Chapter 5

“Your new brother-in-law really is super hot,” Isabel says, and I frown at her over the top of our laptops. We’re sitting at a small table in the corner of the Bean Grinder, Perdido’s one and only coffee shop, and while we’re supposed to be taking a practice SAT test, it’s clear Isabel is using the internet for something very different.

“A,” I tell her, “he is not my brother-in-law yet, and B, what happened to helping me ignore all things Ellie?”

Isabel doesn’t even bother to look guilty as she sucks the straw of her iced white chocolate mocha. “That was back when Ellie was just dating a prince, not when she was marrying one,” she reminds me, “and since you’re so determined to ignore everything, I figure someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

“By reading trashy royal gossip websites?” I ask, blowing on the surface of my orange blossom tea.

“By reading trashy royal gossip websites,” Isabel confirms, eyes still glued to the screen in front of her. “It’s a sacrifice, but that’s what I’m willing to do for our friendship, Dais.”

“You do go above and beyond,” I reply, rolling my eyes. I try to go back to the multiple-choice test in front of me, but after a few seconds of staring at the same vocabulary words, I glance back over our screens. “Anything about me?”

Isabel shakes her head, black hair sliding over her shoulders. “Not that I’ve seen, but I haven’t checked Crown Town.”

“Please think about the words you just said, then ask yourself how you feel about them coming out of your mouth.”

Isabel flips me off, her other hand clicking something on her keyboard. “There are tons of these blogs. Some of them are about all the various royals in the world. There are, like, really serious ones, like Royal Watch and Moments of the Monarchies.”

She turns her laptop so I can see the page. This is Royal Watch, and there’s a giant Union Jack across the top. Underneath, I can see a few tasteful pictures of the English royal family.

“Those are mostly run by Americans,” Isabel tells me, and tilts her computer so she can click something else.

“Then there’s Prattle, a magazine about posh people for posh people. You know, ‘What Hotel Has the Best Concierge?’ and ‘Which of Your Family Servants Are You Allowed to Snog?’—that kind of thing.”

“Charming,” I mutter, taking in the giant type of the title and the picture of a frowning aristocrat holding a cocktail.

“But then there’s stuff like Off with Their Heads and Crown Town, and those are the trashy ones,” Isabel finishes, turning her laptop back toward her.

“Which makes them more fun?” I guess, and Isabel shrugs.

“I wish I could say no, but yeah, those are the ones I’ve bookmarked. Guess Ellie was right that with your family being in Florida and the rest of the royals making plenty of headlines in Scotland, no one cares all that much.”

She meets my gaze, eyebrows drawn together. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s good,” I say, relief turning the words into a sigh. For all that Ellie had claimed that nothing much would change right away, I hadn’t actually believed her. But it’s been over two weeks since the engagement announcement, and while that was a big deal, the spotlight is still firmly on Ellie and Alexander.

“People love Ellie, by the way,” Isabel tells me, moving her straw up and down in her cup to poke at the ice. “Like, apparently, some of the ultraposh people are stuck up about Alex marrying an American, but the commoners are allllll about it.”

“You just said ‘the commoners,’ so we’re not friends anymore. We had a good run, but—”

Isa pulls the straw out of her drink, flicking me with drops of iced mocha. “I’m trying to give you the lay of the land here, Dais. I am being your wing woman.”

I wipe my cheek with a napkin, then toss it at her. “No, you’re just reading gossip, and besides, none of that really has anything to do with me.”

Narrowing her dark eyes, Isabel props her elbows on the table. “You really think that?” she asks, and I shrug, uncomfortable.

Okay, so yes, this will have something to do with me, but maybe I can just take a crash course in royal etiquette before the wedding, then go back to living a life where I never have to know how deeply to curtsy to anyone.

“So what is my super hot not brother-in-law up to on those sites?” I ask, more to distract myself than anything else. Over at another table across the shop, I can see Hannah Contreras and Maddy Payne glancing over at Isabel and me, and I have a feeling we’re the subject of their whispered conversation. I like Hannah and Maddy fine (when you live in a town as small as Perdido, you’ve basically known the same people all your life), but I’ve never been the subject of gossip before and have to say, it’s not a fave.

