Page 31 of Nobody in Particular

In order to allow them space to practice, I have to shift from thefloor to the bed, sitting on the still-warm spot left behind by Danni. From this position, I can see the television.Thorns of Berry and Briaris still playing. It’s a scene I remember well, in fact. King Aelorin is in the throes of passion in the wine cellar with his king’s knight, Aric. More specifically, they’re in an advanced state of undress, using a wine barrel in a very creative manner.

The first time I saw this episode was also in Eleanor’s room, back in third year. Eleanor, Molly, and I had crammed ourselves onto Eleanor’s tiny bed to watch the latest episode as it came out. As the other two made exclamations of surprise—and, if we’re honest, discomfort—at the very unexpected, very queer, turn of events—I was riveted. The idea of a secret affair, hidden within the confines of a wine cellar, intrigued me.

Until then, I had all but resigned myself to the idea that my future was going to look nothing like I’d imagined as a child. At fourteen years old, I had reached the conclusion that I was not, and could not be, romantically interested in boys. Not the way I was with girls. Back then, it seemed as though I fell madly in love with a new girl in class every few months. They would shoot me a special smile, or their hair would catch the light just so, or they’d give an especially witty answer to a question in class, and I would be done for. Not once had it ever happened like that with a boy. Not once.

And, likewise, I had come to the conclusion that this meant I would never know love the way I’d hoped. Platonic love, absolutely. Romantic, unrequited, aching love? Also not a problem. But requited, intimate, committed romantic love? How could it happen for me? It wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t even entertained. It simply isn’t done. The princess marries a man, they have children, they become king and queen. Generation after generation. Simple, predictable, dictated.

Somehow, the thought of a wine cellar hadn’t crossed my mind. And by that I mean, obviously the idea of a clandestine affair had occurred to me, but that a queen could maintain a committed lover over the course of years, and keep them close, to the knowledge of the palace staff, but with the general public being none the wiser? It was revolutionary to me. It was the first time I realized that perhapsI wasn’t the first royal in history to ever secretly stray from my dictated course. That perhaps I could, like King Aelorin, fall in love with someone, and keep them close, while still performing my royal duties as outlined.

That month, I came out to my parents. And they confirmed what were, at the time, my wildest hopes. My public perception was the only thing of importance, and whatever occurred behind closed doors was my business, as long as I ensured it remained only my business.

It felt like a crack opening to let light stream into the dungeon I’d been sitting in the center of for the past year. It felt like hope.

I have an absent smile on my lips as I tune back in to observe Danni and Eleanor practicingMacbeth. Danni, it turns out, is a natural. She delivers Macbeth’s lines with ease, barely even glancing back down at the script as she speaks. She holds herself with a confident air, and there’s a recognizable charm in her delivery. Once she sheds the self-consciousness, she speaks with the assuredness of a leader.

She glances at me, and she must notice the latent smile I’m still wearing, because as she turns back to Eleanor, the corners of her mouth lift as well, her eyes crinkling and her scripted laugh noticeably breathless.

For some reason, this makes me think of how Danni beamed at Harriet earlier, and my smile slips into a scowl until I retrieve it and wrestle it into neutral.

What a thing to be upset about. Danni is allowed to have friends who aren’t me. And Lord knows I don’t mind her being friends with Eleanor, or even Molly. Why is it her friendship with Harriet that jabs at my side like the Holy Lance?

The next time Danni turns to me, we don’t meet eyes at all. I can only see her in my peripheral vision, because my gaze is fixed determinedly on the wall.

At the back of my mind, I become vaguely aware that my scowl has returned. This time, I don’t have the wherewithal to correct it.

THIRTEENROSE

Eleanor holds us hostage in her bedroom to provide feedback on herMacbethmonologue until it falls dangerously close to dinnertime. We’re rescued only by Danni’s fifteen-minute warning alarm, which explodes into sound right as Eleanor’s in the middle of her four-hundredth or so run-through. The three of us scramble to our feet before Eleanor can beg us to stay for just one more scene.

When we arrive at the B-floor landing, I stop Danni by touching her shoulder. She turns to look at me, and I’m about to speak, but I find myself distracted. For the first time, I’ve noticed the color of her eyes. They’re a remarkable shade of hazel. How is it that I’ve never noted her eye color before?

“Your tag is hanging out,” I say, gesturing to her collar. She nods and lifts her hair, automatically assuming I mean to help her tuck it back inside. It is not what I meant, but I certainly can’t refuse now, can I? After all, what kind of girl hesitates to touch another girl so innocently? There’s nothing intimate about this gesture, is there? Yet, when my fingers brush against the back of her neck as I tuck her tag back in, I realize with horror that my face has heated. I whirl to face my room at once, hoping Danni didn’t catch sight of the color of my cheeks. “We’ll come grab you for dinner?” I ask the wall, which is an entirely normal way to speak to somebody.

“Yeah, see you in a few minutes,” she says. Well, she said nothing about meeting her at Harriet’s room, which I presume to mean she ran out of time to visit. Suddenly, Eleanor’s impromptu rehearsal feels like the best way we could have spent an afternoon. I watch after Danni for a second, even as all there is to look at is the back of her caramel crown as she descends, before I realize I’m alone with Molly.

For the first time in a long time.

Molly darts ahead of me toward her room, but I quicken my step and fall just behind her. “So,” I say in a low voice, aware that wearein a hallway right now. “Are you coming to Mum’s birthday?”

She’s never missed it. Never. And yet, I predict the reply before it’s left her lips.

“I’m actually busy that night. Sorry.”

She has to pause to unlock her door, which gives me the chance to draw closer. “Which night?”

“The night of the party.” She fumbles with the key card, and the lock flashes red. She shifts her cape, which is lying in the crook of her right arm, to her left.

“And which night is that?” I ask. I didn’t, after all, tell them the date.

Molly tries her door again, and, getting another red, hits her card against the sensor in frustration. “All of them. I’m really busy these days, okay?”

“I’ve noticed,” I say wryly, and finally, she manages to unlock her door. “Molly, wait.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and she stops, facing into her bedroom, holding the door ajar. “Rose, I don’t want to do this.”

“Well, I do.”

“And as difficult as it might be for you to believe, the world doesn’t revolve around howyoufeel.”

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