My brother is dead.

My brother is dead.

What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?

This can’t be happening.

Phillip stands there dumbly until I push past him, my head spinning, my thoughts wildly floundering around in my head, my pulse throbbing loudly in my ears.

My pulse.

I’m still alive and Marcus is not.

I deny to myself what he told me. Phillip is wrong. Someone must have given him bad information, wrong information.

I move blindly, numb with disbelief and confusion, through the hallway that leads from my rooms to Marcus’s. Marcus always had the rooms located closest to my father’s royal apartment because he was the crown prince. I envied him for having those rooms, even though they were not larger or decorated any more opulently than mine. We have similar tastes, both favoring a simpler style, so the furniture is modern and wall hangings are kept to a minimum.

We both favored a simpler style, I think to myself. If the news Phillip shared with me is right, then Marcus doesn’t favor anything anymore.

There are people milling about in the hallway outside Marcus’s rooms, standing with bowed heads, whispering to each other.

They must have gotten wrong information as well, or maybe they’ve heard instead that Marcus is sick, he is gravely ill, they have discovered cancer, perhaps. It’s bad news, yes, but it can’t be the news that Phillip gave me.

Yes, that must be it. Marcus is sick, or hurt, but not dead.

Phillip wouldn’t lie to me.

But I can’t believe him.

The people in the hallway turn to face me when they hear my footsteps approaching. Their eyes are filled with pity, filled with sorrow. It’s not me they should feel sorry for. They should be feeling sorry for Marcus, who may be facing a terrible disease. I should reassure them. I try to give them a weak smile, but the corners of my mouth feel weighted down.

“It’ll be all right,” I say to the eight or so people hovering in the hallway. I’m sure as word gets out about Marcus’s illness, there will be even more people standing vigil. People may even gather outside the palace gates to support Marcus.

When my mother died, we were not yet living in the palace. When my mother died, people did not come to the palace gates. They came to our front door and brought food, and I watched all the trays piling up on the countertops, watched bouquet after bouquet of flowers being delivered, and wondered why people sent food and flowers when food and flowers would never bring her back.

The citizens of Saintland might send food to the king in his time of need, but I doubt it would be allowed to our rooms. Security wouldn’t allow it—the testing alone would take far too much time.

There will be no need for food or flowers.

Marcus will get through this.

We will all get through this.

We will all put our petty differences aside and get through this.

I realize I haven’t moved since arriving in front of Marcus’s door. I’m standing in the same place in the hallway, hands hanging limply at my sides, when a woman approaches and puts her hand on my arm. Her face looks vaguely familiar. Perhaps she’s someone from my father’s staff, maybe, or someone who works in the palace? It’s a large household.

“Your highness,” she says, her voice low and tremulous, “we are all so very, very sorry to hear that—.”

“Oh, thank you,” I say, patting at her hand awkwardly. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll share your support with my brother. If you’ll excuse me—.” I incline my head toward the closed door leading to his rooms.

The woman—is it Shondra? Yes, that sounds right—steps back from me. She presses her lips together and looks at me, tears building up in the corners of her eyes. “Of course, your highness. Of course.”

Pulling the door open takes every ounce of my effort, but I need to get in his room, get through the door, so I can finally see the truth for myself.

The scene inside Marcus’s rooms causes my heart to sink right down to my toes.

In the living area, three doctors are huddled together, heads down, speaking to one another in soft voices. The slump of their shoulders tells me this is either bad news or the worst news imaginable. If there was hope, they would be rushing back and forth with a sense of purpose. Their voices would boldly ring through the rooms.

I can’t bring myself to look at them as I go past them to Marcus’s bedroom. As far as I know, they don’t notice me either.

My stomach clenches as I put my hand on the doorknob. When I open the door, I will know for sure if Phillip was telling the truth. If he was, nothing will ever be the same.

I turn the knob, and the door opens silently. It doesn’t so much as squeak on its hinges.

I look into the room, and I know.

My father sits next to Marcus’s bed, his shoulders heaving with sobs. It’s the only sound in the room.

All the breath goes out of me. I feel sick to my stomach. My legs feel like jelly.

My brother is lying in his bed, still wearing his pajamas from last night.

But he is still.

So still.

Deadly still.

He is gone.

I go to my father’s side.

He does not look at me.

I stare at Marcus’s cold, colorless, still face. I notice his closed eyes, the way his chest does not rise.

He is gone.

He is dead.

Phillip told me the truth. He did not have bad information.

All across Saintland, the news must be breaking. If it’s in the hallway, in the palace, then it’s also in the streets.

Jessica’s face floats into my mind. I want her to be with me, by my side, right now, even though I don’t know what this means for me, for us. I don’t know what this means at all. It means everything and it means nothing at all.

How can I be both numb and consumed with aching regret at the same time?

“Father,” I say, the word a throaty gasp. “I’m so sorry. I’m so—.”

He does not speak, only reaches out for my hand and grips it tight.