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“I don’t think they’ve noticed because they probably assumed you were with me.” She looks at my hands, my dress, then to Beauford who’s back around to this side of the table. “What kind of trouble did you get my sister involved with?”

She must really be worried, or angry, if she’s speaking to a prince like that.

But Beauford shrugs and points a thumb over his shoulder. “We were just seeing who could make a bigger tower.” He puffs up his chest. “I won every time.”

“You have more practice!” I shoot back.

Beatrice grabs my hand and immediately drops it with a cringe. She takes a deep breath like Momma does all the time. “Where is the closest bathroom?”

Beauford points to a door at the other side of the room. “Through there and the second door on the left.”

As if remembering her manners, she thanks him and pulls me in that direction. “We need to get you cleaned up before we rejoin the party.”

My stomach gets upset with worry. “Are you going to tell Momma and Poppa?” I whine. “Please don’t tattle!”

She hushes me and pulls me into the bathroom. The mirror by the sink is almost as big as the whole wall. “No, I’m not going to tattle. They are not going to know about this, understood? But you should know better. Especially at a party like this.”

Tears sting my eyes. “I was just trying to have fun, Bea. I’m sorry.”

My sister begins cleaning me up. The tart mixture is scrubbed from my hands, the crumbs dusted from my skirt, the flyways from my bun smoothed down. “I know you were. But it isn’t about having fun all the time. You need to be a lady, like Momma says. Okay?”

I nod solemnly and blink away my tears. “I promise.”

Five

Present

I’ve received many double takes out and about in town this past week since the field day event. The news ran a story on it, flashing photos of Beau playing football with the kids, running away from them in a game of tag, and tripping at the finish line of the relay race.

His face monopolizes most of the coverage, however a few photos of the two of us have made the rounds. We did a formal photo-op before the event kicked off on the pitch. My name has been included with the stories, alongside those photos, and now people are asking who is Briar Penner?

So far they’ve written about my connection to the charity, my father’s friendship with King Harold, and that I recently graduated from the University of Ashrya for Girls.

My email has been flooded with messages from media outlets, curious eyes, and a few women who seem to think I’m some sort of competition for Beau.

The last ones gave me a good chuckle before I deleted them.

A few of my friends from university that I still keep in touch with reached out as well, all dying to know everything there is about Beau. They were clued in on my connection to the Crown, but once they saw I really didn’t have much to say, they seemed to forget about that part of my life.

Not anymore.

Our group thread is still swimming with every picture published about the event and a million questions about when the next one is and if I think Beau is looking for anyone. Especially from my friend Lizbeth, who seems to have switched up her type from nerds to playboy princes.

The bell chimes when I step inside Mrs. Kleine’s shop. She’s the most trusted and tenured seamstress in the city, and I’ve been coming here for dress fittings since I was a little girl. Mrs. Kleine has touched almost every single one of my mother’s dresses, and many of mine for formal occasions.

With the King’s birthday ball next month, there wasn’t even a question in my mind of who I needed to take my gown to for fitting. I dropped the garment off a few weeks prior, and today is my first fitting with her since.

“Good afternoon!” I call out cheerfully when I spot her hunched over a mannequin, pinning yards of yellow silk to the frame.

“Briar, dear, early as always,” she clucks, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

“If you’re not early you’re late.”

“Your mother says the same thing.” She nods toward one of the curtained off doors. “Go ahead and get changed. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

I set my purse down on the small worn couch sat in front of the main pedestal where Mrs. Kleine works her magic. The shop is empty, which is typical. Unless you have an appointment, she doesn’t like distractions.

The walls are covered in aged, floral wallpaper that peels slightly around the wood trim. Gowns of all shapes, sizes, colors, and materials line racks upon racks around the small shop. I’m not sure how she keeps track of what belongs to whom, but she never gets it wrong.