Chapter Seven
“That speech was notwhat we discussed,” Simms mutters in a tight voice as he ushers me into the waiting Rolls Royce two hours later. The deafening sound of the crowd’s cheering is muffled slightly when the chauffeur closes the door behind us.
“Sorry, Ger.” Cheeks aching, I let the smile fall off my face and settle back against the seats with a sharp exhale. I’m suddenly exhausted beyond measure. “I did warn you I wasn’t going to follow your scripts.”
He stares at me for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his portly face.
“What?” I ask, not recognizing the look.
“You. You were…”
My brows go up. I’ve never seen staid, serious Simms so tongue-tied before. And… is that ablushI see coloring his cheeks?!
Impossible.
“What I mean to say is…” He clears his throat. “You were quite good with the crowd earlier, Your Highness. Natural. Charming. A bit unpolished for my liking, of course. And then there’s the matter of your profanity usage… But, all things considered, it could’ve gone worse.”
“Wait a minute — did you just compliment me, Simms?”
“Don’t be absurd. I was merely pointing out the facts.” He adjusts his bow-tie and avoids my gaze. “You seem to possess an innate talent for this. With a bit of practice, you could easily endear yourself to the public.”
Hell must’ve frozen over. That’s the only explanation for this man — one of Octavia’s chief allies — actuallyapprovingof something I’ve done.
“However, I must say, you giving away an antique diadem to a child who will only have occasion to wear it during games of dress-up…” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Most inadvisable, Your Highness.”
And, with that, the universe rights itself. Simms is back to regarding me with his typical air of pompous disapproval, and I’m back to being the reckless, ill-mannered heir he cannot abide.
I smile to myself as we speed toward Waterford Palace, my mind occupied by happy thoughts of the poor little girl who lives in my old neighborhood, playing make-believe princess with her mom in a priceless tiara. Simms may not approve, but…
That’smykind of happy ending.
The drive takes about twenty minutes. We spend it in silence; Simms scrolling through emails on his phone, me staring absently out the window, playing back the past two hours in my head.
Despite my initial reservations about attending the Remembrance Day ceremony, it wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it would be. In fact, once the public speaking portion was behind me, I actually enjoyed chatting with active duty military members, meeting wounded warriors in the cutting-edge prosthetic and robotics lab, walking the halls of the new trauma outreach center with the Minister of Veteran Affairs.
Two semesters ago, I did a PTSD and suicide prevention rotation for my clinical psychology internship. So I’ve seen firsthand how important it is to treat mental scars along with physical ones. To give our soldiers access to emotional support systems, group therapy sessions, coping strategies… everything they need to strike back against the demons that all too often accompany them home from the battlefield.
It felt remarkably good to see the crown’s money being put to good use, rather than pissed away on needless pomp and circumstance. It also made me wonder whatothercauses I could fund with my newfound position as the Crown Princess. Because I may’ve been put in this position against my will… but now that I’m here…
I might as well do some damn good.
The wheels in my mind are turning with radical ideas when our motorcade slows to a crawl, then stops altogether with an abrupt pump of the brakes that gives me whiplash and sends Simms’ phone flying to the carpeted limousine floor. I think we must already be back at the palace… until I look out my window.
We’re parked by the perimeter of the grounds, on the narrow roadway just outside the main gates. Startled, I crane my neck to see what’s happening through the tinted glass.
“Why on earth have we stopped—”
Simms’ question trails off with a soft hiss of air. I feel the breath leave my own lungs as I digest the scene unfolding around us. Galizia and several other guards are out of their armored black SUV, attempting to clear the roadway — which appears to be blocked by a group of protesters.
My heart kicks up speed.
There must be two dozen of them. Faces half-covered by bandanas, they’re all dressed in black. Their shirts bear some kind of white symbol on the front that I can’t quite make out from this distance. Marching back and forth, they hoist picket signs into the air in rhythmic thrusts that match the tempo of their chant. Despite the thick, bulletproof glass that divides us, they’re so loud I hear every word of the catchy slogan.
“GERMANIA WON’T BE FREE
TILL MONARCHY IS HISTORY!
LANCASTERS, TAKE A KNEE