“Emilia. You can’t even say his name.”
My chin jerks stubbornly upward. “So?”
“So… you and me, we don’t have secrets,” he reminds me, his own voice shattered by sadness. “We know each other too well after all this time.”
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and begin to gnaw on it. He’s right, of course. There’s no point denying the truth to him. He can see through every wall I put up, every subterfuge I attempt to conceal my true feelings behind.
“Do you love him?”
The question makes my eyes bug out of their sockets. “Owen—”
“Just answer the question.”
“It doesn’t matter if I love him,” I hedge. “I can’t be with him.”
There’s a long pause. So long, I don’t think he’s going to answer at all. When he finally does, he says the last thing I would’ve ever in a million years expected to come out of his mouth.
“Take it from someone who let the love of their life slip through their fingers. If you want him, tell him. If you can’t picture your life without him, fix it. No matter if it’s hard, no matter what either of you have done to hurt each other…” Owen sighs deeply. “If you love him, you have to try.”
Chapter Three
“…andI really think you should attend. Don’t you agree? The invitations have been steadily coming in. It would be in your best interest to schedule at least one public appearance within the next week. To get the press off your back, to reinvigorate your public appeal…”
The nonstop, high-pitched droning of Ursula Caulfield, Waterford Palace’s interim Press Secretary, reminds me of a wasp — a relentless buzz in my ears, exacerbating the headache I’ve had since I said goodbye to Owen last night. I digest her bright-eyed inclinations from across the table and seriously contemplate leaving the conference room in favor of a quiet castle corner where no one can disturb me.
Perhaps that particularly comfortable chair in the back of the library, where I can lose myself in a book for a few hours…
“Your Majesty? Are you still listening?”
I force a halfhearted smile. “Of course, Caulfield. Carry on.”
“As I was saying — this is a crucial time period for you, as a leader. I cannot stress enough how important it is you make yourselffully accessibleto your subjects. In this day and age, they are accustomed to a constant stream of content from the celebrities they follow…”
Caulfield begins to drone again, detailing the many merits of social media. The supposed power I can harness through livestreams and Q&A sessions and heavily airbrushed Instagram posts. I watch her mouth forming words that never seem to reach my ears, thinking absently that she is, in every way, the antithesis of my former advisor, Gerald Simms.
Namely: young, cheerful, full of tech-savvy ideas.
I hired the thirty-something PR guru two weeks ago, hoping she might help fill the Simms-shaped hole in my strained relationship with the press. Since then, she’s been so keen on maximizing my quote-unquotebrand, you’d think I was an Instagram influencer running a travel blog, not a queen running a kingdom.
She clears her throat lightly. “I realize you haven’t been feeling quite ship-shape lately…” Her face contorts into an expression of exaggerated sadness — bottom lip jutting in a pout, eyes bugging in a way that vaguely reminds me of a clown at the center ring of a circus, determined to coax a begrudging crowd into a response.
In this context, it’s more condescending than it is entertaining. I feel my hackles starting to rise, but manage to keep my expression smooth as she carries on.
“Your Majesty cansurelysee the merits of appeasing her adoring public with some face-time. But we must work to turn that frown upside down in front of the cameras, Queen Emilia! Positivity is key! No one likes a sourpuss!”
God, I miss Simms.
I never thought I’d find myself thinking such a thing — that I’d actually mourn the pompous Press Secretary in all his pinstripe-suited glory — but here we are. The insufferable positivity of his youthful replacement is enough to inspire nostalgia for the more traditional way things used to operate around here.
“Thisinvitation, in particular, should be of interest to you,” Caulfield preens, pushing a piece of thick ivory card stock across the table at me. There are springs of pressed flowers embedded in the paper. “Prime Minister Mallory’s wife is hosting an intimate evening with the Vasgaard Beautification Society next week. Spring is coming! There’s plenty to do. Plotting out flower displays for the main boulevards, organizing the May Day festival…”
“Thrilling.”
“Isn’t it?” She beams, missing my sarcasm entirely. “A step in the right direction, at the very least. I think it would be pertinent of you to choose a few vital charities and organizations to support during your reign. Throw your efforts behind one or two causes early on, to illustrate that you intend to be an active ruler. Don’t you agree?”
Caulfield is constantly saying this —Don’t you agree?— in that cheerful voice, as though the current of her own enthusiasm will buoy me along on whatever plan she thinks up. It does not escape my notice that she never waits for affirmation, barreling on before I have a chance to actually concur.
“Perhaps you could champion the preservation of our city parks, ponds, and flower beds, Your Majesty?”