“Well, he broke up with his girlfriend, so sayeth Off with Their Heads,” Isabel informs me. “Some also super hot Argentinean girl whose brother is a famous polo player. So to get over that, he and his buddies went to Monaco, but then . . .” She leans closer to the screen, squinting a little. “One of Seb’s friends noticed a dude taking pictures and decided to fight him. Threw the guy in a fountain. Then Seb pulled the photographer out and sent him a very large check the next day to cover the cost of his camera.”

“So basically, the same as one of our typical weekends,” I say, turning back to my test. “Got it.”

Giggling, Isabel takes another sip of her iced mocha. “Easy icebreaker at the wedding, at least.” Picking up her laptop, she turns it to face me. There’s a huge picture of Sebastian in a gorgeous suit, flashing a big grin, one hand up in a wave. His hair darker than Alex’s, but the camera’s flash still picks up hints of red. His eyes are just as blue as Alex’s, though, and I swear to god, even in a crappy paparazzi picture, they seem to sparkle. There is a guy on either side of him, one a good head shorter than Seb with dark curls and a scowl, the other sandy-haired and actually smiling at the cameras.

Isabel taps each guy in turn with one pink fingernail. “These guys are, like, always with Sebastian. Tabloids call them ‘the Royal Wreckers.’ Guys from crazy-posh families who went to school with Seb or something.”

“‘Seb’?” I echo, raising an eyebrow, and this time, Isabel has the grace to blush a little bit.

“I’ve been reading tons of this stuff!” she insists. “And all the papers and websites call him Seb. That’s the kind of thing you need to know, Dais. I mean, we haven’t even gotten to Princess Flora yet, and that’s where the real scandal is.”

I shake my head and click through to the next page of my test. “The less I know, the better,” I say. “I’m just going to get through the wedding, come home, and then the rest of . . . that” —I wave my hand at the screen, taking in the website, drunk Sebastian, his debauched, rich friends, all of it— “can be Ellie’s thing.”

Isabel makes a face at me, setting the computer back on the table and studying it again. “It’s a shame that proximity to boys like these is wasted on you.”

“It would be wasted on you, too,” I remind her, “what with Ben and all.”

At the mention of her boyfriend, Isabel just shrugs. “Ben would want me to fulfill my dreams, Daisy, and if one of those dreams is making out with a prince—”

“Ugh, stop!” I toss a balled-up napkin at her, and she laughs again.

But then, after a second, she rests her elbows on the table. “I’m serious, you know. Not about making out with Seb—well, I mean, I’m serious about that, too, but you really do need to look into all of this. Know what you’re getting yourself into.”

I look back to the page in front of me, chewing my lower lip. “I didn’t get myself into anything. El got us all into this, and she and Alex say nothing is going to change.”

Isabel goes quiet, and I look up from my test. She’s leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes slightly narrowed, and that means I’m about to get some serious Isabel Alonso Truthiness in my life.

“Dais,” she says, and yup, here it comes. “Why are you so resistant?”

Scooting closer to the table, she takes my wrist, shaking my arm. “A prince, Daisy. Castles. It’s a whole new world opening up to you, and you should be, like . . .” She lets go of my wrist to clench both fists in the air, opening her mouth to give a sort of silent shriek of excitement, eyes squeezed shut.

I laugh, flicking her with my pencil. “I’m not all”—I mimic her gesture, then drop my hands back to the table—“because this isn’t my thing. It’s Ellie’s. And now it’s . . .” I don’t want to get into that, not even with my best friend, but Isa is merciless.

“Oh no,” she says. “Not the wistful ‘if only . . .’ look. Spill.”

Shooting her a glare, I shrug my shoulders, wondering how even to explain it. Finally, I settle on an example.

“Okay, remember when I was in fourth grade, and my parents lost their minds and decided to do that road trip out west?”

“The Grand Canyon Incident,” Isabel says, nodding sagely, and I point my pencil at her.

“That’s the one. So on that trip, we ended in California for the last day, and I wanted to go see the Winchester Mystery House because obviously.”

