I don’t disagree. I can’t. I know she’s right.
“Like I said earlier… there are some lines that should never be crossed. Some relationships that are never supposed to develop past flirtation,” she continues. “They’re meant to staymaybes. Becausemaybeis safer thanunfortunately. And I’d rather practice restraint than live in regret, Your Majesty.”
“Fair enough,” I murmur, though I can’t help thinking there’s nothing remotelyfairabout it.
When you’re a little girl reading fairy tales and dreaming of your own epic romance, no one tells you that in real life, things don’t always work out. They don’t tell you that true love isn’t enough to earn you a happily-ever-after.
There is no certainty.
No confidence.
No control.
Love is taking a leap into the unknown on faulty wings. You’ve got an equal shot at soaring into the sunset or plummeting straight to the rocks below. And in the seconds immediately following that terrifying jump, before gravity kicks in and your wings start to pump against the rushing wind… it’s nearly impossible to tell whether you’re falling or flying. Whether you’re heading for free-fall or taking flight.
I’m still lost in thought when I leave Galizia at the entrance to the study. The sight of the man waiting for me inside the cozy, book-stuffed chamber is enough to bring me back to earth. He stands by the window, looking out over the frost-covered grounds. The purple pinstripe suit he’s stuffed himself into is eye-catching as ever.
“I’ve always liked the castle in winter,” Gerald Simms says softly, turning to face me. His bow is unexpectedly fluid for such a portly fellow — the product of a million hours of practice during his years as Palace Press Secretary. “Hello, Your Majesty.”
“Simms. It’s been a long time.”
“I trust you’ve been well.”
I nod. “And you?”
“Quite.”
Perfunctory pleasantries behind us, we lapse into uncomfortable silence. Neither of us seems to know what to say, where to start. He is a man whose whole life has been defined by proper protocols and correct procedures. But there is no protocol for this conversation. No procedure for interacting after the way we left things.
Him, attempting to manipulate me in the wake of my father’s death.
Me, throwing him out of the castle after twenty-four years of loyal service.
Our respective errors in judgment linger in the air around us like perfume.
“Shall we sit?”
My former advisor gestures at the two chairs by the fireplace. With a sedate nod, I sink into the one closest to me as he arranges his considerable frame into the other. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence and the occasional crack from the hearth as the flames consume a stack of smoldering logs.
“I can call for tea…” I offer halfheartedly, but Simms shakes his head.
“No. That won’t be necessary.” He’s barely making eye contact with me. “I won’t be staying long enough to drink it.”
I sigh. He’s really not going to make this easy on me. Not that I expected him to; the man has more pride than a pack of lions.
“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I wouldn’t dare disobey a direct command from my sovereign.” He sniffs haughtily, nose in the air. “That could be considered treasonous, after all.”
“Gerald.”
His eyes widen when I use his first name. It’s the first time I’ve ever done so, and he’s suitably shocked. “Y-yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you have a Twitter account?”
He blinks at me like I’ve just asked if he enjoys light BDSM on the weekends. “Excuse me?”
“A Twitter account. Do you have one? Do you, as they say,tweet?”