Chapter 30

I’m never going to get used to all the tea.

We’ve been back in Edinburgh for a couple of days now, and lately, everywhere we go, someone has tea to bring us. Sitting down at the palace? Have some tea. Meeting with Glynnis about wedding things? More tea, please. And now, even at the dress studio, there is tea.

I take the china cup from the smiling assistant, careful not to let it rattle in the saucer in case El hears it and snaps at me again. She’s been like that lately, quick to criticize anything I do that isn’t flawless. There’s a part of me that always wants to argue back, but another part wonders if this is just how she feels every day. Watched, judged, found wanting. Maybe it makes her feel better to get to do the same thing to someone else—I don’t know.

In any case, the tea cup doesn’t rattle even a bit, and I manage not to make a face when I take a sip, even though the tea is way too strong, way too hot, and way too unsweetened for my taste.

Mom and I are in a special fitting area in the back of the designer’s studio. No shops for the future king’s bride, of course. We get to go straight to the source, and from what I understand, these fittings are carried out like they’re spy missions or something. There were decoy cars when we left the palace this morning, one leaving from the front, the other from a back door near the kitchens. We weren’t in either of those, instead leaving about fifteen minutes later through yet another secret staff entrance, and we’d taken just a regular cab, nothing fancy. But all of us had worn hats and sunglasses, me and El in simple ballcaps, my mom in this hot-pink straw thing with flowers that probably drew more attention to her than if she hadn’t been wearing a hat at all, but such is Mom.

We still haven’t seen El’s dress, but that’s because she wants to save the surprise. Still, I can see a few sketches pinned to the wall of various wedding gowns, all of them looking fancy enough to be El’s, and I squint at one over my teacup.

“Do you have to wear sleeves?” I call out. “Like, are shoulders too scandalous for church?”

From somewhere in the bowels of the studio, El calls back, “It’s a surprise!”

“It’s a dress,” I mutter, glad she can’t hear me.

Mom can, though, and she reaches out with one leg, the toe of her shoe brushing my calf. “Be nice,” she says, and I set my cup on the little gilt-and-marble table next to us.

“I am being nice,” I tell her. “See, look.” I give her my best smile, the one that looks like I’ve been shot with a tranq dart, and Mom chuckles, shaking her head.

“You and your father, peas in a pod.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Then Mom leans over and pats my knee, her teacup and saucer balanced in her other hand.

“You’ve been a real trouper through all of this, darling,” she tells me. “I know it hasn’t been easy. The papers and the pictures and the ball. That boy.”

Right.

That boy.

Miles and I haven’t really talked since we got back to the city. We did one quick stroll down the Royal Mile for Glynnis, but both of us had kept our hands in our pockets, and we’d hardly said anything to each other besides random comments on the weather, the shops, anything that was completely neutral and boring.

The headlines over those pictures had read “MILES APART?,” so Glynnis is not exactly thrilled with either of us at the moment. But after that day in the bothy, faking things with Miles just felt too weird, and besides, I was heading home soon anyway. The pictures from the park and the ball had done their job—no one was talking about me and Seb anymore, and just yesterday, there had been blurry shots of Seb and Tamsin up in the Highlands, kissing. (The headline there was “SEB LANDS GLAM TAM!,” which was kind of a weak offering in my opinion.)

Luckily, I’m saved from having to talk about “that boy” with Mom by Ellie swanning back into the room.

Smiling, El gestures for me to stand up. “Your turn!” she says brightly, and I blink at her.

“For my dress?” I ask, and there’s a flash of the old Ellie in her eyes as she smirks at me and says, “What do you think?”

Stupid question, okay, but I wish I’d been a little more prepared for this moment. I’d thought today was all about Ellie, not me.

“Oh, how exciting!” Mom says, clapping her hands a little, and I give her a wan smile as I rise to my feet, trying not to wring my hands or fiddle with the hem of my skirt. I look okay today—I’d known better than to wear jeans and a T-shirt to a fashion designer’s studio, and had picked out one of the “outfit pods” Glynnis had made for me, choosing a gray high-waisted skirt with a black sleeveless blouse and a gray-and-white cardigan. Bright colors would’ve been too conspicuous. And trust me, when I’d realized I was picking out an outfit for stealth, I’d had a moment of wondering just when something like that had become so second nature to me. I’ve only been here a month, after all.

“Angus,” Ellie says, pulling me toward the back of the room, behind a heavy velvet curtain. “She’s ready for you!”

“I’m not sure that’s actually true,” I say, but the man she ushers me to is grinning at me. He’s got bright red hair, brighter than mine was before I came here, and he’s shorter than I am. Wearing a black ruffled shirt and a kilt in neon colors, plus the sickest pair of black patent leather boots, he’s exactly what I’d expect a famous Scottish fashion designer to look like. He’s not, however, who I would have thought Ellie would pick. Still, his smile is contagious, and when he takes my hands and holds both my arms away from my body, looking me up and down, I don’t even feel self-conscious.

“Oh, this will be a dream,” he says, his brogue heavy, the r in “dream” rolling over my ears like a wave.

The space here in the back of the studio is open and bright. The hardwood floors are ancient and scuffed, and the walls are exposed brick. There’s a long table against the back wall, covered in heaps of fabric, and I spot a few sketchbooks. There are also a few dress dummies standing guard, one of which is swathed in the Baird tartan, and I wonder if that’s part of Ellie’s dress.