“Obviously,” Isa echoes.

“But that same time we were there, this college Ellie wanted to check out in San Francisco was doing an open house, and she wanted to go to that. So my parents said we’d add an extra day—do Ellie’s college thing first, then, on that extra day, go see my thing.”

Isabel tilts her head to one side. “Fair,” she decides, and I nod.

“Problem is, we all ate these little shrimp thingies during the open house, and then got food poisoning, so there was no second day. No Winchester Mystery House. And I get that it was an Act of God—”

“An act of bacteria, but continue.”

“But the point is that it’s always been like that. Ellie’s thing, then my thing if we have time. And I can’t even be mad about it because Ellie’s thing is always, like, going to see a college, or volunteering at Habitat for Humanity, or taking a summer trip to Guatemala to teach English.”

I hold up my hand, turning it to one side, keeping my palm straight. “She’s always been laser-focused on stuff that matters.”

Dropping my hand, I shrug again. “And I just want to see weird houses or exhibits or whatever, so I get why her stuff has to come first. It’s just . . . marrying Alex means her stuff is always going to come first. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives planning Christmas around her schedule. And like I said, I can’t be mad about it. I get it. I just . . .”

This time when I trail off, Isabel doesn’t call me on it, and I shake my head.

“Less focus on Ellie and royals, and more focus on Key West,” I say, tapping the end of my pencil on the top of her laptop screen. “We are now at two weeks, and we still haven’t coordinated wardrobes.”

If there’s one thing that can distract Isabel from talk of “Seb,” it’s our Key Con visit, and she nods, giving me an exaggerated wink.

“You’re right,” she agrees. “Eyes on the prize.”

We’re talking about the trip—namely, what we’re going to wear and what panels we want to hit up—when Hannah and Maddy enter my peripheral vision.

I’ve known both of them since third grade, but they’re both approaching so hesitantly, you’d think we were total strangers. I can actually feel my heart sinking.

“Heeeey, Daisy,” Maddy drawls, playing with the ends of her hair. It’s about the same dark blond mine used to be before the big dye job.

“Um. Hi?”

“So. Your sister.” That’s it. Literally all she says, like that explains it all, and I just nod at her. Across the table, Isabel is slumped down in her chair a little, watching them both as she taps her nails on her plastic cup.

“You’re going to be in the wedding, right?” Hannah asks. She has the same black hair as Isabel, although hers is cut in a long bob, the points brushing her shoulders as she leans closer. “And, like, on TV?”

Maddy shifts her weight from one foot to the other, moving a little closer. “And are you gonna move there? To Scotland?”

Hannah shakes her head at that, eyes wide. “I mean, you’re basically going to be a princess, right?”

Sighing, I take a sip of my tea before saying, “I’m not really allowed to talk about it.” Then I drop my voice to a whisper and add, “For security reasons.”

Maddy and Hannah both widen their eyes, stepping back a little, and Isabel grins at me before schooling her face into a serious expression and adding, “Yeah, she had to sign papers and shit. If she talks about any of it, she’ll get in trouble. I mean, big trouble.”

“Isa!” I say sharply, and then glance around, like people might be watching us. “You know what happens if they hear us!”

I give Isabel my best solemn look, then draw my finger across my throat. Isabel swallows hard, looking properly scared.

“Jesus,” Hannah breathes, and Maddy looks at me with her jaw hanging open.

“Just . . . don’t ask me about it, okay?” I say, and both Hannah and Maddy nod so hard I’m surprised their necks don’t snap.

They go back to their table, whispering again and genuinely looking a little pale.

“We’re evil,” Isabel says, rattling the ice in her cup, and I shrug.

“Proactive.”

Going back to my test, I let Isabel go back to her gossip surfing, thinking I might grab some kind of fried seafood on my way home this afternoon. High-stress days require high calories, so . . .

“Oh holy god!” Isabel yelps, and my head shoots up. For a second, I think maybe she saw a bug or, even worse, a snake—Isabel is deathly afraid of all things slithery—but then I see her eyes still glued to the screen, her face going kind of gray underneath her tan, and I know it’s much worse.