Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

When her father looked up at her, every line of his face was etched with sorrow. “Beatrice, I’ve been diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer.”

The air seemed to abruptly vacuum from the room. Everything was silent, as if the grandfather clock in the corner had halted in time, as if even the wind outside had stilled at her father’s words.

No. It couldn’t be possible, no, no, no—

“No!” Beatrice didn’t remember standing, but somehow she was on her feet. “Who’s your doctor? I want to come with you, review your treatment plan,” she said frantically, thinking aloud. “You can beat this, Dad, I’m certain you can; you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Beatrice.” Her father’s voice broke. “This is stage four. There is no treatment plan.”

It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in.

Pain exploded in her head. And there was a roaring in her ears, the sound of different pieces of reality fragmenting and shattering all around her.

“Dad …,” Beatrice whispered, her eyes burning, and she saw that tears were trailing down his face, too, as he nodded.

“I know,” he said heavily. “I know.”

She collapsed back onto the couch and threw her arms around his shoulders. Her dad just hugged her and let her cry, great forlorn sobs that split her chest open from within. He ran a hand lightly over her back, the way he used to comfort her when she was a child. It made Beatrice wish she could melt back down to little-girl size: back when everything was so simple, when a kiss and a Band-Aid could solve almost any problem.

She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Her dad, who used to throw her into the swimming pool and pretend that he was rocket-launching her into space; who read stories to her stuffed otter when she was too proud to ask for them for herself; who had always been her greatest advocate and fiercest champion. Her dad—and also her king.

“I love you, Dad,” she whispered through the rawness in her throat.

“I love you so much, Beatrice,” he told her, over and over. His voice was steady, but she could tell that he was still weeping, because her hair was damp with his tears.

He didn’t have to say it for Beatrice to know what he was thinking. She needed to do all her crying now, in private, because she wouldn’t get another moment like this. From now on, she would need to be tough, for her father’s sake. For her family’s. And most of all, for her country’s.

Beatrice’s resolve quavered a little at the thought of what was coming—the fact that she would have to rule, so much sooner than she had ever imagined—but she would deal with that later. That fear was nothing compared to the grief coursing through her.

Eventually she sat back, her sobs subsiding. The early-morning light filtered through the window to dance over the scrolling carpet beneath their feet.

“Who else knows?” she asked, still sniffling. “Have you told Mom?”

“Not yet.” The king’s voice sounded ragged. “And if I could have kept from telling you, I would have. I wish there was a way for me to tell Beatrice, my successor, without telling Beatrice, my daughter. This is a matter of state, a matter between monarchs,” her father said.

“I understand.” Beatrice willed herself to be strong for her dad, to be Beatrice the successor. But Beatrice the daughter couldn’t stop the silent tears that kept sliding down her cheeks.

“I promise that I’ll tell your mom soon—and Sam and Jeff,” her dad hastened to add. “But right now I want to enjoy this time, however long it is, without the shadow of my illness hanging over us. And over the country.”

As if to prove just how little time he had left, he subsided into a fit of coughing: heavy, racking coughs that seemed to shake his entire frame. Finally he looked up at her, his mouth set into a grim line.

“How long?” she asked.

“Hopefully a year,” her father said softly. “More likely, months.”

Beatrice bit her lip until it felt like she might draw blood.

“You will be a great queen.” Her father spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “But as I’ve said before, this isn’t an easy job. It’s so much more than the charity work, or the politics—the Cabinet meetings, the ambassador appointments, being the commander in chief of the armed forces. More than any of that, the most important role of the monarch is still a symbolic one.

“When you are queen, the people will look to you as the ultimate symbol of stability in a confusing and ever-changing world. The Crown is the magic link that holds this country together, that keeps all the different states and political parties and types of people peacefully interwoven.”

Beatrice had heard all of this before. But hearing it now, knowing her time would come far too fast, she felt the sentiment take on a whole new meaning.

“I’m just—” She braced her hands on the fabric of her jeans to steady herself. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Good. If you thought you were ready, it would have been certain proof that you’re not,” the king said gruffly, yet with unmistakable warmth. “No one is ever ready for this, Beatrice. I certainly wasn’t.”

Her heart careened wildly from sorrow to panic. “I’m terrified I’ll mess up.”