Majesty

He hadn’t kissed her since the night of the party. His grandfather had probably given him the same mandate that Robert had told her: to keep things chaste from now on. So why did Sam keep fixating on it?

Sam strode behind the basket to grab the ball, her eyes meeting Marshall’s. “Looks like you missed that one,” she observed, and began dribbling between her legs.

His glance strayed to her mouth, and he smiled. “I had a pretty girl distracting me.”

Sam rolled her eyes and tossed the ball to Jeff, who took it back to the free-throw line. “Hey,” Marshall cried out in protest, “if you’re going to join mid-game, then you’re on my team!”

“I can’t go against my twin. It violates the laws of nature,” Sam said brightly as Jeff threw a perfect three-pointer. He ran over to give her a high five.

A ringtone sounded from the stone bench where the boys had thrown their stuff. “Sorry, can we take a break?” Marshall asked, jogging over. He picked up the phone and tucked it into his shoulder.

“Hey,” he answered, in a low, tender voice. Sam strained her ears, trying to catch the rest of the conversation. Was he talking to Kelsey? Marshall hadn’t mentioned her since the morning after the twins’ party. But—wasn’t he going to see her, when he and Sam went to Orange for Accession Day later this month?

Sam tried to smile as if nothing was wrong. “I didn’t know you and Marshall were hanging out today,” she told her brother, and he nodded.

“I guess I should have told you. I asked Davis if he wanted to come by, since…” Since I’m not talking to Ethan right now, he didn’t need to add.

Sam felt partially responsible for all this mess. Hadn’t she encouraged Nina to go for it, then kept the truth from Jeff? And now her brother was hurting.

She remembered how excited she’d felt, back when she’d first learned that Nina and Jeff were dating. Her two favorite people in the world, ending up together—it seemed perfect. She hadn’t realized that when they broke up, she would be left in the middle, forced to keep their secrets from each other.

“Besides,” Jeff teased, “I needed to decide if I give you and Davis my blessing.”

“Your blessing?”

“You can’t date anyone I don’t like. As your twin, I have final veto power.”

A month ago Sam would have snorted and said something like you certainly ignored my veto when it came to Daphne. But now that she’d seen a more vulnerable side of Jeff’s ex, had asked for her help, the comment felt a little petty.

Jeff picked the basketball up off the ground and spun it idly on one finger. “It’s cool, though. I approve of Davis. He’s funny, and he seems really into you.”

No, he isn’t. He’s just using me to make his ex-girlfriend jealous—the way I’m supposedly using him, Sam thought dully.

Except…she wasn’t really dating Marshall to hurt Teddy anymore, and she didn’t know when that had changed.

“We’re not that serious,” she mumbled, and her brother laughed.

“Nope. You like him; I see it on your face.” Jeff’s eyes danced. “Please, can you not scare him off the way you usually do? I like having him around.”

Of course, Sam thought. Of all the guys she’d been involved with through the years, her brother approved of the one who wasn’t actually hers. The one she didn’t get to keep.

* * *



Later that evening, Sam wandered down the palace hallway. She felt the telltale flush of sunburn on her shoulders; she’d stayed outside with the boys all afternoon, playing basketball and then sitting out on the lawn, soaking in the sunshine.

She knew she should be grateful that Marshall was making this whole charade so easy on her. So why did she feel a hollow ache pressing down on her sternum?

When she noticed the light creeping from beneath the door to the monarch’s study, she came to an uncertain halt. Beatrice must be in there, working late.

Sam realized, suddenly, that she was tired of being angry with her sister.

For so long she’d held tight to that anger, lifted it before her like a shield, and now she was exhausted. She wanted to lay down her weapons and actually talk to Beatrice, for once.

“Bee?” Sam gave a soft knock. When no one answered, she pushed the door cautiously open, but the office was empty.

