American Royals
Or to let her know that she’d been listening to every word that Daphne said.
BEATRICE
It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.
The words echoed over and over in Beatrice’s head, an awful, hideous mantra, and there was nothing she could do to dispel them, because she knew that they were true.
She had told her father that she didn’t want to be queen, that she wanted to renounce her rights and titles so that she could marry her Guard, and the shock of it had given him a heart attack. Literally.
Our Father, who art in heaven … All the prayers that Beatrice had memorized as a child came rushing back, their words filling her throat. She kept reciting them, because it gave her something to occupy her brain, a weapon to wield against her overwhelming guilt. Love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
But what kind of love was that verse talking about? The kind of love she felt for Connor, or for her father, or the protective love she felt for her sister? What about the love Beatrice felt toward her country?
If her father died—
She couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. She wanted to scream, to beat her fists against the walls and howl her anguish, but there was a blade of strength within her that refused to let her break down.
Connor was here, in uniform. He stood unobtrusively to one side of the waiting room, trying to catch Beatrice’s eye, which she steadfastly refused to do. She couldn’t bring herself to send him away—but she didn’t dare talk to him alone, either.
“Your Royal Highness, Your Majesty.” One of the doctors hovered in the doorway, addressing Beatrice and her mom. “Could I have a moment with you both?”
Beatrice felt her heartbeat skip and skid all over the place. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed her mom into the hallway.
The doctor shut the door behind them. “The king’s condition is not very promising.”
“What do you mean?” The queen’s voice was as level and calm as always, though her hands visibly trembled.
“As you know, the king’s cancer is spreading from his lungs. What he suffered last night was a coronary thrombosis, meaning that one of the blockages caused by his cancer made its way into an artery, cutting off blood flow to his heart. That caused the heart attack.”
Thrombosis. Even the word itself seemed evil, those sibilant Ss coiled together like a nest of snakes, about to sink their fangs into you.
Beatrice’s mom leaned against the wall to steady herself. She hadn’t even been aware that her husband had cancer until they reached the hospital last night and the king’s chief surgeon informed her. “Shouldn’t he have recovered from the heart attack by now?”
“It did some damage,” the doctor said delicately. “The greater problem is that the cancer is still there. And now we’re having trouble stabilizing His Majesty’s breathing.”
Tears shone in the queen’s eyes. Her earrings from the party last night were still twisted in her ears: a pair of enormous canary diamonds, so big they almost looked like miniature lemons. “Thank you,” she managed, and returned to the waiting room. But Beatrice didn’t follow.
She glanced up at the doctor, swallowing her fear. Even though she already suspected the answer, she had to ask. “Could the coronary thrombosis have been caused by a shock?”
The doctor blinked, politely puzzled. “A shock? What do you mean?”
“If something happened last night that really surprised my father—something he hadn’t expected,” she said clumsily. “Could that have caused the blood clot?”
“A shock cannot create a clot in itself. It can only accelerate the process by which the clot enters the bloodstream. Whatever … startled your father last night,” he said tactfully, “may have contributed to the timing. But the king was already sick.”
Beatrice nodded. She tried to stave off the fear that crept through the cracks in her armor, to keep the placid Washington mask on her features. It was getting harder by the minute. “Could I … could I see my dad?”
Maybe it was what she had just confessed, or maybe he simply felt sorry for her, but the doctor stepped aside. “Five minutes,” he warned her. “There can’t be any more stressors to His Majesty’s system.”
It’s okay. I already told him that I’m in love with my Guard and that I want to renounce my claim to the throne. There’s nothing left I can say that will shock him any more than I already have.
“Thank you,” she murmured, as graciously as she could.
The hospital room was thick with silence, broken only by the methodical beeping of clustered machines. Beatrice hated them. She hated all those illuminated lines and ridges, plotting her father’s pulse as it struggled to right itself.
When she saw him, panic seized her with ice-cold fingers. Her legs suddenly felt unsteady.
Her dad was in a hospital gown, tucked beneath the blankets on the narrow bed. His face had a blue-gray tinge. Something about the angle of his arms and legs seemed awkward, as if they were superfluous limbs that he no longer knew how to employ.
He’ll be fine, Beatrice told herself, but she could taste her own lies. This didn’t look like fine.
“Dad, please,” she begged. “Please hang on. We need you. I need you.”