2. “Stronger （What Doesn’t Kill You）” - Kelly Clarkson
“Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)” - Kelly Clarkson
The Audience Room is one of the more important ones in the palace.
It’s used for receiving special guests and dignitaries and for special meetings like the one I’m about to have with the keeper of the Privy Purse.
The monarch enters through a secret door disguised as a built-in cabinet.
Trickery like that makes us feel important.
It was previously named the King’s Audience Room, but the “king” part was recently dropped, for obvious reasons. Someone decided just getting rid of it was easier than changing it, likely because the transition will be more efficient if we find another diary booting me from the throne.
The walls in here are covered in a mauve silk wallpaper that is worth thousands.
While we could certainly take it down and auction it off along with the gilded mirrors, famous oil paintings, and antique furniture in the room, I would rather sell my organs on the black market than part with these historical artifacts.
Unfortunately, neither option is a long-term solution.
The door opens, and Lord Balmorran is announced. While a maid pours tea, we exchange the usual pleasantries that I swear will one day be the death of me, and after she leaves, we’re finally able to approach the business at hand.
“Has the Civil List payment not come through yet?” I lift the china teacup to my lips.
“It did,” Balmorran says. He’s balding and wears glasses that remind me of Steve Jobs’.
“What happened to it all?” I ask. He has turned the color of the cranberries on the mantel behind him. He can’t have thought I wouldn’t find out. More than likely, he just hasn’t come up with a plan for how to handle it yet.
“It was drained in the past few months, ma’am.”
I set my cup down. “I don’t understand. How is it that the royal family has survived all these years, and now suddenly we can’t even make it three months? Did inflation skyrocket overnight?”
He takes a sip of tea. “It’s not that, ma’am.” His cup rattles on its saucer.
“Then what is it?”
I’ve seen people sitting in chairs with backpacks on look more comfortable than this man. “The royal family has never been able to support itself on the Civil List budget.”
I wait a few beats. My brain is peanut-buttered to the sides of my skull. “Why not?”
“Well, the Civil List is nowhere near high enough to support the entire royal household.”
“I see.” I nod as if I understand, which I’m nowhere close to doing. “At least it’s an easy fix. We’ll ask Parliament to raise it.”
Balmorran winces and sets his cup on the table. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy. The Civil List is set in place for another four years.”
A queen must not raise her voice. Must not raise her voice. Must not— “Four years?”
He just looks at his lap.
“I’m sorry, but who set the Civil List so low that it couldn’t support the royal household? That’s the whole point of it!”
“Ideally, yes,” he says. “But for centuries, the royal family has made enough of their own money that they haven’t needed or wanted to ask Parliament for higher pay.”
“You’re saying the king was flipping burgers to pay for his butler?”
“They had private incomes, ma’am.” Balmorran evidently can’t read sarcasm any better than he can financial statements.
“And what if the monarch doesn’t have a private income?” Using the interest from my trust to cover the costs would be the equivalent of trying to put out a fire with a snowflake.
“This situation is unprecedented.”
“I understand that, but we need to come up with a solution—one that doesn’t involve me taking on a second job. I’m working seventy hours a week as it is.”
Yesterday, I had my weekly audience with the prime minister, the master of the household, and the lord chancellor in the morning.
By 1:05 in the afternoon, I’d arrived in northern Wesbourne by train, received five local dignitaries at the station, traveled to the Wesbournian Soccer League, where I greeted another four dignitaries, and accepted a daisy from a little girl.
From there, I toured the building, inspected trophies, met with more people, ate lunch, received a present, drank a local toast, signed the visitors’ book, and unveiled a plaque.
By 2:50, I was back in the car and on my way to the local civic center to do the whole thing again.
“Of course not, Your Majesty. I suggest we start by cutting salaries.”
“Cutting salaries?” I stare at Balmorran over the rim of my cup. “You mean firing people.”
“It’s the biggest expense for the royal household.”
“Yes, but those people are depending on us for their livelihood. We can’t just wish them sayonara.”
“I don’t see what choice we have,” he says. “There aren’t enough funds to cover paychecks, let alone the rest of the household’s expenses.”
I can already see the headlines: Queen Fires Staff to Buy More Gucci. This will be the final straw in my battle with the press. “How many positions did you have in mind?”
“No less than four hundred.”
I cough into my tea and set it down. “Excuse me. I thought you said four hundred.”
“I did, ma’am.”
“We employ five hundred.”
Balmorran nods. “If the Civil List is our only means of payment, we need to cut at least that many jobs to stay within budget, in addition to closing the north and east wings of the palace and greatly reducing costs.”
“I will not be the cause of four hundred people losing their jobs,” I say. “I have a trust fund that should cover at least the staff salaries for a few months. Can we ask Parliament to bring the Civil List up to where it should be?”
“It’s unlikely, but I suppose we can try. However, it could take six months or more before it goes into effect, and that’s if it passes both houses.”
“I will put my banker in touch with you. You are to prioritize staff salaries over any luxury or unnecessary budget line items.” I stand to signal that the meeting is over. “In the meantime, we will both do everything in our power to come up with more reasonable ideas than a palace-wide layoff.”
The Duke of Sutherland walks into the Audience Room with all of his former confidence and grandeur.
I stop myself from curtsying just in time.
Beside him walks the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen.
It has a glossy black coat, broken by a white cross covering its chest and rust-colored patches on its face and legs.
“Your Majesty,” he says, and bows his head.
I swallow my revulsion for the man. “Good afternoon.” Moving over to the animal, I offer it my hand. It sniffs eagerly before giving my fingers a big swipe with its wet tongue. “Your dog is beautiful.”
“He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. And he’s yours.” William thrusts the leash at me.