And I really wonder what my dress will look like.

Sadly, there’s none of that this time, not even a hint of what colors we might be working with. Angus just measures me. And not just one time, either. He runs that tape measure out at least five times, checking and rechecking, making notes in a little notebook at his side. Occasionally he mutters to himself, but between his accent and the music blaring out of hidden speakers, I can’t make out what he might be saying.

By the time he’s done, I feel like I might as well be one of those dress dummies, but then he turns that bright grin on me again. “Excited?” he asks, and I don’t know if he means about the dress or the wedding itself, so I just give him the good old American double thumbs-up. “Super psyched,” I tell him, and he laughs, then leans forward to place a smacking kiss on my cheek.

“A dream,” he pronounces again. “Just like your sister.”

I don’t know if anyone has ever called me just like Ellie, and I’m not sure if I think it’s a compliment or not, so I shrug it off and say, “Nah, she’s got better hair.”

Angus laughs uproariously at that, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and his assistant, the lady who brought me tea, also chortles.

Not sure what to do with any of that, I give another awkward smile, then go out to find Mom and Ellie in the sitting room.

Mom is chatting with one of the assistants, and Ellie is finishing up her tea, sitting on the couch opposite from the chair where I’d squirreled myself away. She looks pretty sitting there, all in white, her blond hair caught in a low ponytail and draped over one shoulder. Even the way she holds her teacup is perfect.

The three of us leave the studio amid a flurry of cheek kisses and head down to the car that’s waiting in the alley behind the studio.

The car is there, just where we left it, but we pull up short as we see who’s standing beside the car. Leaning on it, actually.

Seb.

“Sebastian!” Ellie says, moving her purse from one shoulder to the other. “What . . . what are you doing here?”

Seb gives the grin that launches a thousand knickers into the air, and he pushes off the car. “I was looking for Daisy,” he says, and I inwardly groan. I have no idea what Seb wanted with me the night of the ball, but I’ve managed to stay away from him since then, and now it seems like I’m caught.

He winks. “Had some secret best man–maid of honor plans to discuss with her.”

Ellie looks back and forth between me and Seb, and I fiddle with the ends of my hair. “Can’t we just talk at the palace?” I ask, but he shakes his head, gesturing down the alley.

“We’re close to my favorite pub, and it’ll only take a second. Don’t worry, they know me there. A perfectly photographer-free spot.”

That grin again, and I see now why he can get away with most anything. Trespassing, drunkenness, kidnapping . . .

“It’ll only take a minute,” he cajoles, and I sigh, letting my arms drop to my sides.

“Sure,” I say, then turn to Mom and Ellie. “I’ll see you back at the palace.”

Ellie tugs her lower lip between her teeth, but after a second, she nods, and then looks over at Sebastian.

She doesn’t say anything, but he raises his hands, all innocent expression and big blue eyes. “She’s perfectly safe in my care,” he promises, and I wrinkle my nose at that.

Definitely don’t want to be in Seb’s care.

But I follow him down the alley and toward a heavy wooden door set into the gray stone of a building. “The Prince’s Arms,” he says, opening the door for me. “Appropriate, no?”

I roll my eyes as I walk past him and into a shadowy interior that smells like smoke, beer, and carpet that’s probably three hundred years old.

We make our way to the bar, and the man standing there by the beer taps clearly recognizes Seb, and not just in the princely way. He puts out a hand to shake Seb’s. “Been a while, lad,” he says, and Seb shrugs.

“Too long. Usual for me, lemonade for my companion, please.”

I really don’t want lemonade—it doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does back home. No sugary tart goodness, it’s more like watered-down Sprite, and for some reason, it’s the drink everyone seems to be handing me lately. But I don’t say anything, and just take my glass from the bartender when he hands it to me.

Seb, of course, has a pint of some cloudy beer, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of hops and yeast.

He chugs about half of it in one go, and when he sets the pint glass back on the bar, what’s left of the lager sloshes around. Seb’s eyes follow the motion moodily.

“This is super fun,” I tell him. “Is this our version of family bonding? That I watch you get drunk?”

Seb glances over at me then, his ruddy eyebrows drawn down over his blue, blue eyes. He really is stupid good-looking, but it’s like I hardly ever notice anymore. I’ve gotten so used to his face that it’s just . . . a face. A good one, sure, but once you know Seb, it’s hard not to see the mess behind all that pretty. That has the effect of killing the handsome, let me tell you.

“I wanted to be . . . alone with you,” he says, surprising me. I watch him swirl his lager again and shift on the barstool, looking around. There are only two other people in the pub, both of them ancient old men who appear to be having a contest to grow the most outrageous eyebrows. They’re sitting in a corner booth, the gilded lettering on the window casting weird shadows on their faces. It’s clear that they either don’t know who Seb is or don’t care, and suddenly I wonder if he comes here because he knows it’ll be deserted.

I stab at my “lemonade” with a straw, a creepy-crawly feeling between my shoulder blades. “Why?” I ask Seb, and he bangs his palm down on the bar. The sound startles me, but I realize he’s just signaling for another pint, and I roll my eyes. “If it was to see you get day drunk, I’ve already seen that before—”

“I’m in love with your sister.”