The room is small and dark, with fading paint on the walls and dying petunias in a vase on the desk. By some miracle, Victoria has been able to convince her mother and father to let her stay the night in a room of her own. They're right across from Victoria, of course, but this is still far better than trying to sleep with their gazes always on her.

 

A fresh set of sheets has just been put on the bed. They smell like detergent, chemical and floral. When she sits, the springs creak in protest. It's disturbing because she's far from overweight. In fact, even by her standards, she could put on a few more pounds.

 

It's the stress that's done it, Victoria's certain.

 

Her appetite has all but vanished. It's almost impossible to get herself to eat right now, no matter how lavish the meals the chefs prepare may be.

 

Someone knocks on the door. It's her mother, no doubt—the main source of her current stress. A quick glance around proves that the room is in no worse a state of disarray than when Victoria first walked in, not that it's been very long. They've only just finished checking in about ten minutes ago. All the same, she puts on her best painted smile and says, “Come in, Mother. What can I get for you?”

 

Queen Gabriella Moreau is an imposing figure, even while clad only in her dressing gown. The dark green fabric makes her hair stand out much more than usual, this coifed-up thing that always seems to be in a state of perfection. “There you are,” she says, like Victoria might have been somewhere else. “I was hoping you would still be awake. Victoria, why haven't you changed yet?”

 

“I'm going to get a shower.”

 

“Here?”

 

“Yes, Mother. I'm certain the showers aren't going to kill me.” Victoria rolls her eyes, hoping the smile on her lips lessens the comment.

 

Gabriella shakes her head. “It's risky business, Victoria. You know that. Traveling—”

 

“Is a privilege, not a gift.” The quote rolls easily off of her tongue. Victoria has heard her mother say it often enough in the last few months, since they started this strange tour through the United States.

 

She smiles at Victoria. “Exactly. I'm glad at least some of your lessons are sticking. It's a shame they all don't.”

 

“Mother. I'm not having this conversation with you right now!”

 

“Now is the perfect time! With the flight delayed, we have no place to be. Victoria, you need to listen to me. This is important. It's not just your future, Victoria. It's about the future of Vertsea as a whole! This isn't something to play with. It's not just a game!”

 

She stands up quickly. The hem of her pale blue skirt flutters around her ankles. Victoria folds her arms over her chest and glowers at Gabriella. “We're not having this conversation right now!”

 

“If not now, when?” Gabriella sighs. “You never sit down and listen to me, Victoria! I'm not doing this to upset you. I just need you to understand!”

 

“You need me to understand? Listen to yourself, Mother! I'm not going to marry Gaspard!”

 

“He's a good man!”

 

“I wouldn't know! I've never met him before,” Victoria counters viciously. The words fall from her mouth like dripping venom, like something she's never wanted to admit before. “I refuse to be like you and Father! I'm not going to fall into a loveless marriage!”

 

Flesh strikes flesh. Gabriella looks livid. Her palm leaves a bright red smear on Victoria’s burning cheek.

 

Victoria's hand flies up, pressing against the stinging flesh. “You...hit me.”

 

“Stay your tongue,” hisses Gabriella. “You shall not speak to me like that. Is that understood? Whatever thought you have in your mind, get rid of it. I married your father for the good of our people, and you're going to do the same. It isn't fun, Victoria, but it's our duty.”

 

The slap wasn't particularly hard, but it still leaves Victoria's entire body burning. She shakes her head and draws in a deep breath. “Get out.”

 

Her words strike something deep inside of Victoria. Fear isn't foreign to the young woman. She's a princess—a ruler—the daughter of Vertsea's royal family. Victoria lives each day worrying about the next; there's no way to take a step without being watched, no way to live without being guided.

 

Gabriella shakes her head. “You need to get your head on straight, Victoria. When we return home, you will accept Gaspard's proposal.”

 

I won't.

 

The words don't actually leave Victoria's mouth, but she thinks them viciously. They stare each other down for a few more moments, but finally Gabriella turns away. “Goodnight, Victoria.”

 

Victoria stays quiet. Then, when she's sure her mother isn't about to come back, she turns around and grabs her purse. “I'll show her. No one is going to be dictating my life. I'm not going to marry him!”

 

She doesn't know what she's going to do, but she knows she cannot stay here any longer. Tonight, Victoria is going to turn around and take her life into her own hands.

 

# # #

 

“Another round, Meg!”

 

Meg, the bartender, snorts. “Get your head on straight, Matthew. You've been here less than an hour. Do you really want to get that pissed?”

 

“Just get me another beer,” grumbles Matthew impatiently. “I already told you, it's been a rough day.”

 

“It's three in the morning,” warns Meg, even as she pulls another lukewarm beer out from behind the counter. “I'm going to have to give last call soon.”

 

“I'll leave when you do.”

 

“Home?”

 

Matthew shrugs. He cracks open the beer and takes a swig. “Or the Blank Tile. They have a later final call.”

 

Meg gives him a disapproving look. They've been friends since childhood. It's hard not to keep an eye on each other, especially on days like this. “You should go home, Matt.”

 

“I don't want to go home,” snaps Matt. “I want to get so drunk that I don't remember anything that has happened in the last five years.”

 

Meg sighs. The bar is almost completely empty. She drapes herself over the counter, next to Matthew's drink. “Hun, it's time you got over them.”

 

“I did! I thought I was!” Matt rakes a hand through his messy black hair. “But seeing them today...Seeing her, in that dress…”

 

“Did she say anything?”

 

“She didn't have to. I could see it in Emily's face. She and Killian, they're in it for the long haul.” Matthew shakes his head. “I just...it still hurts. When Emily cheated on me, when she got with Killian, I thought my whole world was about to break.”

 

“You still think that?”

 

“I do now. I can’t believe they're getting married!”

 

The bell above the front door chimes. Meg glances that way, then does a double-take. The woman that just entered the bar is nothing like her usual customers, with their leather-clad thighs and windswept hair. This woman looks like she just stepped out of a taxi and into a different world, with pale skin that looks almost sickly in the yellow bar light and blonde hair so pale it appears almost white.

 

Heels clack against the ground every time she takes a step. A pale blue skirt hangs about her legs, riddled with intricate stitching, these strange loops that never seem to end. A pale cream jacket has been shrugged over her shoulders, and she clutches tight to a designer handbag.

 

“Okay, Matt. You do what you need to do. It's not like anything I'm going to say will change your mind.” Meg sighs and pushes herself up off the counter. She taps her friend on the shoulder. “But maybe something she says will?”

 

Matt blinks and turns on his stool so he can watch the newcomer. She sways her way through the bar, exuding the air of someone that doesn't belong here. “Take your bets. Is she really lost or really drunk?”

 

“Maybe she's like you,” says Meg. “Maybe she's out here to get real drunk. Hey, sweetheart! Go on and tell me what you want. I'll be right over with it.”

 

The woman looks startled, like she wasn't expecting to be addressed. Before she can answer, one of the regulars, Richy, says, “Give her something good. It can go on my tab!”