I watch them breaking apart like waves against the sharpest rocks, fragmenting into grief-stricken shells that bear no resemblance to the rowdy university students they were mere minutes ago. It doesn’t matter that they’ve never shaken their king’s hand, that they’ve never seen their prince in person except perhaps from the safety of a sidewalk barricade as his carriage rolled past during a royal parade. This news is a blade plunged into the very fabric of our existence. Even the newscaster is wiping away tears as the grim tale unfolds.
“Whether this was an accident or something more sinister remains unclear,” she reads from her teleprompter, looking contradictorily grim in her cheerful yellow blazer. “Authorities are preliminarily treating it as a terror attack. Emergency protocols are now in effect. All remaining members of the royal family have been placed under the protection of the King’s Guard and will remain so until the full threat has been assessed — that includes the king’s younger brother Prince Linus, the Duke of Hightower, along with his wife and step-children.”
At the mention of the Duke, Owen’s eyes find mine in the dimness, an unfamiliar streak of worry in their depths. He’s one of the only people on the planet who knows about my connection to the Lancasters. About the paternal name printed on my birth certificate in bold, undeniable letters.
“Emilia…”
“Don’t.” I pick up my beer glass so I have something to do with my hands as the painful broadcast plays on. I squeeze so tight, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t shatter to pieces against my palm.
“In this darkest hour…” The anchorwoman’s voice cracks along with her composure. “I believe I speak for all of us here at GBTV — and every Germanian citizen listening out there — when I say our thoughts and prayers are with every member the Lancaster family as we attempt to navigate this tremendous loss… and work out exactly what it will mean for the leadership of our nation…”
“Sweet fuck,” Owen murmurs as the screen cuts to more images of the burning inferno. His voice sounds a million miles away — along with the rest of the world. In this moment, surrounded on all sides, I feel even more alone than I did as a little girl, the day my mother finally told me the truth about my biological father. About the man who was almost hers. About the destiny that was almost mine.
He didn’t want us, Emilia.
He didn’t want you.
Head spinning, I sway into my best friend’s chest. He steadies me instantly, his broad hands locking around my bare biceps with reassuring weight. It’s warm within the crush of the crowd, but I’m suddenly freezing in my black crop top and fitted skirt. Goosebumps cover every inch of exposed skin.
“Ems?” His brow furrows with concern. A lock of wavy blond hair falls into his worried brown gaze. “You okay?”
I manage to nod. At least, I think I do.
Onscreen, the anchor’s hand flies to her ear as she listens to some unheard transmission. “We will bring you now to Gerald Simms, the Palace Press Secretary, for an official update.”
The broadcast turns to a split-screen. The man who appears on the right side of the television has the sourest expression I’ve ever seen, as though he’s just stuck his nose into a carton of curdled milk. His thinning hair and expanding waistline are not aided by the unflattering pinstripe suit he’s chosen to wear for this occasion.
“Mr. Simms, welcome,” the news anchor says. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us tonight.”
“Yes, yes.” The man’s double chin wobbles like a turkey’s gobbler. “My pleasure.”
“Mr. Simms, can you weigh in on the implications for the crown in the face of this catastrophic loss? Can you give us any insight whatsoever into how this fire started? Was this a planned attack?”
“I cannot comment on specifics pertinent to the investigation. All I can reveal is that the King’s Guard is actively pursuing every potential lead,” Simms says, chest puffing up like a helium balloon. He’s so full of self-importance, you could pop him with a pin.
“And Crown Prince Henry?”
“I am unable to reveal the status of Prince Henry at this time. However, I have been briefed that King Leopold’s younger brother Linus, the Duke of Hightower, is safe and secure at an off-site location.”
“That is comforting news. The Duke is next in line for the throne after the Crown Prince — is that correct, Secretary?”
“Indeed.”
“So… if Prince Henry… if the prince…” She trails off. A bolt of unease shoots through the crowd around me at the unspeakable implication in her words.
Dies.
If the prince dies.
Simms’ mouth purses like a drawstring bag, containing all his emotions tightly below the surface. “Rest assured — Germania will not be without a ruler. The Duke is fully prepared to take up his mantle as King Regent if the Crown Prince is unable to fulfill his role for any reason.”
The newscaster nods, looking paler than ever. “Please correct me if I am wrong, Secretary Simms, but the Duke has no children of his own…”
“The Duke has two step-children from his marriage to Lady Octavia Thorne,” he retorts. “But you are correct. He has no legitimate heirs of his own.”
Legitimate.
The word makes my blood run cold. My hands clench tighter around my glass. Owen shifts closer, sensing my unease. I can practically feel waves of worry radiating off him.