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Chapter One
“The king is dead.”
The news breaks across the country like an unexpected summer storm — all at once, in a downpour that mutes the whole world with sudden ferocity. It’s one of those moments people will recall with perfect clarity for the rest of their lives, even looking back a half-century later. The millennial generation’s very own Challenger explosion or JFK assassination, crystalized forever in a flashbulb memory.
Where were you when you found out about the Lancasters?
The details are so sharp, their edges cut me when I turn them over in my mind. The stale taste of beer on my tongue. The smell of cracked peanut shells, littered across the scratched bar in front of me. The screech of static from the overhead speakers as the recycled playlist of one-hit-wonders cuts off with a violent switch-flip.
Owen presses closer at my side, his broad shoulder warm even through the fabric of his fitted black T-shirt. Voices in the crowd around us grow from a dull murmur to a horrified roar as a sea of liquored eyes turns as one toward the televisions mounted against the cramped pub’s wood-paneled walls. I crane my neck to see what all the fuss is about and, with an abruptness that steals the wind from my lungs, find myself with a front-row seat to the moment my entire future fragments into pieces.
DEADLY FIRE AT WATERFORD PALACE
Shouts of “Turn up the volume!” are swiftly traded for gasps and sobs as the images play out onscreen.
Flames and death.
A fairy tale crumbling right before our eyes.
Owen swears under his breath, but I can barely make out the sound. My brainwaves have turned static. My fingers tremble as I set down my beer, feeling dizzy from more than just the alcohol in my veins as I watch the news anchor’s lips spout truths I’m unequipped to process.
“The fire caught sometime after ten o’clock this evening in the East Wing of Waterford Palace. An inside source informed us that the blaze most likely originated in the Crown Prince’s private suite.” Her tone is suffused with shock and grief — she’s practically choking out the words. “At this time, we can confirm that both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail—”
The words cut off, too horrible to make it past her lips. We wait in tense silence. I’ve never heard a college bar so quiet, even during finals week. No one is laughing or flirting or throwing darts. No one’s even breathing, as far as I can tell. Our attention is riveted on the screens.
The anchorwoman swallows sharply, then expels a shaky breath with great care. Her hands knit together on her sleek glass desk, a ball of tight-clenched knuckle bones and taut skin.
Just spit it out already,I think, wanting to shake the truth out of her. This waiting is worse than whatever you’re going to tell us.
But, when she finally complies, I’m instantly proven wrong. The waiting isn’t worse; I’d wait an eternity if it meant avoiding this particular news.
“Tonight, it is my grave task to inform you of an unfathomable tragedy. Both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail have perished in the flames at Waterford Palace.”
A collective cry splits the air — a lighting strike in a gathering storm of disbelief. The bartender drops a glass with a clatter. Owen lets out another low expletive. The two girls to my left begin to weep. Their horror is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue with each breath.
No.I recoil, rejection surging through me.Surely, there’s been some sort of mistake. Any minute, the news anchor will break out in a chagrined smile and apologize for giving the entire nation such a scare with this nonsense.
Except…
She doesn’t.
“Despite the valiant rescue efforts of the firefighters, several palace staff members are also unaccounted for. They are presumed dead,” the anchor informs us bleakly. “We do not currently know the status of Crown Prince Henry. We will update you as soon as we hear whether he is among the deceased.”
Another wail reverberates through the crowd, shattering the air to shards of sorrow and shock.
Not Henry, too.
Not our heir.
Not our prince.
This news is incomprehensible. Incalculable. We are unequipped to process it with any elegance or composure. Unable to do anything except stand around stupefied as the sky collapses around our ears.
The teary girl beside me — who five minutes ago was downing gin cocktails with a fortitude that would impress Jay Gatsby himself — hiccups rather violently. Feeling strangely removed from my own body, I watch my hand like it belongs to someone else as it reaches out to pass her a square bar napkin. She accepts it with a morose sniffle, her eyes never shifting from the television screens. Looking around, I see her horrified expression mirrored on every other face in the crowd.
Unadulterated anguish en masse.