“You mean the ones currently buried under ten feet of snow?”
Her pert nose twitches. “Right. Well. How do you feel about art? There are so many museums in Vasgaard in need of a royal sponsor. You could surely take one under your wing! The late Queen Abigail was particularly fond of the portrait galleries…”
My eye twitches with tightly-leashed annoyance. Caulfield appears to think being the queen amounts to attending garden parties, rubbing elbows with those who inhabit Germania’s wealthiest circles, and posting daily photos of my outfits online. (#HerMajestyOOTD)
I, for one, was of the foolish opinion that our kingdom might be facing more important matters; that my energies would be harnessed in a way that might actually benefit those who reside within its borders.
Evidently, I was off base.
The welfare of the Germanian people is nothing of importance. Not when there are peonies to be planted along the banks of the Nelle River! Or stuffy portraits to be admired on the walls of museums no one ever bothers to visit!
Spare me.
“Your Majesty?” Caulfield blinks her wide eyes at me. “Did you hear what I’ve just said?”
“Sorry. What was it?”
“With your permission, I’m going to send your RSVP to Prime Minister Mallory’s wife. She’ll be justthrilled. All the ladies will! And the press coverage will be most favorable. Sure to get some traction online, with a few strategic posts. Don’t you agree?”
I eye her for a moment, then allow my gaze to drop to the tabletop where an impressive stack of letters rest. There must be forty invitations accumulated there. Everyone in Germania wants the esteem of a Lancaster at their galas, their auctions, their fundraisers. Unfortunately for them — and me — Lancasters are in rather short supply these days.
Truth be told, the prospect of attending any of these events is about as appealing as a root canal. But in the back of my mind, I hear Galizia’s voice.
The public has a short memory.
They’re not going to let you grieve forever.
“Is there any recent correspondence from Alden Sterling, by chance?”
Caulfield startles at my sudden question. Her eyes go saucer-wide, her fingers flex against the pressed-flower paper like an electric shock has jolted through her system.
“Lord Sterling?”
I nod. “He’s an acquaintance of mine.”
“Of course. Let’s see here. If I’m not mistaken…” She shuffles quickly through the stack, brightening visibly when she seizes upon a thick gold envelope. “Ah. Here it is. Though, Your Majesty, I’m not sure this event is of the same social caliber as that of the Beautification Society…”
I pluck the shiny foil invitation from her grasp and examine it. There’s an art-deco font on the front, blocky black lettering that spells out my name and title. I trace the wordEmiliawith the tip of my pinky finger before tearing open the envelope and pulling out the thick parchment inside. My eyes devour the party details listed in the same artsy font.
“Just one event,” I murmur. “That’s what you said, right? Attend one event and the press will be off my back for a while… The public will be relieved to see me still alive and kicking…”
“Oh… Yes, that’s the idea, but I—”
“Please don’t bother with the garden party RSVP. I’ll be attending this instead.” I push the gold invitation back to her and rise to my feet. “Now, I need to go. It seems I have a costume to pull together and a very short amount of time to do so.”
“B-b-but… Your Majesty… with all due respect, this event is tomorrow night. Proper etiquette requires at least a week’s notice for attendance—”
“Caulfield.” My firm tone stops her jabbering.
“Y-yes, Your Majesty?”
“If we’re going to work together, I think you should probably know… Proper etiquette isn’t really my style.”
She’s still gaping like a fish out of water as I turn and leave the room.
* * *
Thirty-six hours later,I’m wishing I’d been less hasty in committing myself to this plan. It seemed like a better idea when I was holding that foil invitation in my hands, contemplating a painful afternoon of tea with Mrs. Mallory and the rest of the Beautification Society. But now, as the Rolls-Royce limousine glides to a stop in front of Westgate Manor, the Sterling family’s impressive country home, my pulse ratchets up to twice its normal pace. I take a deep breath to steady myself the instant before the back door swings open.