“Oh my god! It’s Princess Emilia!”

“Princess! Princess! Look this way!”

“We love you, Emilia!”

I step out of the sleek Rolls Royce limousine and am met with an explosion of camera flashes and screams from the gathered crowd. Their shouts grow deafening as I make my way slowly down the cobbled street. Simms trails slightly behind me. A fleet of vigilant guards surround us on all sides.

As I approach the hospital steps, I spot several armed security personnel stationed on nearby rooftops, monitoring the scene from above. Between their sniper rifles, the heavy police presence interspersed throughout the crowd, and the metal detectors erected at every perimeter, glinting in the bright midday light, I feel more like a high-profile prisoner being transferred before trial than I do a princess about to christen a new municipal building.

Then again, seeing as someone out there is determined to destroy the Lancaster line… I suppose safe is better than sorry.

(And by sorry I mean dead.)

The entire block in front of the military hospital has been cordoned off for the commemoration ceremony. People line the sidewalks, pressed tight against the partitions to catch a glimpse of their new princess in the flesh for the first time. The crowd is dense with families, former military personnel, and couples of all ages — folks Lady Morrell would no doubt refer to as commoners.

They wave and cheer as I move past them, feeling stiff as a robot as I walk between the barricades. I’m still unaccustomed to being the center of this much attention.

“Princess!”

“Princess Emilia!”

“Your Highness!”

As they call out to me, hands extended, I try to heed Simms’ words.

Smile politely but don’t stop, he advised me during the ride from the palace. You’re only here to be seen — there’s no need to speak to them. When you reach the podium, smile and wave. Say a quick hello into the mic. The Minister of Veteran Affairs will handle the actual speech.

His plan is simple enough in theory, but I think he underestimated how excited the crowds would be when I appeared. There’s a frenzied energy running through the throng. A super-charged current. I’m instantly reminded of the celebrity red carpets I’ve seen on television screens.

The constant flash of cameras becomes practically blinding. Fighting the urge to close my stinging eyes, I keep my chin up and my feet moving. Somehow, I manage not to bobble on the hunter green high heels Lady Morrell picked out for me to wear with my ebony shift dress and long wool peacoat.

It’s only fifty yards to the podium, but it feels more like fifty miles. Cheeks aching from my fake smile, I’m finally nearing the end of the gauntlet when I hear a child’s high-pitched squeal from my right — pure and sweet with little-girl wonder.

“Mama! Mama! She’s a real princess!”

I glance over and see a small girl in a shabby dress standing with her mother. The woman can’t be much older than I am but her face is etched with lines — the fingerprints of poverty and pain. It’s clear from one glance that her path has not been an easy one. Still, there’s pure love in her eyes as she stares down at her young daughter.

“Mama, can I grow up to be a princess, too?”

The mother’s expression falls a bit. Her mouth opens, presumably to break the bad news to the girl. Before I can stop myself, I’m in motion — deviating from my path, turning from the center of the street toward the sidewalk. I ignore the distressed sound from Simms as I approach the barricades. The crowd’s screams grow deafening when I come to a stop a few feet away, everyone crying out my name, attempting to catch my attention. My gaze never shifts from the mother-daughter duo.

“Hello, there.”

The woman’s eyes have gone wide as saucers. The little girl is staring up at me in awe. I crouch down to her level so our eyes meet through the metal bars of the partition. She’s no more than four or five years old.

“What’s your name?”

The girl looks up at her mother for approval before whispering, “Annie.”

“Hi, Annie. I’m Emilia. It’s nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

“Hawthorne.”

My heart turns over when she mentions the small neighborhood in Vasgaard where I grew up. A few months ago, she could’ve been my neighbor.

“Are you really a princess?” A slight speech impediment softens her consonants, turning her r’s into w’s. Pwincess.

I nod. “I am.”

“Do you live in a castle?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Like in a faiwy tale!”

“Oh, yes. It’s just like a fairy tale,” I lie.

“When I gwow up, I’m going to be a pwincess like you!” Annie declares proudly. “Wight, Mama?”

Her mother turns beet red. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t understand—”

I shake my head, smiling genuinely for the first time all day. “You know what, Annie? I grew up in Hawthorne, too.”

Her brows shoot upward. “Weally?”

“Really. And if I can be a princess, so can you.” Reaching up, I remove the tiara from my head — a tiny, ornate silver coronet Lady Morrell forced me to wear, despite my objections. Without a thought, I reach through the bars and set it atop Annie’s blonde head.

I hear gasps from the surrounding onlookers — a wave of shock breaking like a great tidal shift. The little girl is staring at me with adoration and awe.

“There you go,” I murmur, adjusting the delicate headpiece with a wink. “Beautiful.”

Annie reaches up to touch the tiara, her lips spreading into a huge smile. She’s missing a front tooth. “Do I wook wike a pwincess now?”

“Totally.”

She beams bigger.

“Can I tell you a secret, Annie?”

“Uh huh!”

I lean in so only she can hear my words. “There’s magic in that tiara. It makes whoever wears it brave enough to follow their dreams. So, whenever you feel scared or uncertain, I want you to put it on. And I want you to remember that you’re a brave girl, who can be whoever she wants to be when she grows up. Okay?” I pull back a bit to stare into her cornflower blue eyes. “You can do anything you want, Annie. You just have to be brave.”

She’s wide-eyed with wonder. “Okay, Pwincess Emiwia.”

When I rise and meet her mother’s gaze, she looks almost fearful. “Your Highness — we can’t possibly accept—”

I wave her words away. “Of course you can. Besides, it looks better on her, anyway.”

