Chapter Six
“Oh my god!It’s Princess Emilia!”
“Princess! Princess! Look this way!”
“We love you, Emilia!”
I step out of the sleek Rolls Royce limousine and am met with an explosion of camera flashes and screams from the gathered crowd. I’m surprised to see this many people assembled so early in the morning for something as boring as a hospital dedication ceremony.
Don’t people have anything better to do with their Saturday morning than shiver in the cold on a city sidewalk?
Their shouts grow deafening as I make my way slowly down the cobbled street. As the barrage of sound engulfs us, I begin to suspect they aren’t here for the hospital at all.
“It’s her!”
“It’s the princess!”
“No way!”
“Oh my god!”
Galizia trails slightly behind me, an ever-present shadow. Simms walks directly to my left. Six more members of the King’s Guard surround us on all sides, outfitted in nondescript navy uniforms instead of the elaborately embroidered dress blues I recall from the last time I stepped foot outside the palace, at King Leopold and Queen Abigail’s funeral.
I suppose swords, banners, and full regalia are reserved for formal affairs only.
“Your Royal Highness!”
“Princess Emilia!”
The crowd never lets up — neither yelling nor snapping photographs. I resist the urge to lift an arm and shield my eyes from the visual assault, to duck my head and run for cover back inside the limo.
After being cooped up in the empty, echoing castle for so long, it’s jarring to find myself back in the real world. Everything feels too bright, too bold. I am an ant beneath a magnifying glass, being incinerated in slow degrees by a concentrated sunbeam.
“We love you, Princess!”
As I approach the hospital steps, where the podium awaits, I spot several armed security personnel stationed on nearby rooftops, monitoring the scene from above. Between their sniper rifles, the heavy police presence interspersed throughout the crowd, and the metal detectors erected at every perimeter, glinting in the harsh morning light, I feel more like a high-profile prisoner being transferred before trial than I do a royal about to christen a new municipal building.
The entire block in front of the military hospital has been cordoned off for the commemoration ceremony. People line the sidewalks, pressed tight against the partitions to catch a glimpse of their new princess in the flesh for the first time. The crowd is dense with families, former military personnel, couples of all ages — folks Lady Morrell would no doubt refer to ascommoners.
They wave and cheer as I move past them, feeling stiff as a robot as I walk between the barricades. I’m still unaccustomed to being the center of this much attention and I’m sure it shows in my every awkward stride.
“Princess!”
“Princess Emilia!”
“Your Highness!”
As they call out to me, hands extended, I try to heed Simms’ words from this morning’s limo ride.
Smile politely but don’t stop,he advised me, his beady eyes fixed on mine.You’re only here to be seen — there’s no need to speak to them. When you reach the podium, smile and wave. You may say a quick hello into the mic, but the Minister of Veteran Affairs will handle the actual speaking obligations.
His plan was simple enough in theory, but I think he underestimated how excited the crowds would be when I made my debut. There’s a frenzied energy running through the throng. The air feels supercharged with electricity. You’d think I were a celebrity walking an award show red carpet.
After a few moments, the constant flash of cameras becomes practically blinding. Ignoring my burning retinas, I keep my chin up and my feet moving. Somehow, I manage not to bobble on the hunter green high heels Lady Morrell picked out for me to wear with a designer shift dress, black stockings, and an elegant wool peacoat.
In this dignified outfit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror this morning. My nails are painted an appropriate neutral shade and buffed to perfection. My dark hair is swept back in an elegant twist. The artfully-applied makeup enhances my features and covers even the most prominent under-eye circles.
To complete the look: a silver tiara from the Lancaster vault that costs more than a year’s college tuition, plus interest, rests atop of my head. It’s light as a feather and yet… it’s so heavy with the weight of my new sovereignty, I can barely keep my chin up. I think I finally understand that oft-touted expression.