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Maisie
What do you want me to say? You know the position I’m in.
Gia
Of course I do. But you can’t always be the priority, Maisie. Sometimes I get to be, too.
Maisie
You’re always my priority.
Gia
Am I? Because I’m really not so sure.
—Text message exchange between Her Royal Highness the Princess Mary and Lady Georgiana Greyville, 23 December 2023
MY HEART IS STILL POUNDING by the time the car pulls up to the sprawling four-story mansion at the heart of Sandringham Estate. Under most circumstances, I’d be cracking a dry joke about Maisie’s standard of living, or at the very least gawking at the warm brick-and-stone facade. But for now, it takes all I have to hide the tremble in my hands as I climb out of the Range Rover, grateful that my legs are still working.
“This is Sandringham House?” I say, trying to feign some semblance of normalcy even as my thoughts keep flashing back to the man in the teal scarf.
“Of course,” says Maisie, whose phone is dinging again, and she barely looks up as she exits the vehicle. “What did you expect, a hovel?”
“A house,” I say as I head for the double front doors, which stand open beneath an intricate stone awning. “I expected a house. Not—whatever this is.”
“We’re the royal family. We do not live in houses. Though I do hope Tibby packed your thermal underwear,” adds Maisie, her eyes still glued to her phone as she breezes past me and into the entrance hall. “You can see your breath in the bedrooms at night.”
Every detail of the foyer is exquisite, from the rich dark wood paneling to the polished marble floor and the festive garlands decorating the winding staircase, and despite the adrenaline still coursing through my system, I pause to drink it all in. It really is stunning, and I have absolutely no idea what Maisie’s been complaining about for the past week.
In the middle of the hall, a stout man waits for us beside a strange brass contraption, and he bows as we approach. “Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness, Miss Bright. Welcome to Sandringham House.”
“Thank you, Paul,” says Maisie with surprising warmth. “I don’t suppose you’ll take a bribe this year, will you? I have…” She digs through her purse and pulls out half a dozen candy bars. “A Dairy Milk, a Flake, a Double Decker, a Mars bar, a peppermint Aero…”
“Your Royal Highness is too kind,” says Paul with a hint of a smile. “But I fear that my honor remains unimpeachable.”
“I was afraid of that,” says Maisie with a sigh, and without explanation, she toes off her shoes, shoves her coat into my arms, and sits down on the odd apparatus. As I watch, baffled, Paul fiddles with a metal slide that almost looks like—
“Is that a scale?” I blurt, and as soon as I say it, I’m sure I’m right. Maisie rolls her eyes, but Paul glances at me with patient amusement.
“Indeed,” he says as he nudges a few of the markers over. “The tradition of the weigh-in dates back over a century, to Edward VII, who believed that weight gain meant his guests had enjoyed themselves. Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he adds, and Maisie hops off. “Miss Bright, if you would.”
I blink, horrified. “Wait—I’m supposed to do it, too?”
“If I have to, then you certainly do,” says Maisie as she steps back into her shoes.
While Paul records her weight in a heavy leather-bound book, a maid appears at my side, and she takes Maisie’s coat from my arms and waits for mine. I hesitate, but this isn’t the only odd royal tradition I’ve come up against since joining the family, and I doubt it’ll be the last.
Maisie disappears, her heels clicking on the marble floor as Paul carefully measures my weight. I consider asking what it is, but after months of having the media scrutinize everything about me, including my dress size and the circumference of my arms, I decide I don’t want to know. As soon as he gives me the all clear, I jump down and shove my feet back in my Doc Martens, twisting around to figure out where Maisie went.
“Did you see—” I begin, but before I can finish my question, the front doors fly open, revealing an older woman with long silver hair, a fur coat, and a small brown-and-white spaniel trotting at her heels. I’ve only met her once, but I could pick her out of a crowd of thousands.
Queen Constance, Alexander’s mother—and my grandmother.
For what feels like the longest moment of an already infinite day, she and I stand fifteen feet apart, staring at each other like opponents about to fight to the death. Or at least that’s how she’s staring at me. I’m mostly just trying to stop myself from biting the inside of my cheek so hard that I draw blood.
I haven’t seen her—and have barely heard a word about her—since she retreated to Balmoral, the royal family’s Scottish castle, the day after I arrived in England. For the first time in fifty years, she missed Trooping the Colour and other summer traditions so she could protest my invitation into the family. Never mind that I’m her flesh and blood, or that I’m as much her grandchild as Maisie is. Constance hates me so completely that I’m positive she would rather live the rest of her life as a commoner than say a single decent word to me.
Sure enough, as soon as the maid takes her coat, Constance walks past me as if I’m not even there, pausing only for the absolute minimum amount of time it takes Paul to weigh her. “Is Her Royal Highness here?” she says in a clipped voice.
