She’s full of these flowery, over-the-top analogies. Already today I’ve been instructed on how to glide around a dance floorlike a soaring hawk taking flight over a pink dawn skyand curtsy low to the floorlike a setting sun sinking slowly toward the ever-fixed horizon.
Whenever I start to question why I’m subjecting myself to this, I focus on the hundred-thousand-dollar light at the end of the tunnel. That’s usually enough to keep me from bolting.
“Very well, Lady Morrell.” I adjust my grip for the tenth time. “How’s this?”
“Wrong. Utterly wrong! Here, allow me to demonstrate again…”
I swallow a scream. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before I give up and race back to my rooms…
Like a swift cheetah crossing the Serengeti!
I snort in an unladylike fashion that earns me a glare from my tutor.
As predicted, princess lessons have been completely insufferable. Six hours a day — three in the morning, three more in the afternoon — of Lady Morrell lecturing on the merits of proper decorum, table manners, royal address, and Germanian customs. By Wednesday, my head is so full of banal information, I’ve reached a saturation point.
Use ‘Your Majesty’ to address a king or queen. ‘Your Highness’ for a prince or princess. ‘Your Grace’ for a duke or duchess. ‘My Lord’ for barons, earls, and knights.
Do not curtsey to anyone of lower rank.
Never cross your legs; always cross your ankles.
Elbow-length gloves are to be worn for all official ceremonies of state.
Manicures shall be allowed in nude or pastel shades only.
No autographs or signatures of any kind.
No unauthorized photographs.
No public displays of affection.
No use of social media platforms.
No.
No.
No.
The word has been thrown around so often, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s anything a princess actuallyisauthorized to do — besides smile and wave during scheduled appearances at boring social functions.
Lady Morrell insists she’s only trying to prepare me for what she calls myfirst royal test— which, as she frequently reminds me, is approaching at the speed of light. I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of attending the funeral on Sunday with the Lancasters, even flying under the radar, posing as just another aide in their entourage. The mere thought of it sends butterflies bursting into flight in the pit of my stomach.
So many things could go wrong.
I’m not remotely prepared to appear in front of anyone asroyaltyyet. That much has been made glaringly obvious by Morrell’s ever-exasperated expression when she glances my way, whether I’m stumbling through dance lessons, fumbling royal titles, or using the incorrect cutlery during dinner courses.
I try to avoid looking at the towering grandfather clock on the other side of the dining room, knowing it’s only going to disappoint me, but I can’t help myself.Four o’clock.Still another full hour before I’m free. I readjust my grip on the spoon and attempt to take a sip of my soup without, and I quote,slurping like a teenage boy drinking a cola at the cinema.
I suppose the only blessing to Morrell’s maddening tutelage is that it’s keeping me too busy to think much about Owen… or to bump into Chloe and Carter in the hallways of our shared penitentiary. After five days cooped up in this place, I’m sure they’re both chafing to escape just as much as I am. But the King’s Guard still hasn’t lifted the security lockdown. It’s unlikely they will before the funeral, now that the fire has officially been classified as foul play by the arson investigators.
I spent last night locked in my bedroom, scrolling through news updates on my battered old laptop — which was finally returned to my possession along with my school textbooks, cellphone, and a duffle of clothing selected from my dresser at home. I try not to think too hard about one of the solemn, suit-wearing guards digging through my underwear drawer and touching all my things.
Because…
Ew.
I scrolled through article after article, reading headlines and theories from journalists all over the world about potential motives, likely suspects, possible political implications. The outpouring of grief was immeasurable, bringing the whole world to its knees. The news that it was murder rather than tragedy was a kick to the stomach while we were already down on the ground.