Castles We Storm (Thrones We Steal #2)

1. “Elastic Heart” - Sia

“Elastic Heart” - Sia

You know what they don’t tell you about being queen? No matter your age, you require a round-the-clock babysitter as though you were still in nappies.

I thought it was bad before my coronation, but ever since the archbishop placed that crown on my head two months ago, I don’t think I’ve been alone outside of my suite more than twice—and both of those instances were frowned upon.

Now, I’m stuck with a towering hulk of a nanny walking beside me.

The only consolation is that I actually like this one.

Davies was one of my first personal protection officers pre-coronation, so I like to think we have history.

In reality, he’s just the only one who will talk to me beyond “Your Majesty” and “Yes, ma’am. ”

“How is Tyson? Enjoying school?” I ask as we walk to my office.

Davies remains exactly thirty inches behind me and to my right.

For the escorts who refuse to make conversation, I’ve invented a little game called “How Well Can You Trail the Queen at Thirty Inches?” It basically involves altering my speed or the length of my steps to make them get too close or lag too far behind. It’s quite entertaining.

Davies has figured out that small talk is easier. “He’s doing well, ma’am. Just entered secondary school.”

Staff members scurry through the corridors like ants busy building a nest. They stop for a quick bow as we pass, their arms laden with pine boughs and red ribbons. The whole palace is starting to smell like a forest. I can’t wait to sip hot cocoa in front of a roaring fire.

“He had a birthday recently, didn’t he?” I say.

“He turned eleven two weeks ago, yes.” Davies clears his throat. “Unfortunately, he’s going to need braces.”

“Ghastly things.”

“With ghastly price tags.”

I don’t need to turn around to know he’s blushing at his blunder. Etiquette around speaking of money to the monarch follows an unspoken—but no less rigid—rule: you don’t do it.

“Forgive me. I didn’t—”

I wave away his apology. “Please tell Tyson his queen is rooting for only a short stint with the braces, and that the colors lime and navy look smashing together.”

We stop outside my office door, which is sporting a festive wreath studded with pinecones and bright red holly berries.

“Thank you, ma’am. I will,” Davies says, and opens the door for me.

My office overlooks the southern terrace and the Parterre Garden via a bank of large windows, which let in both the sunlight and the cold drafts.

The eighteenth-century trestle desk I inherited with the job sits in the center of the room.

The sleek computer monitor on top of it feels sacrilegious amid the heirlooms and antiques furnishing the rest of the space, but it’s hard to lead a country in the twenty-first century without electronics.

I take a seat behind the desk just as a brisk knock sounds on the door, immediately followed by the entrance of my private secretary.

Her arms are laden with my green box of state papers, her trusty tablet, and a to-go cup that I desperately hope is my French vanilla latte.

Through the open door, I can hear the grandfather clock sounding the nine o’clock hour.

Maisie bobs a quick curtsy and responds to my greeting with a meek “Your Majesty.” With that, our ode to traditional deference is over. She pushes the door shut with a ballet-flat-clad foot, deposits the box and coffee on my desk, and sighs deeply as she sits down across from me.

“Traffic was awful this morning.” She unlocks her electronic tablet. “I think they might be gearing up for another strike.”

“Not again.” Grabbing the cup, I take a sip of the frothy liquid and wince at the flavor of Irish creme. “This is disgusting.”

She’s already immersed in her screen. “Did they get it wrong again?”

“Unless you ordered an Irish latte, yes.” I set the offensive beverage aside. “Apparently Her Majesty is just another customer.”

Maisie grimaces. “Actually, they have no idea who I’m buying the coffee for. I figured it was safer that way.”

“Safer maybe, but certainly not pleasant.” I gulp down some water to wash the vile taste out of my mouth. “Give me the latest.”

“First off, you received an . . . interesting request.” This is Maisie-code for strange.

“Isn’t it your job to filter those and politely decline?”

The number of requests I receive on a regular basis for asinine things like money, a tour of my bedroom, personal photos, lunch dates, and my “cast-off” clothing and jewelry was shocking at first, but I’ve slowly become accustomed to the weird stuff people have the audacity to ask for.

With the exception of the request for my discarded nail clippings.

I made Maisie burn that particular letter.

“Normally I would, but I thought you might actually be interested in this one,” she says.

“I am not about to kiss some pregnant woman’s belly.”

