Chapter 18

The tour I give Isa of Holyrood is definitely not as thorough as the one the tourists get, and most of the impressive parts are on display for the public, but Isabel, dedicated reader of royal blogs, is thrilled with this behind-the-scenes look. We stop in one of the parlors, and she touches a sofa covered in tartan pillows. “So, like, the queen sits here?” she asks, and I lean against a doorway. “Yup,” I reply. “Puts the royal bum right on it. When she’s here, which she’s not right now.”

Alex’s parents still aren’t back from Canada, which, to be honest, is quite the relief. Next week, though . . .

No, not even contemplating that.

We leave the parlor and head down one of the long hallways. It’s not as cluttered as Sherbourne Castle was—fewer paintings and knickknacks, but then again everything that belongs to the Bairds technically belongs to the country, so maybe most of their stuff is in museums—but it’s . . . grand. High stone ceilings arch overhead, and there’s this heavy feeling in the air, like all that history is seeping into the rock.

We stop near a thick window that looks down on one of the inner courtyards, watching a line of visitors snaking past. The glass is old and wobbly, same as the windows at Sherbourne, making everything outside blurry.

“It’s a palace,” Isabel says, turning to me.

“Well, yeah,” I joke, “that’s why it’s right there in the name. Kind of gives it away.”

Isabel’s bag slides from her shoulder to the crook of her arm. It’s so weird seeing something so familiar—Isabel, her black hair caught in a messy braid, her jeans frayed at the knee, that stupid bag she loves so much, made up of different squares of tweed—in this completely foreign place. A good kind of weird, don’t get me wrong. I’m so happy to see someone who isn’t a Fliss or a Poppy that I could cry. Suddenly, I wonder if this is what Ellie felt like when I’d showed up earlier in the summer. Worlds colliding and all that.

“Your sister is going to be a princess,” Isabel says, as if she was just now realizing that.

“Yup,” I say with a shrug. “And then she’ll be a queen, and one day she’ll have a kid who’ll be king or queen, which is actually the weirdest part of all this.”

Isabel thinks that over, blinking. “Holy crap, yeah,” she says, widening her eyes. “Will you have to bow to your own niece or nephew? Do you think Ellie and Alex will let you hold them?”

I roll my eyes, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the side staircase that leads to our private apartments. “Yes, believe it or not, they let commoners touch the king baby.”

That makes her laugh, and as we head to another part of the palace, she doesn’t even mention all the paintings on the wall, the bizarrely lush carpets, or how everything that could be gilded has been, the gold dull under the surprisingly dim lights. Ellie said that Alex’s dad used the lowest-wattage light bulbs he could to save money, something that made no sense to me, seeing as how these were people who lived in multiple castles and had a literal fleet of fancy cars.

Then Isabel turns, grabbing my arm. “Okay, so yay palace, castle, very cool, hurray for fancy. Spill on Seb.”

I almost snort at that until I remember that Isabel probably shouldn’t know what a tool that guy really is. Hopefully, she won’t even have to see him since, as far as I know, he’s still gallivanting around in Derbyshire, doing whatever debauched royal types do. Probably having some weird orgy involving costumes and claret or something. Burning twenty-pound notes for fun.

No thanks.

“I’ve barely seen him,” I tell Isa now, which is mostly true. We’d only shared that one conversation in my room, and that hardly counted. I hadn’t even spoken to him at the race, and he’d left Edinburgh not long after we got back.

“Okay, but you have to tell me everything,” Isabel says. “How he looks, if he’s as handsome as he is in pictures, how he smells . . .”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “How he smells?”

Isa fixes me with a look. “Girl, I am heartbroken and vulnerable. Throw me a bone and tell me a hot prince smells like manly books and leather, okay?”

Seb usually smells of expensive cologne and whatever alcohol he’s currently pouring down his throat, but no need to crush Isabel’s dream. “All those things and more,” I tell her, and she closes her eyes, tipping her head back.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Giggling, I bump shoulders with her. “Come on.”

We walk down another hallway, this one less furnished than the rest and colder, our footsteps loud against the stone floor. “So,” Isa asks, crossing her arms over her chest, “how are things? Blending in with the royals and all?”

I shoot her a look. “Haven’t you been keeping up with the blogs?”

Shaking her head, Isa gives me an elbow to the ribs. “No, I’ve been loyal,” she says. “And honestly, reading about what your best friend is doing felt too . . . bleurghy.”

