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Ada
My gown flows like liquid silver over my skin. Glancing up at my sisters as I enter the living room, I spread my palms. “What do you think?” Giving them an awkward smile, I run my fingers over the silky fabric.
“When did you get so pretty?” my younger sister Kiera asks. She pushes her thick-rimmed glasses further up her nose, her other hand still poised over the laptop on her thighs. “Even when you dress up for your piano performances, you never look this good.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I grin, rolling my eyes.
“You look gorgeous, Ada,” Maggie says. My older sister’s eyes are soft, and her dark hair is pulled back in a smooth, sleek ponytail at the nape of her neck. Even with a gray air cast strapped all the way up to her mid-calf and her broken ankle propped up on the couch in front of her, she still manages to look put together. With a cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders and a simple string of pearls around her neck, she is every bit a duchess.
She should be the one wearing this gown, not me.
“I wish you hadn’t broken your ankle.” I sigh. “You’ve never had an accident dancing before.”
My sister, gracefully reclined on the chaise, gives me a soft smile. Only slight tension around her eyes betrays how much her injury bothers her. “I’ll be dancing again in no time. The Farcliff Ballet Company has assured me they’ll support my recovery for as long as it takes. Plus, it’s been years since you’ve attended a royal event. It’s your turn.”
“My turn to endure the drudgery?” I pop an eyebrow.
Maggie’s smile tugs, her noble façade shimmering for a moment. “Your turn to enjoy yourself,” she corrects.
I nod, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I bite my lip, only remembering after a moment that it’s painted bright red, and I’ve probably smeared my lipstick all over my teeth.
A graceful duchess I am not.
Reading my body language, Maggie smiles. “You’ll be great, Ada. You have every right to be at the castle in my place, and you’ll make a wonderful impression on the King and Queen.”
“Will I, though? I do have that whole foot-in-mouth syndrome, where I blurt out the wrong thing at the worst possible time.”
Maggie grins, shaking her head. “It’s all in your head. Everyone loves you. Say hello to Count Gregory for me.”
My lips turn down. “Are you sure you still want to marry him?” I ask. “He’s twice your age.”
“It’s a good match,” Maggie answers. She glances at Kiera, whose nose is firmly pressed against her computer screen.
Maggie’s upcoming betrothal to Count Gregory is a good match because it will elevate our family’s standing. Count Gregory is well-connected, especially with universities and colleges in the Kingdom. He’s a benefactor to a number of research institutions and has the ear of most deans and university directors on the continent.
So, if Maggie marries Count Gregory, it will give Kiera the opportunity to attend the best university in Farcliff Kingdom at the tender age of fifteen. Our little sister is a bona fide genius, and she deserves the best.
It’s just that our family’s position has slipped somewhat in the past couple of decades, and the best isn’t exactly available to her without this marriage.
My grandfather made some bad business decisions, and my parents care more about art than they do about money. Simply put, we don’t have the cash to put her through university. Doing so would require selling the Belcourt Estate, which would strip us of our titles and standing.
Maggie marrying Count Gregory would solve a lot of issues. But—ugh. He’s old. Judging by the pictures I’ve seen, he wouldn’t be Maggie’s first choice for a husband. He wouldn’t even be my last choice. Wouldn’t make the list.
We’re the type of royals who, if we happen to end up in a tabloid or magazine, need an explanation following our names. Not exactly A-list celebrities, but enough royal blood to make us noteworthy on a slow news day.
My grandfather was the former King’s younger brother. Grandpa had seven children, the youngest of which is my father. So I suppose the current King is my second cousin. Or is it first cousin once removed? I don’t know. The family tree is sprawling, and the reigning monarch and I are on opposite sides. I’m currently one hundred and twelfth in the line of succession, after Maggie.
I don’t get recognized in the street, is what I’m saying, but I do get called Lady Belcourt when I go to official events. Which is rarely, by the way.
We’re the type of royals who need to work—albeit we have bourgeois, aristocratic jobs. My parents run an art gallery in Farcliff City, Maggie is a ballet dancer, and I’m a concert pianist. We’re not plastering walls for a living, but we aren’t spending all our time doing charity, either. In the pecking order of royals, the Belcourts are solidly on the bottom rung.
I’m not holding my breath as I wait for my chance to sit on the throne. I’ve successfully avoided royal responsibilities.
Until now.
As I try to stuff down the fluttering nerves in my belly, I turn to see my mother and father walking through the living room doorway. My mother is in her finest gown, a simple, elegant black taffeta dress. My father, in his crisp tuxedo, rubs his hand over his freshly-shaven face. His hair, now entirely gray, is combed back in a sleek yet effortless style.