“Not even close. The Duke of Sutherland requests a private audience.”

My head jerks up from the planner on my desk. “The Duke of Sutherland?”

“You know, the former king?”

“I know who he is,” I say. “What does he want?”

She glances back down at her screen. “His email says he has something to give you.”

There is nothing he could give me that I want. “What’s the policy on things like that?”

“Well, normally I send back a nice email politely declining, but given the circumstances . . .”

She’s right. How does one refuse the former king? “Fine. Set it up.”

Maisie gives a brisk nod. “Done. In other news, early reports show that overdose deaths in high schoolers have doubled in the last month. I just ran the numbers myself this morning. It’s definitely gone up.”

I jerk my head up. “Not insidion?”

“I didn’t want to think so, but everything is pointing to that.”

“How is that possible? Security at the ports is tight.” Increasing it has been my most successful endeavor to date. Some might even argue it’s my only successful endeavor.

“I’m not sure.” She frowns at something on the tablet. “But these numbers are definitely accurate. I cross-checked them against the autopsies of over a hundred victims.”

“One hundred?” It was alarming when there were seventy. One hundred is downright dreadful.

“That’s what I’m seeing.”

“And no one is talking about it?”

“I’m not sure anyone’s put the pieces together yet,” Maisie says. “It was just brought to my attention yesterday. It took me five hours to compile the data.”

“It doesn’t make sense. How is it coming into the country if the ports are secured?”

We’ve had nearly four months of freedom from the lethal drug spreading across Wesbourne like wildfire, taking the lives of hundreds of teens with it. Street-named insidion, the substance has a cultlike following among teenagers.

“Either they’re finding another way to import it, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or they’re making it here. In Wesbourne.”

God help us.

“If I wasn’t queen, I might be able to fight this,” I say. As it stands, the monarch’s job is to sit back, look pretty, and hope for the best.

“Actually, there might be a way you can fight back even from the throne.” Maisie looks at me and pushes her glasses back up her nose. “They’re holding a memorial downtown later this month to commemorate the victims. They’ve asked if you’d give a short speech.”

Requests like these come in daily, usually by the dozens. I have to decline most of them, but this one is definitely going on the calendar. “Absolutely. I accept.”

Her fingers fly over her small keyboard, probably already drafting the acceptance email.

“Not to add fuel to the already roaring blaze that is your image in the press, but The Sun just released an article about”—she stops typing to read the quote directly—“your ‘blatant overlooking of the working classes in favor of those below the poverty line, as well as her personal favorite, the wealthy peerage.’”

By the time Maisie looks up, my mouth has fallen open. “My ‘personal favorite’? Is that some kind of joke?”

“I wish. You just took a factory tour last week, and you have an audience with the leaders of the Workers Union scheduled in December. It’s libel.”

“That’s never stopped them before.”

“Someone should have to pay.”

“You know we can’t—”

“‘—deny anything or seek redress.’ I know.” She slumps back in her chair. “Doesn’t keep me from wanting to, though.”

I sigh and match her posture, taking another swig of coffee before remembering it tastes like leprechaun vomit. “It will blow over in a week or two. It always does.”

“The weekend is only three days away. The Princess Royal will likely do something to make headlines by then, right?”

“I’m going to assume your brain malfunctioned while churning out that thought.

” As if my sister hitting the newsstand could ever reflect well on the royal family.

Beatrice’s popularity hasn’t come from hosting tea parties and attending charity galas, and while being the sister of the queen has certainly helped her climb a few rungs on the social ladder, it has only increased her notoriety in the press.

“All I meant was that if Bea takes the heavy hitting from the press, it’ll leave you to shine in all your glory. That’s what the royal family is for—they’re like a diversion from the monarch. A decoy!”

“You seriously need a filter.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get your mum to do something newsworthy. It will get the attention off you and polish the royal family’s image at the same time,” Maisie says.

While she is officially a working member of the royal family, I’m convinced my mother spends more time plotting my sister’s love life than she does on anything furthering the interests of the nation.

Her most recent scheme involves one of the princes of Denmark.

She’s not picky—either one will suit her purposes just fine.

“We will be leaving my family out of it,” I say. “It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Those vultures always circle back around. Besides, we have a press secretary to handle these kinds of things.” I grab a ballpoint pen and click it open. “Why was this even on the agenda?”