Shooting one last smile at Annie, I turn and walk back to the middle of the street. From my peripheral, I catch sight of Simms’ pinched expression. I’m sure he’ll ream me out later for giving away a priceless piece of jewelry, but I honestly don’t care. It was worth it to make that little girl’s day a bit brighter.

The crowd is newly energized as I walk the remaining distance up the stairs to the podium. They scream so loud I worry I’ll end up with premature hearing loss, their individual calls indistinguishable in the crush of sound. Even after I shake hands with the Minister of Veteran Affairs and step up to the microphone, they continue to cheer until Simms gestures for silence. Glancing over at me, he then gives a stern nod. I can practically read the orders in his eyes.

Smile nicely. Say hello. Step away.

I try not to roll my eyes as I turn to the crowd and clear my throat. “Wow. Thank you all for the warm greeting!”

I jolt when I hear my own voice booming out from the speakers, echoing off buildings. It’s a strange, disembodied sensation. My gaze drifts across the many faces in the crowd — young, old, male, female. I see a group of gray-haired men in military uniforms who must be WWII soldiers clustered beside a group of schoolchildren on a field trip, their yellow primary school jumpers a visual assault even at this distance. I see a young couple holding hands beside an elderly pair pressed up against the railing.

So many different faces, all turned toward mine.

All with one thing in common.

Hope.

It’s written plainly across every expression in the crowd. And when I recognize it… it’s impossible not to be humbled. It’s impossible to keep thinking of what I’m doing here as a chore to check off my to-do list, or some royal obligation to speed through without consideration.

They’re all looking to you, Emilia. Don’t let them down.

All the boring, bland talking points Simms gave me go out the window. I can’t just say a quick hello and step away. Instead, I set my shoulders, swallow my nerves, and speak the only way I know how — from the heart.

“As you may know, I’m rather new to all of this… princess stuff.”

I hear a choked sound from Simms, but I carry on.

“Honestly, the only time I’ve ever made a speech before was during my university’s required oration course — and I’m sure both my classmates and Professor Albright would be happy to confirm that it did not go well. So please forgive me if I stumble.”

There’s a wave of laughter, followed by a flood of supportive applause. I hear someone shout ‘We love you, Emilia!’ from the back of the crowd, and I can’t help smiling wider.

“It’s a privilege to be here today to celebrate Remembrance Day. The fact is, Germania would not exist without the brave men and women who have dedicated their lives to keeping our great nation safe.”

More applause rings out.

“I know, as a whole, we don’t always agree about politics or religion or, hell, even which rugby team to root for—” The crowd laughs. “But I think we can all agree on one thing: our military deserves recognition. Respect. Remembrance. Not just today, but every day of the year.”

People are nodding along with my words. Many have taken out their cellphones and started filming. I try not to let myself think too much about that.

“We humans have a tendency to make things more complicated than they need to be. But this— this is simple. Our veterans took care of us. Now, it’s our turn to take care of them.”

Their reaction is riotous. I have to wait a full minute for it to quiet down before continuing.

“Without further ado… on behalf of the king, I am honored to announce the grand opening of the state-of-the-art facility you see behind me. It was built specifically to serve our active-duty personnel as well as retired service members and their families.” Half-turning, I gesture to the gorgeous glass building. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Leopold and Abigail Veteran’s Hospital and Rehabilitation Center.”

The cheers swell to a crescendo when I mention the facility’s namesake — our fallen king and queen, lost so suddenly in October’s deadly fire. I see several in the audience wiping tears, overcome by emotion. And I can’t lie — a few moments later, as a brass band plays the national anthem, I stand with my hand over my heart, my eyes stinging with tears that are surely smudging the makeup Lady Morrell’s fleet of stylists worked so hard to perfect, and find myself equally overcome.

Crowns and thrones and blood rights aside…

This is my country.

These are my people.

And I’m proud as hell to be one of them.

Today. Tomorrow. And all the days to come.

“That was not what we discussed,” Simms mutters in a tight voice as he ushers me back into the waiting Rolls Royce. The deafening sound of the crowd’s cheering is muffled slightly when the chauffeur closes the door behind us.

“Sorry, Ger.” I settle back against the seats with a sharp exhale. “I told you I wasn’t going to follow your scripts.”

He stares at me for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his portly face.

“What?” I ask, not recognizing the look.

“You. You were…”

My brows go up. I’ve never seen staid, serious Simms so tongue-tied before. And… is that a blush I see coloring his cheeks?!

Impossible.

“What I mean to say is…” He clears his throat. “You were quite good with the crowd, Your Highness. Natural. Charming. A bit unpolished for my liking, of course. But they didn’t seem to mind.”

“Wait a minute — did you just compliment me, Simms?”

“Don’t be absurd. I was merely pointing out the facts.” He adjusts his bow-tie and avoids my gaze. “You seem to possess an innate talent for this. With a bit of practice, you could easily endear yourself to the public.”

Hell must’ve frozen over. That’s the only explanation for this man — one of Octavia’s chief allies — actually approving of something I’ve done.

“However, I must say, you giving away an antique diadem to a child who will only have occasion to wear it during games of dress-up…” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Most inadvisable, Your Highness.”

And, with that, the universe rights itself. Simms is back to regarding me with his typical air of pompous disapproval, and I’m back to being the reckless, ill-mannered heir he cannot abide.

Staring out the window, I smile to myself as we speed toward Waterford Palace, my mind occupied by happy thoughts of the poor little girl who lives in my old neighborhood, playing make-believe princess with her mom in a ten-thousand-dollar tiara.