I blink and take a step back. “I beg your pardon?”
“Consider it an act of gratitude.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You stayed with me. The night Argos died.”
“Yes, but”—I scramble for words—“a ‘thank you’ would have sufficed. You didn’t need to get me a dog.”
“I saw this guy when I went to replace Argos.” He pats the animal on the head with more tenderness than I’ve ever seen him show toward a person. “I remembered you saying you’ve always wanted one.” He attempts to hand me the leash again.
My chuckle sounds forced. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t give animals as gifts. That’s a big commitment.”
“You want me to take him back?”
I look at the dog. A giant pink tongue lolls from his mouth, and I swear he’s smiling at me.
His white muzzle stands in sharp contrast to his black coat and tapers into a white streak between his eyes.
He has rich, chocolate-brown eyes, and they stay fixed on me as if he’s awaiting the verdict of his future.
As a kid, I begged my parents for a dog for years, but my mum is allergic. After my father died, I forgot how it felt to want something so badly.
“No,” I say, dropping to my knees. “I’ll keep him.” The dog easily weighs as much or more than I do, and kneeling in front of him puts us at nearly the same height. I loop both arms around his neck and am rewarded with a paw on my leg. I laugh and shake it. “What’s his name?”
“Tundra.”
“It suits him.”
William shifts from one foot to the other, and I realize that I’ve kept him standing this whole time.
“Please, be seated,” I say, and take the proffered leash. I lead Tundra over to the sofa opposite the duke. They both sit after I do. The only way this could be more awkward is if we were in our underwear.
I ring the small bell on the table next to me, and a maid immediately enters the room. “We’ll take a tea tray, please.” I glance down at Tundra. “What do dogs eat?” I ask William.
“Bah, just about anything.” He waves a hand. “Except for chocolate. It’ll poison them.”
“Can they have ice cream?”
At his nod, I turn back to the maid, who’s still awaiting my request. “And a small cup of vanilla ice cream.”
She leaves to fetch our refreshments, and I address William again. “This was completely unnecessary, but it means a lot.” I stroke Tundra’s soft ears, and he pushes into my hand. “Thank you.”
The duke gives another characteristic grunt. “I haven’t always made the best choices, but having a dog is always a good idea.”
I think about the things he did, how he violated his own child repeatedly and never paid for it. How can this be that same man?
He surprises me by continuing. “I wasn’t a good father. I did some things I’m not proud of.” He runs his hand over his shaved head. It sends a stab of familiarity through me I am not ready for.
“We can’t change the past, only the future,” I say.
His eyes meet mine, and I wonder what goes on in that evil mind of his. He molests children but adores dogs. It would be easier if he were just pure evil—then I could hate him with abandon.
The maid brings in our tea, and I watch as Tundra annihilates the small cup of ice cream in two seconds. He’s huge. Huge dogs have huge appetites. And huge appetites cost money, lots of money . . .
“On second thought,” I say after the maid leaves, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep Tundra after all.
We’re cutting costs, and by the time we find a trainer, a handler, a groomer .
. . I don’t even know what dogs need. All of the supplies, the food, the vet bills.
” I press my fingers to my suddenly throbbing temples. “You should take him back.”
At this, Tundra looks at me, tongue still searching his face for any leftover drops of ice cream. His eyes are pleading chocolate orbs. “I’m sorry, boy.” I scratch the ruff around his neck. “I have other responsibilities that were here before you were.”
“The palace is cutting costs?” The duke reaches for another tea sandwich. It’s gone as quickly as Tundra’s ice cream.
“Apparently, the Civil List is terribly inadequate to cover the budget.” I wonder if the thread of accusation in my voice is as noticeable to him as it is to me. You could have warned me.
William grunts and leans back in his seat. “It’s always been too low.”
“Might I ask why you never had it raised?”
“I tried.” He snorts and picks up another sandwich. “It was denied by Parliament on two separate occasions.”
“But surely they could see that the amount was far below what is required to sustain the royal household.”
“In the past, monarchs also had family estates that covered much of their living expenses. The Civil List was only increased at the rate of inflation. But maintaining an estate that actually makes money in the twenty-first century is hard.”
“We had the same issue at Maison de Lierre,” I say. “It costs much more than it makes.”
Another sandwich disappears into William’s mouth. Strong appetites must run in the family. “The Labor Party had control of Parliament at the time. You know how they disdain hereditary incomes.”
“What did you do?” I nibble on my own sandwich.
“Did what I had to. Made a few investments that paid off over time.”
“I don’t know the first thing about that.”
He shakes his head. “The Civil List should be enough to cover the royal household. You should petition Parliament. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.”
“We’re talking millions, though. Where is Parliament going to get that kind of money?”
“Where they always do.” William waves his sixth sandwich around. “The people.”
“You mean higher taxes?”
He grunts in agreement.
“But taxes are high enough, don’t you think?” I say. “I can’t in good conscience raise them to pay for my own living expenses.”
“Why not? The people want a queen. They should have to pay for her.” His voice is lined with gruffness, but I can’t tell if it’s directed at me or just a product of his normal teddy bear persona.
What I wouldn’t give to sit down with Adelaide right now and ask her advice on the issue. Unfortunately for me, she’s currently holidaying in the Alps with her new lover and doesn’t have cell reception. I’ll have to make do with the duke.
“Maybe if we cut expenses as much as we can, it will only require a small tax increase,” I say. It’s not ideal, but I’m running out of options.
“Taxes are lower than they’ve ever been,” William counters. “Wesbourne has one of the lowest tax rates in the world. They can stand to pay more.”
He may be right. Wesbourne is known for its low taxes. And if a slight increase will allow hundreds of people to keep their jobs, that would be worth it. Right?