Page 3 of Coronation
“It’s hosted once or twice a month, always in a different location. Once you’re on the list, you get an invitation with the basic details a few days in advance. Then, when you get there, you have to sign an NDA and hand over your phone, then you’re swept for electronics before you even step foot on the property. Security is really tight; it’s a whole thing. The party has been running for decades, and they haven’t had a single scandal.”
An impressive feat, when sometimes it feels like I can’t wipe my nose without someone taking a picture of it.
Davina continues, suddenly looking a little concerned. “I know it sounds sketchy as fuck, but I promise they’re big on confidentiality and safety. The last thing they want is someone crossing a line and having to get police involved. There’s a lot of security, and I think the guest list is pretty heavily curated. If you make people uncomfortable, you won’t be getting another invitation.”
“That’s good,” I respond lamely. “Would they even… Would I get invited?”
This question earns me a scoff and an exasperated look from my friend. “You’re young, hot, and well-connected. Trust me, if I request an invite for you, you’ll get one. And, as we’ve established, the whole face–boob combo you have going is top-notch. I’m sure there will be multiple attractive, high-profile gentlemen there who would be honored to aid you on your journey. If it’s not your thing, though, I understand.”
As the seconds pass and the proposition sinks in, I find the idea… appealing. Very appealing, actually. As a notorious member of the heart-in-vagina club, I’ve never had sex outside a relationship. It would probably be a good idea to think something like this over with a clear head and not make decisions based on the truly shitty day I just had. The longer I sit here, though, letting the idea of attending a rich-people orgy sink in, I find that I don’t want to wait.
Screw it.
As I look back up at Davina, it feels like I’m vibrating. “What kind of people go to this?”
“You mean, what kind of men?” She sweeps her hair over her shoulder with a laugh. “I can’t name names, obviously. But suffice it to say, the selection isvastlysuperior to what we’re working with back home. Think getting farm-to-table produce when you’re used to canned peas.”
A rush of adrenaline floods my veins as I giggle, and before I know it, I’m nodding. “Okay. I’d like to go. If you can get me in.”
I’ve barely finished the sentence before Davina pulls out her phone, her smile enormous. “I’ll give them your contact information. Be ready to leave at eight.”
Two
Benedict
Though it would undoubtedly come as some surprise to the general, tax-paying population, being the head of a constitutional monarchy isn’t a terribly enjoyable position to hold.
My ancestors had it easy, lording over the country from their throne before dying of syphilis at the ripe old age of thirty-two. Their subjects were too busy staving off famine and plague to care very much how their self-appointed leader spent his time.
The modern era has brought with it conveniences, to be sure—antibiotics for one—but after sitting through an hour-long presentation on exactly why the public finds me so unlikeable, an untimely death by STD is beginning to feel like a more desirable alternative.
“It’s nothing we can’t get past,” concludes Preston Thomas, gazing imploringly at me over the gold frame of his spectacles. “I’m quite optimistic we’re on the right track.”
The well-appointed conference room we’re occupying inthe palace’s press wing is furnished with a long, polished wood table and a set of handsome but uncomfortable chairs. Behind him, a large monitor is still displaying the last slide from his most recent presentation. Its headline:King Benedict: Declining Favorability Rating, seems to contradict this assurance. As does the line of publications laid out along the center of the conference table, most of which depict my face in some version of the same unflattering scowl.
“I wish I shared your confidence,” I inform him cooly, not bothering to disguise my impatience. “Unless I’m mistaken, those favorability rates should be improving if we are indeed on the right track.”
At my words, Thomas blanches, dabbing at his receding hairline with a red satin handkerchief. The man’s position, Director of the Palace Press Corps, would have been better called a professional false optimist. According to him, everything is totally under control, even if all evidence suggests otherwise. In the eighteen months since I was shoved—unprepared and unwilling—onto the throne, weekly meetings with him have become the single worst item on my agenda.
In seconds, the handkerchief is safely stowed back in his pocket, returning the man to his usual pompous, polished state. “I do agree, the results haven’t beenquitewhat we’d like. These things do take time, though, and due to the comments of His Majesty, King Arthur?—”
My heavy sigh brings his pandering to an abrupt end. “Surely we aren’t blaming this on my dead brother, Thomas.”
The man’s face goes from ruddy to white. “Of course not, sir. I assure you. However, the late king’s lack of support for your divorce did leave us in rather a tricky position.”
Yes, he certainly did.
My late brother was everything a good king should be. He followed the letter of the law, and condoning divorce in the twenty-first century, even to support family, was unthinkableto him. Nothing and no one were more important than his duty to The Crown.
Perhaps, if Arthur had even an inkling that the burden of the wretched thing would fall directly onto the head of that same disgraceful brother, he would have rethought this approach. As it is, the man spoke publicly of his disappointment in me, condemned the “hasty dissolution of my family,” and only smiled grimly when asked what this would mean for the line of succession.
Like Icarus, my brother thought himself too great to be burdened by anything as pedestrian as death. Then, not even a week later, he flew his plane into the sea. And here we are.
I really should be more sympathetic to poor old Thomas. Under Arthur, the better part of his job seems to have been organizing press for garden parties and running focus groups on official photographs of the royal family. There would have been no need for him to come up with presentations about why the people of Stelland hated my brother.
Without a word, I push back my chair and stand, crossing to the lone window at the end of the room. Outside in the courtyard, the royal guard is changing their positions, tourists are taking photos outside the high, wrought iron gates, and several maintenance men are repairing some of the masonry on the gatehouse. Business as usual. I might have looked outside this very window a decade ago and had the very same view.
Behind me, my press secretary clears his throat, his tone clipped as he continues. “My team has organized a number of appearances over the coming month, which we believe will greatly help in changing public perception for the better, sir.”
