* * *
“Your Majesty! Wait!”
The cheery voice chases me down the hall. I wince, hurrying my pace, but it’s no use — she’s nearly caught up to me, now.
“Your Majesty!” She rounds the corner so close on my heels, I have no choice but to stop. “I’ve been calling after you for nearly three corridors — didn’t you hear me?”
“I must’ve been lost in thought,” I lie, a falsely bright smile pasted on my lips. “Did you need something, Caulfield?”
“If you have a free minute, I wanted to discuss your visit to the party at Westgate last night.”
“Oh?”
Her blonde asymmetrical bob sways with the force of her enthusiastic nodding. Behind the transparent lenses of her hipster glasses, she looks far younger than her thirty-two years. “From my monitoring of social media, mentions of your name and all pertinent hashtags—”
“I have hashtags?”
She startles, as though the question is shocking. “Of courseyou have hashtags, Your Majesty.” She whips out her smartphone, toggles a familiar app, and shows me a stream of content. “See? Some of them are still trending within the country, but we had a good deal of worldwide traction last night as well. Quite exciting, don’t you agree? Let’s see here… We’ve got#QueenEmilia,#HerRoyalMajesty,#QueenofGermania, and my personal favorite,#QueenE. I think the familiarity of that particular tag makes you seem more accessible to your fans.”
“Fans?”
“Fans.” She nods emphatically again. “And, may I just say, your decision to forego wearing the customary elbow-length gloves last night?Stroke. Of. Genius. People simply cannot stop talking about it! There hasn’t been a scandal like this in the royal family since Queen Abigail’s step-niece got pregnant out of wedlock, back in the eighties. And she wasn’t even a Lancaster blood relative! But this ‘Free the Forearm’ campaign of yours is justradical. You’re an overnight sensation! No. Not a sensation. Anicon.” She starts tapping her phone screen aggressively, making notes for later reference. “Iconhas a nice ring to it. Don’t you agree? It sends the message that you’re revolutionary but still regal.”
I blink slowly, struggling to process everything I’m hearing. The fact that I haven’t even had coffee yet today is suddenly glaringly apparent. “Caulfield.”
“Mmm?”
“Did you just say…Free the Forearm?”
“Mmm. Why? Not a fan? Don’t worry, we’re still working on the official branding. How do you feel about ‘Shove the Glove’ — too aggressive, don’t you agree? Never fear, I’ll have my interns hammer out some fresh ideas…”
“You have interns?”
“Two.”
I attempt to form words, but nothing comes out. Caulfield doesn’t seem to notice, though; she’s too busy singing the praises of the interns she hired without bothering to ask for permission. “They both have marketing degrees from Vasgaard University. Excellent references. Big online presence. Stellar work-ethic. Oh, and they’ve signed iron-clad NDAs, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree, as though I’m not totally baffled by the woman standing before me. “But what exactly do these internsdohere?”
She beams. “Monitor your Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram presence, mainly. EvenImust sleep sometimes, Your Majesty — but the internetneverdoes!”
“Can we back up for a second? I’m just still not sure I understand.”
“Understand what, My Queen?”
“Why, exactly, are people tweeting about me and my gloves — or lack thereof?” Frankly, after everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, the fact that I didn’t wear formal gloves to Alden’s party seems inconsequential.
Caulfield laughs lightly. “You are something of a global phenomenon, Your Majesty. Your story is incredible. I wasn’t going to mention this to you until I had more specifics, but… Oh, what the hell!” She leans in, whispering like a schoolgirl. “Several Hollywood producers have already been in touch with me about the potential for a movie adaptation of your story. I personally think we should hold out for Netflix to make an offer, though. Have you seenThe Crown? Queen Elizabeth will look like an old bag of rags, next to you…”
My mouth falls open.
Did she seriously just say that?!
“Oh, listen to me, getting ahead of myself.” She waves away her own words. “The important thing is, your appearance last night generated lots of traction, as I predicted. Several million people are actively tweeting about you. Some of them are negative comments, of course — everyone’s a critic, these days! — but my analysis of the content overall seems overwhelmingly favorable. The millennials simply adored seeing you flout convention by ditching the royal dress code. Power to the people, and all that nonsense!” She winks. “As for the other age brackets… in truth, I’m surprised anyone over the age of fifty even understands how to create a Twitter account, but apparently some of them have figured it out. Your vintage silver dress was a particular hit among the older demographic. A callback to the days of old — assuming they can even remember that far into their pre-dementia days. Senile subjects’ support is still support, though! We’ll take all we can get.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides — mainly to keep from reaching out and throttling the idiot woman chirping away in front of me.
Caulfield remains blissfully unaware of my growing irritation, typing diligently into her phone. “All in all, I’d call this a win on both sides of the curve, Your Majesty! Didn’t I tell you — the people are just pleased to see you out and about after such a long hiatus from the public eye! Keep this up, your Instagram follower count will surpass Prince Harry and that tacky American he married in no time!”