“Imagine reading it about your sister,” I reply, and Isa stops, her sneakers squeaking a little.

“I get it now,” she says, then gestures around us. “Why you were so weirded out by all this.” And then she flashes me a classic Isabel Smile, all dimples and shiny teeth.

“It’s still kind of cool, though.”

And the thing is, she’s not wrong. It is kind of cool. I don’t mind the fancy cars and the nice clothes. I’m never going to like a Pimm’s Cup, but the rest of it? It’s . . . not that bad.

I don’t know how to tell Isabel all that, though, so I just shrug. “It has its moments.”

Skipping slightly, she takes my wrist and gives me a little shake. “Like us getting to see and possibly meet and, in my case, marry Declan Shield this fall.”

Laughing, I shake her off. “Wait, I thought you were all about Seb.”

Isabel gives a shrug and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I can handle both,” she says, lifting her nose in the air, and we’re still laughing as we turn the corner out of the hallway.

We’re just coming back down the stairs when I hear the sound of someone coming up. Taking Isabel’s wrist, I pull us to one side, expecting to see a butler or one of the 9,000 secretaries the royal family seems to have wandering around. But instead, I catch sight of a glint of auburn hair, and before I know it, Seb is rounding the curve of the stairwell.

Crap.

He’s not as well dressed as he was the first time I saw him—it’s jeans and a henley today—but that doesn’t stop Isabel from freezing in place, her free hand coming up to grab the fingers I have locked around her wrist.

Seb comes to a sudden stop, looking at us standing there and clearly noticing—and liking—the look on Isabel’s face.

Great.

“Ah, Daisy,” he says, but his eyes are still on Isabel. “I didn’t know you were staying at the palace.”

“I’m not,” I tell him, inching down a step, pulling Isabel behind me. “I was just showing my friend around. Isabel, this is—”

“Iknowwhoheis,” Isa says, all in a rush, and I fight the urge to groan. Of course. Of course we’d run into Seb the day Isabel has just gotten her heart splattered by her boyfriend, and of course Seb would be looking both extremely handsome and not as intimidatingly princely as usual, and oh, this is bad. This is really bad.

Especially because Seb begins to bloom under her obvious smitten-ness.

“Isabel,” he repeats, and then he reaches out and takes her hand. Doesn’t shake it (doesn’t kiss it, either, thank god), but just holds it, his blue eyes bright, his smile a winning combination of charm and mischief. I’ve seen it on him before. It’s a look that says, “Yes, whatever happens with us will probably be a bad idea, but won’t it be fun?”

And I am not here for it.

“So we were just leaving,” I tell him, fighting the urge to pull Isa’s hand from his.

But Seb isn’t letting go, and he’s also not looking at me. “Where were you headed?” he asks her.

She’s still glamoured, pretty much, smiling down at him there on the lower step, so I sigh, roll my eyes, and say, “Museums. Bookstores. Other respectable establishments.”

Seb’s grin deepens. “Well, that’s no fun at all,” he all but purrs, and oh my gooooddddddd, how is Isa not seeing this for the line it is?

Because her boyfriend has broken her heart, you idiot, I remind myself, and now the most eligible teenage boy in the world is talking to her and holding her hand and giving her the full court press.

“We’re actually going to a book signing in a little bit,” I say, already preparing to pull Isa away, but he leans against the banister, his eyes still on Isabel.

“Who’s the author?” he asks, and Isa answers, “Ash Bentley.”

To my surprise, Seb straightens up, lifting his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Do not tell me you know who that is,” I say, but Seb shoots me a look.

“I read Finnigan’s Falcon five times the year it came out. I actually went as Finnigan to a fancy dress party just a few months ago. Ask any of the lads, they’ll tell you.”

It’s very hard to imagine Prince Sebastian, royal rogue, reading about the adventures of space mage Finnigan Sparks, but he does look genuinely . . . excited? His eyes are bright, he’s grinning, and this is actually worse than his usual prince schtick. Cute, royal, and into a nerdy book series?

No girl could resist.

“I’ll come with,” he says, and I lift a hand, palm out.

“Okay, no, because, A, no boys allowed, and, B, you’re going to cause a total scene if you just roll up to a bookstore. No one will pay any attention to the author if you’re there.”

Seb’s brow wrinkles as he thinks that over. Then his face clears and he snaps, pointing at me.

“No worries, ladies,” he says, but I have all the worries as he adds, “I’ve got a plan.”