawning withoutcovering my mouth at the midnight Christmas mass making the front page when I was nine, a major story about me getting a detention when I was twelve for laughing with Molly in history class.

My parents were never too concerned about these articles, and nor was I. It’s common for princes and princesses to be examined, they told me. Even more so in my case, as I have no siblings to distract from me. When I began to truly test the rules at Bramppath, I half expected the papers to immediately know every detail. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, drinking and smoking in the woods, skipping school events. Somehow, they never did find out. Until Amsterdam, of course.

I shrug. “I can hardly expect Amsterdam to be brushed past, can I?”

“I guess, but they’ve made their point, and then some. Hopefully they back off soon.”

My smile is tight. “Honestly, I’m not sure what’s going to happen now. If I’m perfect, it’s ignored. If I’m not, it’s condemned. Not a lot seems to be in my power at the moment.”

A rare flush heats my cheeks at that. What an inappropriately intimate thing to say. I’m certain Danni doesn’t want to hear me whine about my public image. She was only asking to be polite. Maybe it’s the way she keeps looking at me, long and intense, as though she sees something I’ve endeavored to keep hidden. It’s hard not to sink into a false sense of ease when you’re speaking to someone who looks at you like they know you to your bones.

She doesn’t know me, though.

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