Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

“That isn’t very princess-like.”

I turned at the voice. All the servants had gathered, and one of them—Andrew held his—phone up.

They’d taken a photo of me slapping Ellie.

The color drained from my face into a soggy wet piece of bread in my gut.

“I wonder what all your fans would think if they knew who you really were.”

“You’re not supposed to have your phone with you,” I said weakly.

“You’re not supposed to fuck Grayson,” Ellie said.

I looked at them all, those I’d considered family.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Don’t you see you’re enabling it? When you treat me like garbage, you give them the right to treat us all like garbage.”

There was a pause. A breeze kicked up the strewn leaves. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d gotten through to them.

“If you continue to stay here, it will get worse for you, Cinderella,” Ellie said.

I wiped the snot from my nose. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

I walked past them as they snickered.

Inside the hall I could smell everything. Feel everything. Someone had made spaghetti, and grief made me hate the smell, made me want to vomit.

“Excuse me, are you Miss Story Hale?”

I paused at my name, turning to find an older man in a dark suit. I didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t have the haughty air of someone in the Crowne world.

“Who are you?” I was wary of anyone now, certain they wanted to do something to me.

“I’m Woodson Hale’s executor. An estate of his size is going to take a few months to get in order, but he asked me to give you this.”

“His size…” I repeated, taking the book. As far as I knew, Uncle had nothing.

“Are you living here?”

“I don’t really know where I’m living,” I admitted.

I kept looking at the book. It was a collection of all the poems we’d read together, from Dickinson to Whitman to Poe and Byron. His note read, Would you give a dying man a wish, Story? Write one poem a day for me and share it with the world. Missing me one place? Uncle Woodson.

“He knew?”

“When you do, please call me.”

He handed me a card, which I numbly shoved into my pocket. Distantly I heard him walk away, but I couldn’t breathe. All the air sucked out of me like I’d fallen on a steel bar.

“He knew I wasn’t going to make it back in time. He knew and he still didn’t…” I couldn’t get it out. My uncle knew I wouldn’t make it back in time, and he still didn’t leave this fucking place. He didn’t come with me when I offered.

He chose to die here alone.

I finally vomited all over one of Tansy’s boutique white rose arrangements. I dry heaved, the noxious smell of vomit and rose mixing. I held on to the wall for dear life.

Were we all ghosts here?

Tied to this awful, horrible castle?