American Royals

“Thanks, Chris. How’s the new kitten doing? Daisy, right?” Daphne prided herself on remembering the small details. It was what made her a professional.

Chris brightened under her interest and pulled out his phone. Daphne made little “aww” noises as he scrolled through photos of his cat.

She heard footsteps on the linoleum floor and turned around to see Natasha. Right on schedule. “Chris,” Daphne said sweetly, “would it be all right if Natasha accompanied me today? Just to snap a few pictures, get some quotes.”

“We’re doing a special piece to prompt holiday donations, a spotlight on philanthropic young people. We were hoping to include Daphne,” Natasha chimed in.

“It would be a crime not to include Daphne. She’s here every week,” Chris proclaimed, and rocked forward on his toes. “Just make sure you get permission from the parents before you publish any photos of kids.”

Daphne had never understood why the royal family was so allergic to the press. In her experience, if you helped them out a time or two, they were perfectly willing to do the same for you. With Natasha, Daphne had long ago reached a silent understanding: she would pass along stories—some of them about her, some about other figures at court—and in exchange Natasha ensured that her coverage portrayed Daphne in the most dazzlingly favorable light.

Today, Daphne had reluctantly called Natasha to ask a favor. This whole article was her idea; the other charitable young people, if any, would scarcely be mentioned alongside the extensive coverage of Daphne. She hated resorting to this—planting deliberate, self-promotional stories—but she wasn’t sure what else to do. She still couldn’t get over the way Jefferson had left her at the ball, the fact that she hadn’t even heard from him since.

Of course, Daphne didn’t expect the prince to really care that she was volunteering. But he would care that America cared, because he liked being liked. Jefferson had always avoided discord or tears or harsh words of any kind, probably because, as the spoiled youngest child, he had so rarely encountered them.

If Daphne could convince America that she should be their princess, eventually Jefferson would end up agreeing with them.

She and Natasha walked down the hallway toward one of the younger wards. Past a sliding glass doorway was a long row of treatment rooms. Crayon sketches of fairies and snowflakes were tacked to the walls, alongside several red and green felt stockings. A gold tinsel tree squatted cheerfully in one corner.

Several parents glanced up at her arrival, and their eyes widened. Daphne smiled at them: the disarming, winning sunbeam of a smile that she’d practiced so many times in the mirror.

One of the little girls tumbled out of bed and ran toward Daphne, who crouched down to make her face level with the girl’s. “Hello there,” she said. Behind her, she could hear the steady series of clicks that meant Natasha was documenting all of this. “What’s your name?”

“Molly.” The girl reached up to pick her nose. Daphne wondered if she still had to shake her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Molly. I’m Daphne.”

“Are you a princess?” the girl asked, with a child’s tactlessness.

Daphne forced herself to keep on smiling. Someday, she thought. And when I am, you’ll have to curtsy to me. She held on to the girl’s hand until her mother came to collect her, assuring the woman that it was no problem at all.

“I knew it,” Daphne heard the mother say as she rejoined the rest of her family. “I knew she was even prettier in person. And so sweet.”

This was why Daphne deserved to be princess someday—because she could play the part. If only Jefferson could see it as clearly as she did.

Natasha unobtrusively approached Molly’s mother with an electronic release form for the photos she had just snapped. The woman, still basking in the glow of having met the famous Daphne Deighton, didn’t hesitate to sign.

As she progressed down the hallway, Daphne made a point of pausing at each bedside: to pour a cup of water and lift it to a boy’s lips, to play with a little girl’s doll, to read a favorite story from a picture book with sticky pages. She never tired, never let her smile slip even a fraction of an inch, as all the while Natasha’s camera kept clicking away.

“Lovely evening,” Natasha said crisply as they stepped out into the parking lot. The light was slowly leaching from the sky, a few scattered stars beginning to dust the horizon. The air felt heavy and cold; Daphne shrugged deeper into her parka.

“I got some great shots,” Natasha went on, yanking open the door of her car to wedge her camera bag inside. Her angular dark hair swung forward with the movement. “Want me to send them to you for review before I run the article?”

“Please.”

The reporter paused, her car keys jingling in one hand. “Are you waiting for someone? I can give you a ride home.”

Daphne shook her head. “Actually, I’m heading back inside. I have one more visit to make. A personal one,” she added, in answer to Natasha’s questioning look.

“Your friend in the coma. I remember,” Natasha purred.

Of course she remembered, because Daphne had handed her that scoop, had practically composed the article herself. Underage drinking inside Washington Palace, and a girl who ended up in the ER? It was one of the most successful stories Natasha had ever run.