Page 1 of Scarred Crown

Julia

I stare at the king of Bellerive for a beat longer than I should, my mouth slightly agape. I must have misheard him. Embarrassing, actually, since my job as his personal secretary means I’m supposed to not only hear every single word, but act on his directives.

I close my mouth and school my features to hide my surprise. He’s thrown unexpected requests at me before, and I’ve handled them with barely a raised eyebrow. My mother taught me well.

“I don’t think I heard you properly.” I’m praying the words that left his lips were a mistake, though they rarely are. He’s a careful speaker, unlike two of his three sons. Lately, he has made a few mistakes, and I’m clinging on to the hope this might be one too.

I sit up straighter in the heavy wood and leather chair. The king sits across from me behind his massive oak desk that is older than him and me combined. His office has reminders scattered in every nook and cranny of the kings and queens who came before him. Knickknacks, signed photos, plaques, ceremonial swords, and other odds speak to his family’s history.

“I need you to track down Nicholas and bring him home.”

“Right.” I scribble a note in the planner on my skirt-clad lap. As long as someone else is doing the task, I can handle this wayward son. “Find someone to bring Nicholas home.”

“Not someone,” he clarifies in his deep, booming voice. A voice that is both commanding and soothing, the kind meant for audiobooks on war and strategy. A second career, perhaps? As if he’s not busy enough running the country of Bellerive. “You, Julia.”

“Me?” I manage to squeak out, and my stomach drops. My to-do list isn’t meant for trips to bring home his children, especially not Prince Nicholas.

“You’ve known each other since you were children. You grew up together. He’ll listen to you.”

He will not listen to me, but his father lost track of our relationship at some point. He still thinks Nicholas and I are the best of friends. To be fair, we spent almost every waking hour together until we were sixteen.

Every year for the last fourteen, we’ve grown further apart, and except for that first year, I haven’t minded a bit.

“You know, I’m not sure he will.” I doodle in the margins of today’s date. “We’re not that close anymore. Maybe send Prince Alexander?”

“I need Alexander here. I may not have much time left.”

His comment snaps me into focus and away from my musings on his middle son. “What does that mean?” I must be misinterpreting his comment. “You’re not stepping down from the throne, are you?”

He wouldn’t step down prematurely, would he? A frown creases my forehead. A coronation is no small thing to plan. He can’t be serious, but if he is, I’ll have to call my mother after this meeting. As his former secretary, she was a key player in the last coronation, and I will need all the advice I can get.

Then I realize if George is stepping down, I’ll be working for Alex. George’s painting will go up in the great hall, and Alex will be my boss.

I swallow. Hard.

Who would I rather deal with—Alexander or Nicholas? Neither for completely different reasons. My favorite royal is Brice, the youngest son and the easiest to get along with.

King George clears his throat. “I will be stepping down, yes.”

“Oh!” I flounder for a tactful way to mention his age. Not that George cares about my tact. I was raised underfoot. On more than one occasion, he’s called me the daughter he never had. “I know normal retirement age is around sixty-five, but many monarchs go well beyond that. Your mother went well beyond that.” His mother retired from royal life fourteen years ago and passed away two years ago at ninety. The memory of Nick’s stricken face at the public memorial a second before he masked his expression surfaces. A chill runs through me, and I rub my arms.

“Hmm. Yes. Well.” He lets out a deep sigh. “What I am about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. Do you understand? At some point, I will have to tell the world—perhaps they’ll notice for themselves—but not until Alexander is settled on the throne.”

“Are you sick?” A spark of unease skitters down my spine. The thought brings a sheen of tears to my eyes, and I blink them away. Through my glasses, I peer at him more closely. His eyes are still a bright hazel, much like his middle son. His brown hair is thick and wavy, and he’s in good physical shape. He can’t be sick.

He stares at the papers on his desk and then plucks a sheet between his fingers, passing it to me.

I take the document, shooting him a questioning glance, but he won’t meet my gaze. His diagnosis is bolded, and my heart thumps. Hot and cold wash over my body in waves. “This… can’t be right,” I whisper. While he has made some mistakes in the last few months, I can’t believe this is the reason.

“I am afraid it is. Experts here in Bellerive, in America, and in Great Britain all came to the same conclusion. The same sinister fate. My last shred of hope vanished yesterday.”

I read the diagnosis over and over, but I can’t make the words register in my brain. “You have to tell your kids.”

“I have to put Alexander on the throne while I still can. We can’t have instability on the island, even if the elected Advisory Council makes most of the decisions. The sitting monarch is the tie-breaker in any close decision.” He steeples his fingers and peers over them. “As for whether I tell my children, at some point they’ll realize, won’t they? But you will not be the one to tell any of them.”

For a man who has always struck me as smart and fair, his instinct to keep this from Alex, Nick, and Brice is stunning. Of course, I’m not the one staring my own mortality in the face. No, I just have to look his sons in their eyes and claim I don’t know or understand why George is suddenly, and likely, swiftly, retiring from royal life. I’ll protect his secret, and I’ll have to hope his sons don’t resent me for it later.

“Helen agreed to this?” Having George keep his diagnosis to himself is one thing, roping me in is another, but having their mother betray their children as well is disturbing.