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Mr. Cochrane is an older gentleman standing about five feet, four inches tall. His shoulders are rounded and a pair of glasses perches precariously close to the end of his nose, a thick mass of white hair piled high on his head. He glances up from the velvet-covered workstation in front of him and lets his lips slide into an easy smile. “Highness,” he says, sliding his glasses off to slip them into his front pocket. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
He nods to another worker, who silently moves to the front door and turns the lock. Another perk of being a royal—private shopping sprees.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I peer into the display cabinets full of twinkling jewels and finely crafted pieces. Mr. Cochrane is the best jeweler in Nord, but I don’t need something extravagant. I glance up at the old man, who stands behind the display cabinets staring at me patiently.
“I’m looking for something simple today,” I say, then describe what I need. Mr. Cochrane nods once, then gives me seven options to choose from. I pick one, pay, and give him the delivery details.
I can’t quite keep the smile off my face as I make my way back to my car. I take the long way back to the castle, driving through the streets of Stirling and doing a long loop through the countryside. The snow has stopped falling now, and it feels like Nord is endless.
I love my country. I love the vastness of it, the wilderness. The feeling of being so small and insignificant when winter rages around, then the explosion of life in the spring. I love every bit of it, and it frustrates me that Penelope doesn’t see that. That no one sees that.
Just because I can’t stand up in front of a group of people and read from a sheet or sit through boring meetings while I go cross-eyed doesn’t mean I’m not patriotic. I know I’m a prince and I have responsibilities, but I wish my sister understood my limitations, too.
There was a time when my photography was praised. That felt like an honor—to be able to capture Nord the way I see my country. I even had an exhibition when I was in my early twenties, with proceeds donated to charity. That day, when a room full of people clapped for me and guests lined up to shake my hand, I felt like I actually had something to offer to the world. To my country. But as Penelope loves to remind me, I’m a prince, not a photographer. I have to exist on the other side of the lens.
Driving the car up Treo Mountain, I make it to a lookout on the ridge. From here, I can see the capital city laid out at my feet, and the vast expanse of northern wilderness beyond. As my feet crunch on dry leaves, I see a patch of bright color on the ground. Flowers.
My camera is in my hand in an instant. I snap a couple pictures of the bouquet against the dead ground, angling the camera so the spires of the castle pierce through the background of the picture. Life and Death.
The ridge is quiet and cold. Lonely. A breeze ruffles the bright petals of the flowers, and I feel an odd sort of solidarity with them. They’re not where they belong, either.
As I trudge back to the car and make my way back toward the castle, a heaviness settles deep in my bones. I feel entirely alone. At the castle, I’m not good enough to be a prince. In the real world, I’m too royal to be regular. I suppose that’s why I didn’t want to tell Jacinthe my name. I didn’t want that moment to end, when we were just two people who understood each other in the dark of the night.
But as I pull through the castle gates and watch the guards bow to me, my lips settle into a grim line.
I’m not a regular person. Penelope’s right—I’m a prince. And someone like Jacinthe? Self-made, opinionated, educated?
She’d never be interested in me.
Frederick, Penelope’s personal secretary, finds me halfway to my chambers. He clears his throat, his impressive mustache wiggling slightly as he steps into my path. “Her Majesty the Queen will see you in her office,” he says with a curt bow.
Sighing, I know better than to protest. I nod and follow him through the ornate hallways of our home toward my sister’s office. Maybe she wants to apologize. Maybe she remembered how much I struggle with normal royal duties, and she’s ready to accommodate me, let me serve the kingdom in a different way. Maybe, finally, she’ll be on my side.
But when I enter her office, the set of her jaw makes me pause. She’s standing by the window, staring out at the city sprawled at our feet. When she turns to meet my gaze, I know I’m not going to like what she’s about to say.
My sister has always been cold. She’s been wearing the crown since she was ten years old, and it shaped her into a tough, unbreakable woman. Sure, since she’s been with Asher she’s softened somewhat—especially with her child—but standing in front of me isn’t the wife and mother with the warm smile. This woman is one hundred percent monarch.
As the sunlight makes her blonde hair gleam and she stares at me looking regal and vicious, my heart sinks. She’s not going to accommodate me. She’s not going to tell me she understands how difficult it is for me to read and speak and feel like I belong here. She’s not going to hand me a camera and tell me to do what I love.
Gritting my teeth, I incline my head. “I’m assuming this is important, since you had Frederick ambush me in the hallway to bring me here.”
“Silas,” she starts, voice clipped. My sister clasps her hands in front of her stomach. “I’ve spoken to Wolfe. He’s going to stay in Nord, and you’ll take his place on the royal tour. You leave Thursday.” Eyes of crushed ice stare at me, challenging. Waiting for me to protest.
I hear her words, but I don’t understand them. They percolate through my consciousness slowly, slowly. Every word drops through my body like a stone, until I finally understand what she’s just said.
The royal tour—me, on tour.
Three months of speeches, of delegates, of delicate political maneuvers and countless reports. Three months. I can’t even make it through a single speech without stumbling over my words. It takes me ages to read through a report—and she wants me to do it every single day? For months?
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Pen, you know I struggle with all that. I’m…”
“This isn’t up for discussion. If you want to continue living on the royal salary, living the life of a prince, you need to take your responsibilities seriously. We’ve given you a long leash for many, many years, Silas.” Her lips purse, eyes sharp. “So, no women, no partying, no drinking. I know you struggle with speeches, Silas, but you’ve had specialists and tutors your whole life. I’ve watched you toss them all aside and use alcohol as a crutch instead. I’ve seen you laugh in the face of all the help we’ve offered you, choosing to make a mockery of your title. I’ve tried to help you, Silas. We all have. This morning was the last straw. You will represent Nord to the world. You have our country’s reputation on your shoulders.” She presses a button on her desk, and the door opens behind me. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Frederick gives me a bow, even more curt than the first, and gestures toward the open door. I’m dismissed…
…and I’m about to spend the next three months in my own personal version of hell.
6
