American Royals

“I didn’t do very much.” Guilt gnawed at the inside of Sam’s stomach.

“I know you’ve never been certain what your role should be, moving forward—that you sometimes feel out of place.” Her dad’s eyes lit knowingly on hers. “But Beatrice is going to rely on you when she’s queen, someday.”

Sam noticed that the someday was a little tacked on.

“Rely on me for what?” She shook her head, confused. “I’m not as smart as Beatrice.”

“There are many ways to be smart, Sam. It isn’t just books and memorization. It’s wisdom, and patience, and understanding people, which is something you’ve always been able to do. Not to mention that Beatrice will be surrounded by courtiers telling her what she wants to hear—which, as we just established, isn’t a problem you suffer from.” He said it lightly, but Sam heard a thread of urgency beneath the words. “Beatrice will count on you for the unvarnished truth. I expect you to give her your support when she’s earned it and your criticism when she deserves it. That’s what siblings are for, after all.”

“You’re right,” Sam said hoarsely. As Beatrice’s sister, Sam should have been her most thoughtful critic, but also her fiercest champion. Instead she’d spent years treating Beatrice as if they were at opposite ends of a battlefield.

Well, that had ended last night.

Her dad managed a smile. “I’ve always felt that you and Beatrice make a great team—that the two of you embody different aspects of the monarchy. You’re sort of like Edward the Black Prince and John of Gaunt.”

“You’re making me John of Gaunt in this analogy?” Sam protested. “He married for money and manipulated his nephew, and didn’t he try to steal the throne of Castile, too?”

The king threw his hands up in surrender. “The early years!” he exclaimed. “When they were teenagers, King Edward III used the Black Prince and John of Gaunt for different political purposes. They were close siblings who clearly trusted each other and were able to divide up the work in a way that made sense. There were a lot of things the Black Prince couldn’t do himself, as heir to the throne, that John of Gaunt was able to take on.”

“Like what, collecting taxes?” Sam teased.

Her father chuckled appreciatively. “That’s not entirely off base. You will sometimes have to serve as a lightning rod: to handle all the negativity and jealousy that people don’t dare show Beatrice. But you already know that.”

Sam blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way—that some of the criticism she bore might actually be criticism of Beatrice, or of the monarchy more broadly, which funneled to her simply because there was nowhere else it could go.

Maybe that was just part of being the spare.

“As head of state,” the king went on, “Beatrice won’t be able to take on any charitable causes. She can’t demonstrate personal preference like that. But you can. That’s one of the inherent strengths of monarchy: you aren’t angling for reelection like members of Congress; you aren’t politically motivated, yet you have continuity. You can act on your good judgment, your empathy, in a way that would be impossible to them.”

Her dad had never talked to her like this before—as if she might actually make a difference. Sam edged forward on her chair. “What do you want me to do?”

“I was hoping you might take on a more active role in the Washington Trust. I’d like to give you a board seat,” her dad announced.

The trust was a charitable fund that donated millions of dollars every year, usually by finding new and underappreciated initiatives, putting a large amount of seed money into them, and helping to boost awareness. Her great-grandfather had created the trust, many years ago, when he realized that there was only so much he could accomplish through the government. The trust gave him a direct way to help Americans without having to lobby Congress for a new law.

“Thank you, Dad.” Sam felt strangely humbled.

“No need to thank me,” her dad said gruffly. “You’ve earned this. I saw you at the shelter yesterday: you were such a natural, especially with the young children. The way you made a fool of yourself, laughing and jumping around with the kids as if no one was watching. You even remembered that boy from our last visit.”

When they’d visited the shelter, Sam had recognized one of the kids from last year, a boy named Pete who’d told her all about his music. She asked him if he was still playing guitar, and he’d scrambled to go get it, elated that she had remembered him. The whole thing had devolved into a fun impromptu concert.

Sam shrugged. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“It was unquestionably a big deal to that young man,” her dad insisted. “That’s one of your most amazing qualities, Sam—your lack of pretension, the way you can make someone feel heard. You are relatable, which is something the monarchy could use a little more of.”

Sam thought of what she’d said to Beatrice last night, that Beatrice had to find a way to make her life feel like her own. Maybe she could, too. She might be the second-string princess, but she was still her. She could use her position to do something meaningful, make a real difference.

“I’m sorry if I’ve pushed you too hard,” the king went on, staring down at his desk. “I thought I needed to give you the benefit of my experience, when all along I needed you to give me the benefit of your inexperience.” The king smiled. “You’re a force of nature, Sam. When you’re being yourself, you’re our family’s secret weapon.”