Majesty

“Talk to people.”

It sounded so simple, yet it wasn’t. There were so many people out there—in the world, yes, but also right here in this country—people who all wanted different things. Some thrived on uncertainty; some craved stability. Some lived on dreams and some were relentlessly practical. Some wanted the government to take charge of everything; others wanted the government to leave them alone.

Beatrice’s job—and now Sam’s, too—was to understand them all. Despite all those clashing desires and viewpoints and opinions, she had to find a way to work on behalf of all of them.

The prospect sparked a strange feeling in her, as if her bones were stretching and reshaping themselves; or maybe the world was stretching, tugging her outward like a rubber band.

The wind rustled through the trees in the courtyard. Sam imagined she could hear it whispering, urging her and Nina to go go go.

There were still so many things that she and her best friend needed to talk about. Sam longed to tell her everything—how she’d set off the emergency alarm, her moment of truce with Teddy, and the misunderstanding it had caused with Marshall. And she wanted to hear what had happened between Nina and Ethan.

“We’re overdue for an adventure,” she insisted, and saw her friend’s eyes sparkle at the word.

“You and me, traveling together, all summer,” Nina said slowly, a smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s madness.”

“Utter foolishness,” Sam agreed.

“There’s no way I’ll be able to keep you in line.”

“I’m sure you’ll regret it partway through.”

“Trust me, I’m already regretting it,” Nina said, grinning.

Sam let out an actual yelp of excitement. “Is that a yes? Are you coming with me?”

To her relief, Nina laughed. And then they were both laughing—a bright, mischievous, complicit laugh, the way they had laughed when they were children, and knew that they were up to no good.

“Yes, I’m coming,” Nina declared at last, wiping her eyes. “You’re right about one thing. You and I are overdue for an adventure.”



Daphne was in her bedroom when the town car pulled up outside. It was missing the American flags that usually fluttered near its headlights, but she recognized it as one of the royal fleet.

Jefferson had come to see her.

For some reason she didn’t move from her spot near the window. The heels of her stilettos seemed to have grown roots, twining down through the carpet and floorboards so that she would be planted here forever, like the tree nymph she’d been named for.

“Daphne!” Her mother flung open the door, and was across the room in a few brisk strides. “You need to get downstairs. The prince is here.”

Rebecca’s beautiful features were twisted—with hunger, Daphne realized, and ruthlessness. Her father followed in her mother’s steps. He cleared his throat, but when neither woman looked his way, he said nothing.

“What’s the matter with you?” Her mother’s bright green eyes narrowed. “You look terrible.”

“I’m just tired.”

Rebecca grabbed Daphne by the shoulders and steered her to her vanity, where her makeup brushes and pots of color were scattered, a great tapestry of illusion. She grabbed her daughter’s chin and tilted her face up, to darken her lashes with mascara, paint a deep red gloss on her lips. Daphne held herself utterly still. Her mother’s movements were as expert and as fast as those of any makeup artist, a legacy from her time as a runway model.

When she stepped back, Rebecca looked at her daughter with cool appraisal. “Better,” she said gruffly.

Daphne’s eyes lifted to the mirror. There she was, as deadly beautiful as ever, her hair licking down her back like red-gold flame. The sight of her reflection should have steadied her, but for once, it didn’t.

When she got downstairs, she found the prince loitering in the entrance hall. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured; royalty never waited for anyone.

“Daphne! I’m so glad you’re here,” he replied, following her into the living room. Out of habit, she sank onto the sofa, and he settled down next to her. She felt oddly hollow, as if her insides had been scraped clean by the flat of a blade, and now all that remained of her was a beautiful, empty shell.

Not that Jefferson could tell the difference. He only saw the shell—because it was all that Daphne had ever shown him.

For a while they chatted about the wedding and the security scare. Daphne could hardly follow, but somehow she kept nodding at the appropriate times and murmuring vague responses.

“I’m really glad you were my date today, even if the wedding didn’t actually happen,” Jefferson was saying, and she snapped back to attention. “I know you wanted to go as friends. That you didn’t want to date again unless we were serious. And…I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Daphne’s mouth, which her mother had so helpfully lip-glossed for her, fell open in surprise. She quickly shut it. Outside the doors to the hallway, she heard a muffled footstep, a hiss of excitement. Her parents clearly felt entitled to listen in on this conversation. After all, it was the moment of their family’s great triumph.

“You have?” she managed.

Jefferson flashed her his brilliant, princely smile. “You’re amazing, Daphne. You’re so good to me, and to everyone I care about. I know it wasn’t that serious between us before—I mean, I wasn’t that serious,” he amended clumsily. “I was young and stupid. I took everything for granted, especially you. But after everything that’s happened, I know better. I’m ready now,” he added. “This time, I’ll be serious about us.”

Daphne didn’t understand why her throat had gone sandpaper dry. But Jefferson didn’t seem to notice—because he was busy slipping off the gold signet ring he always wore on his pinkie finger.

It was small, much smaller than the massive Great Seal ring worn by his father, and now by Queen Beatrice. This was a family signet, its flat round bezel marked with the Washingtons’ coat of arms: a script W below a row of stars. The only other man entitled to wear one was Jefferson’s uncle Richard.

The walls seemed to shrink in on her. No matter how hard she sucked air into her lungs, Daphne felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Jefferson started to reach for her hand, then paused, as if realizing he should ask her permission. “I love you, Daphne,” he told her, and she knew that in that moment that he meant it—really meant it, so much more than all the times he’d said it back when they’d dated in high school. “I was…I hoped…Would you wear this?”

She felt herself teetering on the edge of some great precipice, as if she had finally scaled the top of a peak she’d been climbing her whole life. And now that she was finally cresting the top, she wasn’t even sure why she was here.

Once she stepped out into the world wearing that ring, everyone would know that she and Jefferson were back together—more than that, even. That they were sworn to each other, that they had reached an understanding. A signet ring wasn’t an engagement ring, yet that script W unquestionably marked her as one of the Washingtons.

The moment the paparazzi snapped a photo of Daphne in that ring, her entire world would change.

People would start taking bets on everything from their engagement to future baby names. Porcelain companies would surreptitiously begin their designs, in hopes of being granted the commission for her commemorative wedding china. Daphne would become the center of a whirlwind of breathless speculation.

And someday when she and Jefferson were married, she would soar to the top of the social hierarchy, and become the third-highest-ranking woman in the realm. Everyone would be obligated to curtsy to her. Except, of course, for Samantha and Beatrice.

It was everything she had struggled for all these years—her greatest moment of triumph. Yet Daphne’s lungs had frozen. She didn’t know how to say yes. To accept the ring, and everything that came with it.

As if she were a marionette being pulled by a string, she lifted her right hand. It trembled only slightly.

Daphne sat absolutely still, powerless to move, as Jefferson slid the signet over her ring finger. It slipped easily over her knuckle to settle at the base of her finger. The ring still felt warm from the heat of his skin.

“Thank you,” she managed, though it came out almost a whisper. “I didn’t…I wasn’t expecting this.”

Jefferson laced their fingers and squeezed her hand. “I love you, Daphne,” he said again. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out—and for everything I put you through—but I promise that things will be different this time. We have each other, and that’s what matters more than anything.”

We have each other. Jefferson no longer had anyone else, because Daphne had taken them all from him—had torn his best friend from him in a fit of spite.