I feel suddenly pale. “Doesn’t everything that arrives at the palace already get screened as a regular security protocol?”
“Supposedly.”
My brows lift, but she doesn’t elaborate further.
“Get some sleep, Princess.”
Setting the letters on my small side table, Galizia turns and walks to the door, her long strides crossing the room in seconds. At the threshold, she pauses. Her voice, if I’m not mistaken, is threaded with barely-contained amusement.
“Personally, I’d go out with the gold-embossed envelope first. He may be a trust-fund asshat like the rest of the batch, but at least he doesn’t try his hand at god-awful, flowery poetry like the blue calligraphy guy…”
“Huh?” I ask, but she’s already gone — disappearing into the hallway and shutting my bedroom door behind her with a resolute click. Only after turning my attention to the stack of envelopes do I figure out what she meant.
See, I was wrong before. Wrong to assume my mail was official correspondence concerning upcoming functions at the palace, vital political meetings, notifications about the ongoing arson investigation…
Nope.
In my hands, I hold over a dozen letters from what can only be described as…
Suitors.
Eligible, extremely wealthy, Germanian suitors. Men with lands and titles and —dear lord, Galizia was right, judging by this first one— extremely poor taste in poetry. My horror magnifies as I thumb through letter after letter, reading several different date propositions in sloping masculine script.
Consider this your invitation to the formal ball at Glenn Landing…
Please accompany me to the Nelle River Bridge Restoration Gala next month…
It would be my honor to escort you around the Vasgaard Museum of Natural History, since my family donated several prized pieces to the diamond exhibit…
I roll my eyes. Octavia must’ve put out some sort of bulletin:the Crown Princess is officially open for business, lads!That’s the only explanation for this sudden surge of romantic interest. Unless I’m unknowingly putting out a pheromone that exclusively attracts politically-connected men under the age of forty who occupy our country’s highest tax bracket.
I crumple a particularly cheesy letter into a ball and toss it into the fire. The flames quickly swallow it whole. I watch them flare brighter as the paper disintegrates into ash, scowling as I recall my standoff with my delightful stepmother earlier this afternoon. Her snobbish tone echoes inside my head.
You will agree to be courted by the eligible bachelors of Germania’s aristocracy. Suitors specifically selected for their family connections, influence, and titles.
“Like hell I will!” I hiss, rising to my feet and throwing down the rest of the envelopes, unopened. They scatter across the floor — confetti of the finest quality card-stock and calligraphy. “There’s no way she can actually force me to go out with these cretins…”
Muttering under my breath, I pace in front of my fireplace for several minutes, trying to banish all thoughts ofcourtshipfrom my mind. When the clock in the corner of my room chimes to mark a new hour, I stop seething long enough to check the time. I’m stunned to see it’s already midnight.
Shit.
In eight hours, I have to be pressed and perfumed, on stage at a Remembrance Day ceremony. Lady Morrell told me she’d wake me up at six o’clock sharp, a team of makeup artists and wardrobe consultants in tow. I should’ve been asleep hours ago, unless I want the dark circles beneath my eyes to be the most memorable part of my first public appearance as the Crown Princess.
A wave of exhaustion hits me. I stretch my arms overhead to work some of the knots out of my back and groan when the bones crack. I feel like an old lady at the ripe age of twenty.
No matter what anyone says — reading is a contact sport. Five straight hours of hunching over the pages is seriously rough on the spine.
Yawning widely, I turn toward my bed, suddenly desperate to close my eyes and put a stop to this never-ending day. I pick my way across the minefield of scattered letters on my floor. They might as well be explosives, as far as I’m concerned.
When my eyes snag on a thick, pale blue envelope peeking out at the top of the stack, addressed to me in unmistakably feminine handwriting, I tell myself to keep walking, to ignore it, but…
Curiosity wins out.
Bending, I pick it up like it truly might contain a bomb and slide out the thick leafs of parchment inside with hesitant fingers. One bears the Queen’s seal, along with her signature in bold ink. My eyes widen as I skim the official letter of pardon.
On this day, the twenty-first of November… by royal decree… Mr. Owen Harding… hereby cleared of all pending charges pertaining to acts of terrorism against the crown…
It’s signed with her full title, flourishes of black ink crossing the page like a spider’s web.
Her Royal Majesty Octavia Thorne, Queen Consort of Germania
Still reeling from shock that she actually followed through on my demand for Owen’s pardon, I flip to the second sheet of parchment. It’s mostly blank. Only a small note mars the ivory surface — though I suppose she doesn’t need more than a few words to threaten me. Nine are as effective as nine hundred.
“I’ve kept my promise. See that you keep yours.”