American Royals

He hadn’t. But then, had she even given him her number? She swiped over to her various social media handles to find his profile, but it was frustratingly unhelpful. Just a few infrequent photos: a lobster roll, a Nantucket sunset, pictures he’d taken last year at a friend’s birthday. She clicked through them all, burning with curiosity for any last shred of information about him.

Finally Sam flung back the covers and headed into her closet, changing into a pair of electric-pink workout pants and a matching top. She debated going down the hall to bang on Jeff’s door, but he was always so grouchy in the mornings. Instead she sent him a text: Movie later? If she put in a request now, they might actually get clearance to go to a real movie theater, with actual people in it, which was always more fun than watching something in the screening room here—even if they did get advance copies of all the films before their official release. She just needed a pair of security officers to sweep the theater about a half hour before their arrival.

Sam was unusually quiet as she headed toward the protection officers’ control room downstairs. The palace on the day after a party always felt curiously evocative, the empty rooms echoing with the aftereffects of the night before. Already maids were wiping down tables and unrolling carpets, retrieving misplaced champagne flutes from wherever drunk guests had forgotten them: on a shelf in the library, inside a potted orchid, or in Sam’s case, on the floor of the coatroom. She chuckled at the broken plaster and scorch marks out on the South Portico, where the firework had gone off. At least this accident, for once, hadn’t been her fault.

“Beatrice?”

Her dad was seated on the tufted bench at the foot of the stairs, leaning over to lace his running shoes. “Oh—Sam. I thought you were your sister,” he explained when he glanced up. “Have you seen her?”

“Not yet.”

“She must have decided to sleep in.” The king braced his hands on his knees and stood up with a sigh. His eyes lit again on Sam, in her all-pink workout outfit, and he cleared his throat. “What about you, up for a jog?”

Of course. Samantha wasn’t her dad’s first pick for a running partner, just the second-string option when Beatrice didn’t show.

“Um. Sure,” she muttered, and followed her dad out into the brisk winter morning.

A pair of security officers fell into step alongside them, wearing matching all-black performance gear, their guns holstered to their waists. They had long ago resigned themselves to the king’s running habit: he went out almost every day, on a preapproved loop through the center of town. Often he asked someone to come with him: a foreign ambassador, or a politician who wanted to lobby him on a particular issue, or most often, Beatrice. Invitations to run with His Majesty were more highly prized than an audience in his office.

That was the thing about Sam’s dad—he never stopped working. There was no clear division for him between office and home. His mind was never still. Even when they were on vacation, Sam would catch him at work, in the early mornings or late at night: composing speeches, reading reports, emailing his staff or his press secretary or the people who ran his charities about a new idea he’d had.

They headed out the palace’s discreet side exit, and the city unfurled before them, from Aviary Walk to the broad green strokes of John Jay Park. Past the blur of apartments and office buildings, the iridescent spire of the Admiralty Needle rose into the horizon, which was tinged with the saffron light of dawn.

A few other joggers passed their way, but aside from some curious glances and the occasional Good morning, Your Majesty, they left the king in peace.

Sam glanced over at her dad, but his gaze was fixed resolutely forward. He didn’t seem as fast as usual—normally he clocked four eight-minute miles—but maybe Sam was just running at top speed, hyped up on adrenaline. Daydreams of Teddy kept spinning through her brain. The very air felt heavy with possibility, as thick and tangible as the mist curling in off the river.

And even though she knew she was just the backup option, Sam felt oddly glad that her dad had asked her to join him this morning. She couldn’t remember when she’d last gotten any time alone with him.

Things had been different before Sam’s grandfather died, before her father ascended to the throne and was forced to become the world’s greatest multitasker. He used to spend hours with his children, playing games that he’d invented. One of Sam’s favorites was Egg Day, when their dad gave them an egg in the morning and told them that they had to carry it with them at all times. If the egg was still safe at the end of the day, they won a prize. The palace staff ended up cleaning egg yolk out of everything from place mats to curtains.

The king was also a history enthusiast, and an endless source of stories about America’s former rulers. Sam had loved to walk into a room and ask him who’d lived here, then listen as her dad recounted the adventures of their ancestors. He could spin a story out of anything.

She knew she could be a handful, but back then her antics had made her father laugh rather than shake his head in disappointment. She remembered one time when she wrote her name in permanent marker on the wall between the elevator shaft and the third-floor staff hallway. She wasn’t sure what mischief had prompted her to do it, but her dad hadn’t been angry at all; he’d just roared with laughter. “You’ve made your mark on history,” he had teased, pulling the red marker from Samantha’s hands.