“Okay, look,” Ellie says, moving aside the heavy crimson curtain and pointing out the window towards the balcony. “Do you see that potted plant in the corner, there? If you have to hurl, Sarah, do it there. Then, Liv will block you with her amazing, ever-expanding stomach—and no one will notice.”
“Or, most likely,” Olivia lifts the hem of her long, flowy polka-dotted skirt and moves closer to Ellie and Sarah, “I’ll be throwing up right along with you. Whoever called it morning sickness didn’t know their ass from their elbow because it ravages me all day long. They’ll probably call us the Puking Princesses in the press . . . but it’s got a catchy ring to it, so it could be worse.”
Sarah laughs along with them, looking less like the color of a dead oyster.
The Queen breezes into the room, wearing a beige skirt and matching jacket with a large ruby broach on the lapel. Her tall, blond personal secretary, Christopher, is behind her, clipboard in hand. And everything stops. The men in the room, myself included, bow and the ladies curtsy, as is required on the first occasion of the day when one encounters Her Majesty.
Ellie bends her knees and sinks down gracefully, lowering her head. Good girl. It upset her that she’d mucked up her first impression with Her Majesty at Nicholas and Olivia’s wedding. Some of the staff still talk about it—the legend of the tiny blonde who tackled the Queen.
“Are we ready?” the Queen asks no one in particular.
Henry steps forward. “Your Majesty, Sarah is—”
“Going to try her best,” Sarah finishes for him.
Henry gives her a questioning look, but Lady Sarah nods reassuringly. “I want to try. It will be all right.”
“Of course it will be all right,” the Queen agrees, as if by declaring it, circumstances wouldn’t dare to contradict her. “There’s no need to worry—no one will be looking at you. It will be as if the rest of us aren’t even there. They’ll all be examining Olivia’s bump.”
“The public interest is ferocious,” Christopher explains. “There are office pools around the city, wagering how much weight Duchess Olivia has put on each week.”
Olivia looks down at her growing belly. “Great.”
“Pay no attention to that, my dear.” The Queen moves in front of her, smiling with approval. “You look wonderful. Very healthy. I’m thrilled for you.” She smiles at Nicholas too. “Both of you.”
“Thank you, Queen Lenora.” Olivia takes her husband’s hand. “We couldn’t be happier.”
“Although,” the Queen goes on, “your due date is terribly close to Henry and Sarah’s wedding day. It’s important to spread these events out, you know. To maximize the positive coverage.”
Olivia rubs her stomach. “I’ll do my best.”
The Queen pats her forearm. “I know you will.”
“And in the future,” Nicholas adds, “we’ll be sure to keep the marital relations on a schedule more to Your Majesty’s liking.”
He’s being sarcastic. But either Queen Lenora doesn’t pick up on it or she’s giving it right back to him. Peas in a fucking pod, those two.
“That would be appreciated.” She nods. “Now, shall we?”
The Queen takes a few steps towards the balcony, stops and turns around—noticing Ellie for the first time. One thin eyebrow rises as Her Majesty walks a circle around the lass, checking her out from all angles.
Ellie lifts her head. “I’m Ellie Hammond, Your Majesty. It’s an honor to meet you again.”
“Yes, I remember you. You’re all grown up, aren’t you? Very lovely.”
“Thank you. Yes, I just graduated college—with my BA in psychology.”
“How nice.” Queen Lenora thinks for a moment before looking towards the balcony, then back to Ellie. “You may stand on the balcony beside your sister to greet the crowd with us. You are a relation by marriage, which endows you with certain privileges. We should remind everyone of that.”
Nicholas’s brow furrows.
And Ellie’s eyes go wide. “Holy sh—”
But she catches herself.
“I mean . . . yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsies again.
Once the Queen turns her back, Ellie’s eyes flare and her jaw drops. She looks at me, giving me an excited two-thumbs-up, bouncing in her shoes.
I give her a smile and nod.
And then, they walk out onto the balcony. While I stay inside—watching—as Ellie takes her place alongside the royal family. Where she belongs.
The next day, Prince Nicholas and the Queen are in the drawing room, playing chess. I stand in the hallway, hands behind my back. The door is open just enough for me to hear their conversation, and while I don’t tend to pay attention to chatter, the mention of one particular girl has me acting like a gossipy old biddy—hanging on every word.
“What are your plans for Eleanor?” the Queen asks.
“Eleanor who?” Prince Nicholas asks absently.
“Olivia’s sister, of course.”
There’s a pause, and I picture him looking up from the board—with curious eyes.
“Her name’s not Eleanor.”
“No?” Her Majesty wonders. “Eloise? Elizabeth?”
“No. And no. Ellie is her full name. Just Ellie.”
As far as I’m concerned it’s perfect for her. A sweet, happy-sounding word. Made for whispering and worshiping.
The Queen does not agree.
“Hmm. How unfortunate.”
There’s a click of marble against wood, as one of them moves a piece on the board.
“In any case,” Queen Lenora says, “what are your plans for Ellie?”
Nicholas sighs. “I don’t have any. She’s taking a gap year; she’ll help Olivia when the babies arrive.”
“Two nurses have already been employed and the Palace is interviewing nannies as we speak. How much help does Olivia think she’ll need?”
It sounds like Nicholas takes a sip of something—the glass makes a chiming sound when it’s set back on the table.
“Olivia doesn’t want to hire any nannies.”
There’s a brief pause, and then one word comes from the Queen that says it all.
“Nicholas.”
“I know.”
“The nanny is a child’s first educator. The first level of instruction on who they are, their responsibilities, how they must conduct themselves.”
“I’m keenly aware of that fact.”
“Your children will be expected to attend public events at a young age. Running around like little heathens may be acceptable in America, but it certainly won’t do here.”
Nicholas laughs. “Let’s get them born first—and we can worry about their heathenism later.”
But the Queen is not amused. “You must speak with her, Nicholas.”
“Olivia and I will work it out,” the Prince replies firmly. “In our own time. You should focus more on the game in front of you. Check.”
There’s a weighted pause, accompanied by a quick sniff. “Back to . . . Ellie. There is a new mayor of Averdeen.”
Averdeen is in the south, the second-largest city in Wessco.
“George Fulton. He’s young, handsome, a mesmerizing speaker from what I’m told. He has a very bright future ahead of him. It would be helpful to have his support, to have him on our side in the years ahead. I was thinking of inviting him to the palace, for tea. And introducing him to Ellie.”
There’s a burning clench in my gut—tight and uncomfortable.
“It’s not the sixteenth century, Grandmother,” Nicholas replies dryly. “We don’t form political alliances through marriage anymore. Check.”
“Yes, thank you, Nicholas—I am aware of what year it is. You and your brother haven’t robbed me of all my wits. Yet.
“However, he’s a fine young man from what I understand,” the Queen continues. “Good family. Respectful. Successful. It wouldn’t hurt to introduce them.”
The mayor’s mansion in Averdeen is practically a palace—beautiful and regal. The kind of place Ellie belongs, with servants to wait on her, a veritable army to protect her and a well-spoken man who would adore her. How could any man not?