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After yesterday, seeing Prince Silas in person, I wonder if I’ll be able to be as critical of the royal family as I was before. He seemed so…real. He wasn’t just a symbol of everything I hate about our system. He wasn’t a symbol of oppression.
He was a man.
I…I liked him. I felt something with him. I wanted to get closer to him without even knowing who he was. I felt like that seventeen-year-old girl again, giggly and blushing for a man who could take whatever he wanted from me.
“Silas asked me to kiss him last night,” I say.
“Um, what.” Rhea’s eyes widen as she stares me down, demanding an explanation.
I shrug. “I said no, but I wanted to.” Forcing my lips into a smile, I shake my head. “Guess I haven’t learned my lesson after all.”
“Well, Prince Wolfe is married with a kid, so I think you’ll be safe,” Rhea says, but it’s far from comforting.
If I’m so weak as to want a man who’s literal royalty, how can I pretend to be an abolitionist? How can I write damning articles when I wanted him? I liked the way he looked at me, touched me, spoke to me. His very essence of royalty, the ease he had—I wanted that. I fell for it.
What kind of revolutionary does that make me? How am I supposed to push for the end of the monarchy when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way I felt last night, in those moments before I knew who was helping me hunt through those reeds?
Everything I’ve been telling myself about my convictions, my opinions, my worth—how does that stand up when today, standing on the ridge with a cold wind piercing my clothes, I still feel the warmth of Prince Silas's touch?
Rhea and I stop by her place so she can get changed for work, then head to the nursing home together. My best friend is wearing pale blue scrubs, her hair damp from a shower. She parks in the staff parking lot and exits the car, stretching her back.
“I’m going to be sore from that hike for days,” she complains.
I grin. “It was your idea.”
Rhea laughs, slinging a purse over her shoulder. We head inside, and I walk toward reception while Rhea veers off toward the staff room.
“Hi, Heather.” I smile at the receptionist, an older woman with a round, friendly face. Her body is round, too, and everything about her is soft and friendly and warm.
“Jazz,” she says as if she’s been waiting for me all day. “Good to see you. She’s in the games room.”
Nodding, I walk through the sliding glass doors and make my way down the pastel pink hallway. I walk by crooked frames full of floral paintings and find my mother in the games room, her wheelchair facing the big windows overlooking the field. In the distance, mountain peaks pierce through the clouds.
Dropping a kiss on my mother’s cheek, I drag a chair beside her. “Hi, Mom.”
“Jazzy,” she smiles, reaching a trembling hand toward me.
I catch it in both of mine and put it on my lap, letting out a long sigh. “Rhea and I went up to the Treo ridge this morning.” I pull out my phone and show her a picture of the candle and flowers. “For Dad.”
My mother gives me a sad smile. “I wish I could have gone up there with you.”
“Me too.” My throat is tight, and I have to look away from my mother’s face. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, and she looks exhausted.
Watching her deteriorate over the past few years has been… I don’t even know how to put it into words. Devastating isn’t right. It’s deeper than devastation. It’s like grief, but without any closure. When she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I knew things would get difficult, but Dad was always there. Then, three years ago, Dad died, and Mom…
Things have been getting worse. Her treatment and medication don’t seem to be working so well anymore, and she’s had to start using a wheelchair all the time. Over the past few months, I’ve noticed she forgets a lot, she’s confused. I know dementia is common with people with Parkinson’s, but I haven’t been able to think of that. Not now. I’m not ready to face whatever comes next.
I clear my throat. “I leave on Thursday.”
My mother frowns. “For what, honey?”
I try to ignore the stab of pain in my heart. “For the royal tour, remember? I’m one of the journalists who will be accompanying Prince Wolfe.”
“Congratulations, Jazz.” My mother gives my hand a weak squeeze. “I always knew you’d do something big. And to be so close to a prince! You’ll love that. When you were a little girl, you used to ask me if you’d ever be a princess.” She laughs, eyes soft and hazy.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not that little girl anymore. I don’t want to be a princess. I don’t even want princesses to exist.
Rhea appears behind me, greeting my mother as she tucks the blanket over her legs. Rhea the nurse is very different from Rhea the sex-pot Queen of Hearts, but I love all versions of her. I especially love how much she cares for my mother. I don’t think I’d be able to leave for three months without knowing there was someone here who I trust.
