I spend a snowy morning reading books to children at a local pre-school. I sip tea with the dull-as-dirt Prime Minister’s wife at her solarium in Frenberg. I tour our Museum of Natural History with a group of visiting foreign dignitaries — before kicking off my stilettos to race through the dinosaur exhibit with their children. (Which, for the record, is the most entertaining moment of my entire week.)
Naturally, the press has a field day.
BAREFOOT HEIR! PRINCESS EMILIA DITCHES DESIGNER HEELS AT DIPLOMAT SUMMIT
I thought Simms was going to have a coronary when he saw that particular headline plastered above a picture of me racing around like a lunatic, a fleet of seven-year-olds hot on my heels. That is, until he gauged the reaction from the public.
It seems the so-calledcommonersdon’t share in his disapproval of my heathen-like behavior. In fact… they kind of love it. Every day, when I step out of the Rolls Royce limo on yet another royal errand, the waiting crowd is a little larger. And alotlouder.
I used to smile cautiously and stroll past them without stopping, uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. But it’s gotten easier with time and practice.
Today, as I exit the Rosebud Learning Center, the small charity where I’ve spent the morning chatting with teachers and support staff about their newly awarded royal grant, I pause to greet those gathered along the sidewalk.
Look! It’s Emilia!
Oh my god, it’s her!
Princess Emilia! Over here!
Are you really dating the Earl of Lund?
I slow my pace as I move down the line of people, smiling and shaking hands as I go. Occasionally, I pause to ask someone’s name or where they’re from. Most live here in Vasgaard, but some have traveled from the farthest reaches of Germania to spend the upcoming holiday season in the capital city. Places I’ve never heard of, let alone visited.
Uvendon, Jaarlsburg, Hanton, Saalk.
Halfway to the waiting limo, I pause to tell a young boy that I approve of his rugby jersey — the Cavaliers are my team as well. His face lights up with glee. I’ve bent low to ask him about his favorite player when a caustic voice cuts through the crowd.
“Lancaster bitch!”
The harsh words barely have time to register in my head because a second later, something wet hits my cheek.
A gob of spit, I realize, horror dawning.Someone’s spit on me.
“Fuck the crown!” the man yells again, each word suffused with a hatred that stuns me. “You hear me, whore? The monarchy’s days are numbered!”
My eyes lift to search for the source of the vitriol, but there’s no time — my guards have closed rank around me — Galizia on one side, Riggs on the other. Their hands are on my biceps, steering me away from the scene. I only manage to catch a fleeting glimpse of my assaulter: a bald, middle-aged man I’ve never seen before in my life. His black shirt bears an anti-monarchy symbol I recognize — the lion crest, split in two with a red sword. His dark eyes seem to burn straight through me, even when a fleet of guards surrounds him, guns drawn.
“Fascists!” The man continues to scream as they pin him to the ground. “Lancaster scum! You’ll fucking pay! You’ll all pay!”
Numb with shock, I don’t struggle as Riggs practically shoves me into the Rolls Royce. As soon as the door slams shut, we pull away from the curb with a screech of tires loud enough to make me flinch.
It takes a full minute before my thundering heart slows; another before I realize Simms is seated across from me, his face pale with shock as we speed back toward the palace. Our eyes meet and I recognize my own horror mirrored in his gaze.
Without a word, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an embroidered handkerchief. I stare at it in confusion for a moment.
His eyes flicker to my cheek. “There’s a bit of…”
Oh.
Ignoring the way my fingers shake, I reach out and grasp the cloth. My eyes press closed as I wipe the stranger’s spittle from my cheek. His words replay in my ears on a loop.
Lancaster bitch!
Fuck the crown!
I shake my head, trying to clear the memories.
“Don’t let him bother you, Princess,” Simms says, sounding rather unsteady. “He was clearly unhinged.”