3. “Ghost” - Ella Henderson #2
“I’m going to be fine though, right? No brain damage or anything?” If there is, I’ll probably need to abdicate, and then this whole thing will have been for nothing.
“They don’t think so, but they want to keep an eye on you just in case.”
I close my eyes and press my head further into the cracker masquerading as my pillow. “Is the driver okay?”
Her face pinches, and I already know from the way she continues to aggressively smooth the sheet. “He died on impact.”
I don’t even know his name, and now he’s dead. “Please arrange for flowers to be sent to the family and cover the cost of the funeral.”
My mum nods. “Of course. I’ll make sure everything is taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
“You said we hit a barrier of some kind? What happened?”
“The car lost a wheel, and the driver lost control. It all happened very quickly.”
“What about the rest of the motorcade? Did they . . . ?”
She shakes her head. “They were able to avert it. They got you out immediately and brought you here.”
I look around the room. It’s spacious, and all of the curtains are pulled.
Bouquets of flowers cover nearly every surface.
I can already envision the approaching arguments between Rosalind and the nurses over the use of flat surfaces.
Naturally, my mum will win, and the flowers will stay.
Medication is second-rate to aesthetics, after all.
One bouquet in the corner has a yellow balloon floating above it. I move to sit up, and she pushes another pillow behind my back.
“Careful,” she warns. “Moving too fast will make your head hurt.”
“Yeah, I discovered that,” I say around a wince. “Get rid of that balloon, please.”
“Consider it done.” She smooths my pillow once more.
“How does one increase the dosage of these meds?”
My mother shakes her head. “The doctor wanted you to wake up, so she’s limited your painkillers for now. Try to go a little longer without another dose.”
“Not all of us have the pain threshold of a stunt double.”
“Try to rest. That will help.” She pats my hand like I’m three years old again and in bed with a cold.
Someone knocks on the door, and she moves to open it. Instead of letting them in, however, she shuts it again after they exchange a few words.
“Who was it?” I ask when she returns to my side.
“Daphne. They’ve limited visits to immediate family only.” She holds up the bag in her hand. “But she brought your salvation!”
“Indian take-out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s makeup.” She opens the bag and starts rummaging through it.
“Mum, I’m in the hospital. Pretty sure looking terrible is a requisite for admission.”
“Commoners are allowed to look terrible. You are the queen.” She holds up a bottle of foundation and a beauty blender. “Now, I’m no Daphne, but I think I can manage to make my daughter look a little more like a human being.”
“And here I was kind of digging the zombie look.”
My mum shushes me and begins dabbing makeup on my face. “You need to call your sister when we’re done. She’s been worried sick.”
“I hope you told her I’m fine.”
“Of course I did. But she’s threatening to come home and check on you herself.”
“That’s nice of her.” Bea would rush into a burning building to save someone’s teddy bear. Her heart is huge. Her common sense isn’t always up to speed.
“It’s completely unnecessary,” my mother says. “She needs to stay in England.”
“I’m sure her professors would understand—”
“I’m not worried about her studies.”
“Okay.” I drag out the word. “Then what are you worried about?”
She swipes at my lashes with a mascara wand. “Men don’t wait forever, and if she leaves now . . .”
“What, she’ll become a spinster?”
“It’s not outside the bounds of possibility.”
“She’s twenty years old, Mum. And one of the most sought-after women in the world.” Beatrice is gorgeous enough to have been offered dozens of modeling gigs, famous enough to have landed the cover of every major publication in the world at least once, and has never had to attend an event alone.
“The right men get snatched up much faster than women.”
I sigh. “Is this about the prince of Denmark?”
“I won’t discuss the details of your sister’s love life. You can ask her about it when you call.” Mum carefully places all the makeup back into the bag and stands. “And tell her to stay where she is.”
After she leaves, I tap Bea’s contact on my phone. Her face fills the screen almost immediately.
“Oh my god, Celia! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. A few bumps and bruises.” I adjust myself ever so slightly and cover my grimace with a smile.
The video swerves as my sister walks across the room and climbs onto her bed. “Mum can’t come to grips with the fact that we’re both adults now and can make our own decisions. I can get on a flight tonight—”
“You don’t need to leave England.”
“But I should be there for you!” she says.
“Bea, seriously. There’s no reason for you to come home.”
She pauses, staring at me through the phone as though looking for reassurance that I’m not on the brink of death. “I just want to do something helpful.”
“Then distract me by telling me about your latest fling.”
Her head drops. It’s hard to tell through the screen, but I could almost swear she’s blushing. “There isn’t much to tell. Yet.”
“Do I know him?”
“You might know of him.”
I’m reminded of a very similar conversation we had this past spring, the night I discovered we were both in love with the same man. “I hope it works out. You deserve to be happy.”
“Don’t tell Mum, because she reads way too much into these things, but I might move in with him next year.”
My head rears back slightly. “Isn’t that rushing things a little? How well do you know this guy?”
“I think he might be the one.” Her face is glowing with happiness.
I take a deep breath. Probably better to change the subject than to remind her of the number of times she’s thought a man might be “the one.” “You’re still coming home for the holidays, right?”
“Of course. I can’t wait for a real Wesbourne Christmas.”
This year, the holidays will be nothing like what we’re used to, now that we are Wesbourne’s royal family.
Fireside board games will be replaced with walkabouts downtown, family Christmas parties will be traded for fancy charity galas, and the gingerbread baking will now be done by the staff at the palace.
But I’m as excited as Bea is. It will be good to be together again, even if it’s not at Maison de Lierre this year.
We hang up a few minutes later, and I close my eyes, hoping the drugs will pull me under quickly. This monster of a headache is starting to show its fangs. I’m just drifting off when a commotion in the hall outside drags me back to consciousness.
I can hear multiple voices arguing and the soles of the nurses’ trainers squeaking against the tile floor. I’ll have to see how quickly I can be released. How is anyone supposed to get rest with this constant noise?
My eyes flutter shut but immediately fly open again when one of the voices becomes distinct above the others.
“I don’t give a damn about your bloody policies!”
My throbbing head now feels like a distant memory. There are more important physical matters to attend to, like the way my heart is about to pound right through my rib cage and bounce across the floor.
I know that voice as well as my own, and it’s angry. Very angry.
Henry is back.