And it had changed. Sam could still see traces of her father—in the antique globe, the heavy stone bookends carved like giant chess pieces—yet this was unmistakably Beatrice’s space now.

She walked slowly around the desk, running her hands over its polished wooden surface, then plopped down in Beatrice’s chair, bracing her sneakers on the floor and wheeling herself idly forward and back. So, she thought, with something that might have been jealousy or might have been loneliness, this is what it feels like to be queen.

Curious, she pulled out the top drawer of the desk, revealing Beatrice’s personal stationery and a neat row of pens. The next few drawers contained stacks of manila folders, a package of dog treats, a series of notes from Robert.

When she was younger, Sam was always sneaking into Beatrice’s room: rifling through her drawers, trying on her dresses, rubbing her arms with Beatrice’s scented lotion. At the time, Sam hadn’t understood that impulse. But she knew now that when she was sifting through Beatrice’s things, she’d been trying to understand her sister, and all the differences between them.

Sam leaned farther down, remembering the hidden drawer built into the bottom of the desk. She wondered if Beatrice kept it full of lemon candies, the way their dad had. She found the latch and pressed it, releasing the drawer—only to frown in confusion.

Inside lay a heavy ecru envelope, printed with the swirling handwriting of the palace calligrapher. It was addressed to Mr. Connor Dean Markham and marked with a scrolling WP on the top right corner, where a stamp would normally go. One of the privileges of being the monarch, of course, was that you were exempt from paying postal fees.

Connor Markham—wasn’t he Beatrice’s former Guard, the one who’d been with her at Harvard? Why hadn’t his invitation gone out with the rest of them?

There was something else in the drawer, Sam realized: a thin box secured with an ivory ribbon. It looked like an engagement present.

She couldn’t help untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.

Inside lay an ink drawing, of snow-covered mountains seen through the frame of a window. On the far edge of the sketch was a fireplace, and next to it, a small figure that could only be Sam’s sister.

They’re in love, Sam realized, stunned.

Beatrice was fully clothed in the sketch; there was nothing erotic or overtly sexual about it. But Connor’s feelings for her were visible in every sweeping line of ink. There was an indefinable bloom to her, as if she had some private secret you could only guess at.

Sam studied the image a little longer, her eyes lingering on the sparks popping from the fire, on the jagged line of the mountains, veiled by a luscious blanket of snow. It struck her that this wasn’t an imagined scene. This had really happened. It was a sketch of that night in December, right before New Year’s, when Beatrice and her Guard had been stranded on their way to Telluride.

It all made sense now, the various pieces of the puzzle crashing together. Sam’s mind flashed back to the night Beatrice had told her she was calling off the engagement. You’re seeing someone else, Sam had guessed.

Beatrice had admitted that she loved a commoner, and that he was there that night, at the engagement party. Sam had always assumed she was talking about one of the guests, but Beatrice had clearly meant her Revere Guard.

She scoured her memory, trying to recall when Connor had resigned. It was right after they’d come back from Sulgrave—when Beatrice and Teddy had set a wedding date.

Loving Beatrice like this, Connor must have decided he would rather quit than watch her marry someone else.

Sam’s hands tightened around the paper. She wanted to run to her sister, grab her by the shoulders, and shake some sense into her. You don’t have to go through with this! she would scream. You don’t have to marry someone you don’t love, just because Dad said you should.

But Sam knew she’d forfeited any right to give Beatrice romantic advice.

This gulf between them was her fault. Every time Beatrice had tried to apologize, Sam had turned her away. And for what, Teddy? Her own obstinate pride? None of it was worth losing a sister over.

Sam put the sketch back in the box and retied the ribbon, much sloppier than it had been before. Yet, for some reason, she didn’t let go of the invitation. She kept staring at it, tracing the loops of Connor’s name with her fingertips.

Before she’d fully acknowledged her decision to herself, Sam had turned out into the hallway and dropped the invitation into a gleaming brass receptacle marked OUTGOING MAIL.