American Royals

Or maybe he didn’t recognize her at all, and was looking at her with such confusion because he couldn’t understand why she was heading up yet again, repeating the same exact run she’d been skiing for the past hour and a half.

This was the first time in three years that Daphne hadn’t been invited to join the royal family for New Year’s, but she wasn’t about to let a small detail like that stop her. She and her parents had come to Telluride themselves, renting a hotel room for the week, so that Daphne could find an opportunity to oh-so-conveniently run into the prince.

Which was why she was here, lapping off of Apex, alone. She’d skied with Jefferson and Ethan enough to feel certain that they would end up on this run: it was their favorite place to ski on mornings like this, when it was warm enough to soften the top layer of snow.

Except that Jefferson was nowhere to be seen. Daphne cast another glance back over her shoulder—and caught sight of a figure in a nondescript gray parka, snowboarding over from Ophir Loop. She allowed herself a slow, dangerous smile. She would recognize that particular shade of gray anywhere.

There were a few other people here with Jefferson: his uncle Richard; his aunt Margaret and her husband, Nate; a protection officer. And, of course, Ethan.

Daphne poled to one side and bent over in a pretense of tightening her boots. When she heard them coasting toward the entrance to the lift, she turned around slowly, for maximum effect. She was well aware how amazing she looked, even in ski gear. Her all-black ensemble—a thin down parka with a hood trimmed in rabbit fur, ergonomic stretchy pants that belted at the waist—was surprisingly chic. No one would know that she’d spent months monitoring the luxury sports websites, ready to buy it all the instant it went on super sale.

“Jefferson!” she exclaimed, in a show of surprise, and turned brightly to the others. “And Your Highnesses, Ethan. It’s good to see you all.”

The twins’ uncle Richard smiled warmly at her, but Aunt Margaret, who was wearing a yellow one-piece ski suit that made her look curiously like a tall skiing banana, gave her a cool nod before deliberately turning aside. She was the only one who didn’t like Daphne.

Well, aside from Samantha. No matter how intensely Daphne had amped up her charm, Jefferson’s twin sister had never warmed to her. Eventually Daphne had given up trying, and treated the princess with the same pleasant cordiality that she did everyone else.

Jefferson pulled out one of his earbuds: he always listened to music while snowboarding, despite constant protests from the king and queen, who worried that it was somehow unsafe. “Hey, Daph. I didn’t know you were in town this weekend.”

She thrilled a little at his use of the old nickname. “My parents and I decided at the last minute. Were you about to head up?” she added, her eyes cutting toward the lift.

Jefferson nodded, and her chest seized in relief. She felt the weight of everyone’s gazes on them as they poled over to the loading station. Daphne was gratified by the flash of recognition on the liftie’s face when he realized that the other person on the chair was Prince Jefferson. Now, at least, he finally recognized her.

With any luck he might phone in a tip to one of the national magazines, that she and the prince were spotted skiing together in Telluride.

She tucked her poles beneath one of her pant legs, resisting the urge to pull the safety bar down. Jefferson always scoffed at anyone who needed it. So she swallowed her fear and leaned back, trying not to think of how far they were above the cold hard ground, rushing on at a thousand feet per minute.

“It’s good to see you, Jefferson.” It felt strange, talking to him in such a stilted way, as if they barely knew each other—worse even than when they’d first started dating, all those years ago. “How’s the trip going?”

“You know how it is,” he said, with a laugh. I do know, Daphne thought furiously. “My mom and Aunt Margaret are constantly at each other’s throats, and Percy and Annabel keep racing up and down the stairs early in the mornings, when we’re all still trying to sleep. We’re pretty much the same as always.”

It stung a little, that it was so apparently easy for Jefferson to be in Telluride without her, when to Daphne this place was indelibly printed with their memories. So much of their relationship had unfolded here. All those long afternoons when Samantha would lead them off piste into the glades, and Jefferson and Daphne would laugh and follow. Stopping at the crêpe stand for a chocolate-almond crêpe, which they would eat right there, standing up, because it was piping hot and they were too impatient to wait. Lingering in the hot tub until their fingertips were pruney, talking about anything and nothing.

The ski house was where Jefferson first told Daphne that he loved her.

The slopes fell away before them as their chair climbed ever higher. To their right, behind a curtain of snow-dusted fir trees, Daphne could see the glittering curves of a run called Allais Alley. Over the steep back side of the mountain lay the Revelation Bowl, its broad white canvas crisscrossed by the lines of various skiers. Nestled between the sleeping forms of the mountains was the village of Telluride itself, the distance making it look like the miniature toy town that the royal family used to put beneath their Christmas tree.

Daphne had realized early on how important Telluride was to the Washingtons. It represented their chance to get away, to close their doors and briefly let down their guard. Two generations of Washingtons had honeymooned at this very house after their weddings. And some of the most famous photos of the royal family had been taken here, like the infamous one of the king skiing with Princess Samantha on his shoulders. He was given a lot of safety lectures after that incident.