Beatrice had never thought that Sam might be jealous of her—that Sam would actually prefer to be the heir.

“Because I didn’t ask for this.” Beatrice heaved a breath. “Trust me, I realize how lucky I am to have been born with this kind of privilege. But I’m still jealous of everyone else in the country, because they get to choose what direction their lives will take. Other kids can dream of being astronauts or firefighters or dancers or doctors,” she said helplessly. “But no one in my life has ever asked me what I want to be when I grow up, because there is only one possible future for me.”

“Beatrice,” Sam asked, her eyes wide. “Do you even want to be queen?”

“Wanting has nothing to do with it,” Beatrice reminded her. “I am a Washington, just like you, and becoming the queen has always been my future. My road is laid out before me, but yours doesn’t have to be. You have options, you have freedom, that I never will.”

They were both quiet at that.

Sam reached for her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Remember when we were little, and I used to sneak into your closet to steal your clothes?”

“Your favorite was that pale pink Easter dress. The one with the matching shoes,” Beatrice recalled, oddly wistful.

“I wanted so badly to be like you, back then.” Sam’s voice was rough. “I wanted to be you. When I realized that was impossible—that only you were the future queen, and I could never be you, no matter how hard I tried—I set out to be everything you’re not.”

“You … what?”

“Why do you think I acted the way I did?” Sam shrugged. “You followed the rules, so I misbehaved; you were disciplined and organized, so I ran wild. I felt left out,” she added softly. “You were constantly off doing important future-queen things.”

Beatrice sat up a little straighter in surprise. “I felt left out, too, Sam. You and Jeff always had that unbreakable twin bond. It made me feel like an outsider.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. “I didn’t know.”

Beatrice could only nod. She wished they’d had this conversation years ago, instead of waiting until these circumstances forced it upon them.

Sam cleared her throat. “Look, I know you didn’t ask for this life, but I also can’t imagine anyone handling it with as much grace and dignity as you do. You are next in line for the throne, and you’re going to be queen—that’s just the way things are. But that doesn’t mean it has to define you. You are still a person, and this is still your life. We can figure this out. There has to be a way to do the job you were born to do without sacrificing yourself along the way.”

Beatrice was stunned by her sister’s maturity and wisdom. She gave Sam’s hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you.”

“I’m here for you, Bee,” Sam told her, using the nickname for what must have been the first time in a decade. “After all of this … I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Beatrice looked again at Samantha’s glassy eyes, remembered the nervous way she’d walked into the kitchen earlier. “What about you?” she demanded. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.” Sam looked down, her lashes casting shadows on her face. “Nina and I had an awful fight. I didn’t feel like I could really unload it on Jeff—it’s kind of weird, talking about Nina with him. Mom and Dad never listen to me anyway, and I couldn’t talk to you ….”

“You can talk to me now,” Beatrice assured her. “No more secrets, no more misunderstandings. From here on out, we have each other’s backs.”

Sam managed an uneven smile. “I would like that.”

As Beatrice pulled Samantha in for another hug, the icy lump in her throat seemed to lessen, just a little. Whatever happened, at least now she had her sister on her side.

SAMANTHA

The next morning, Samantha knocked at the heavy wooden doors to her father’s office. “Hey, Dad, are you busy?”

“Sam! Come on in,” he called out in reply.

She didn’t normally show up here uninvited, but after last night’s conversation with Beatrice, Sam needed to talk to their dad herself: to look him in the eye and ask him about his cancer. Maybe there was still some way out, for all of them. Maybe the prognosis wasn’t as bad as Beatrice feared.

Her father was seated behind his desk, sorting through a small leather-bound trunk filled with papers. At Sam’s arrival, he glanced up with a weary smile. “I’m glad you stopped by. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Sam opened her mouth, brimming with questions—How bad is it? Why didn’t you tell us?—but the words faltered and died on her lips. She realized with a sinking feeling that she didn’t need to ask, because she already knew.

Her dad didn’t look good. She wasn’t sure how she’d missed the changes; they must have been gradual and subtle enough that she didn’t notice them on a day-to-day basis. But now that she was looking closely, she saw how thin his skin had become, the purple shadows beneath his eyes. His movements were underscored with an alarming new fatigue.

Sam sank into the chair opposite him, trying desperately to settle her breaths, to arrange her features into some semblance of a normal expression.