Crowns We Save (Thrones We Steal #3)

1. “Unstoppable” - Sia

“Unstoppable” - Sia

“When are you going to have a baby?”

The woman’s voice isn’t unkind, but it’s loud enough to carry over the crowds gathered on the other side of the steel barricades. My heart skips a beat, like a stone flung over a lake.

I swallow, but it only accentuates how dry my throat feels. I glance around for someone, anyone, to help deflect the heat from the hundreds of eyes staring at me, waiting for my answer, but there is no one.

Henry isn’t here, which has become the norm these days.

I can’t remember the last time we attended an event together that wasn’t a formal gala or state dinner.

Walkabouts are more effective if we split up and cover more ground, but I miss the days when we’d do them together, walking hand in hand like the blissful newlyweds we were.

A group of teenagers flutter their small flags, eager for me to look in their direction. I happily comply and grant them a smile. I feel uncomfortable moving on before answering the rude woman, but my feet are desperate to drag me down the line and away from the probing questions.

In the past two years, I’ve gone from “the girl who stole the crown” to “our beloved queen.” Thanks in part to my mother’s plan to put me within reach of the entire country and in part to the palace’s brilliant press secretary, my image has come full circle.

I am now Wesbourne’s cherished sovereign.

Mum’s reminder to “keep it that way” flits through my mind like she’s chirping right into my ear.

Too many wrong moves on my part and I could end up ostracized again.

Not only that, but with all the anti-monarchy talk a while back, it could mean the downfall of not only the monarchy, but of Wesbourne herself.

When I took my oath nearly three years ago, I vowed to give everything for the good of this country. That includes saving her from self-destruction.

Before I’ve formulated an answer to the woman’s question, another voice from the crowd calls out, “You only have a few more years to produce an heir!”

I don’t need a mirror to know my face is flaming. I’m twenty-nine, I want to retort.

I could do without the parasocial relationships my people have with me. Just because the media dishes out as much information about my personal life as they can get their hands on, does not mean we are intimate friends.

These people don’t know those details are carefully hand-fed to the press for exactly that reason.

They are speaking not out of disrespect, but from a place of love and care, like a nosy grandmother might. And as Rosalind is always quick to remind me, they weren’t all taught the appropriate times to hold their tongues.

I force my smile a little wider. No need to let anyone know how these inquiries affect me. Take everything in stride, Preston’s voice chants in my head.

I take a deep breath. It’s time to address their questions and move down the line. “A baby will come in time,” I say. I put as much conviction into it as I can. Sell it, I remind myself. That’s the important part. Everything else will fall into place.

“Not without Prince Henry,” someone shouts from the back.

I sense a presence near my arm and don’t need to look to know that Davies has taken a step closer. Whether he senses a threat or just knows I need the extra strength, it’s good to have someone I trust nearby.

“Let’s keep moving,” he says. His low voice has talked me through many situations just like this one.

I head further down the barricades. The cheering grows louder as the people begin waving their flags and signs. I accept a lovely bouquet of spring blooms from a young woman with two children at her side. She looks no older than I am.

Two years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do this, with the threat of assassination so real.

It’s only been possible to do walkabouts for the past year.

Unused to seeing their monarch up close and personal, many people take time off work for these events to catch a glimpse of me walking down their street.

I don’t have the time or stamina to shake hands with every person who came out, no matter how much I wish to thank them for coming to see me. The best I can do is give my attention to a few selected by my team and smile and wave at the rest.

One of my staff members steps forward and motions to an older man from the crowd. He grins at his good fortune as I step toward him. I hold out a gloved hand, which he kindly accepts. “Hello,” I say. “How do you do?”

“Just fine, Your Majesty,” he says, grin still in place.

We exchange a few more pleasantries. I’m about to keep moving when another voice, this one much younger than the others, calls out, “Your Majesty!”

I turn. A little boy is sticking his hand through the barricade, clutching a small bouquet of daisies. I grin and excuse myself from the gentleman.

The boy’s mother is holding him back from charging his way through. “I’m so sorry,” she says. A flush of pink tints both her cheeks.

“Don’t be. It’s fine.” I squat down next to the little guy. Rosalind will lose her biscuits when she watches the news coverage, but it’s things like these that endear me to the public, not the quality of my pantyhose or the perfection of my hairstyle.

I am careful to keep my dress from shifting to expose anything that shouldn’t be exposed—not an easy feat given I’m squatting down on asphalt, trying not to touch the ground with anything but the soles of my shoes.

Fortunately, it’s tea-length with a looser skirt, so I have some extra fabric to work with.

I make sure it’s draped over the fronts of my legs as I’m eye-level with the little boy.

I’m not great at telling children’s ages. I’m not great at anything regarding children, but that’s when winging it comes into play. I would put him firmly between the ages of two and five. See? Not too bad.

I hold out my hand, and he shakes it with rigor. “I’m Queen Celia,” I say. “And who might you be?”

He mumbles something unintelligible, shyness suddenly taking over.

I am out of my element here, but I have to do something. “Are those for me?” I say, pointing to the flowers still clutched in his chubby fist.

He nods and thrusts them at me.

I carefully disentangle the stems from his sweaty palm, then make a big show of taking a whiff. “They smell divine. Did you pick them yourself?”

He nods again, chewing on his thumbnail as he gives me a careful grin. In spite of his bashfulness, he’s absolutely adorable. His eyes are a startling deep chocolate color, almost black. Thick brown curls hang from beneath the little cap he’s wearing. His skin has a beautiful olive tone I envy.

But it’s his smile that tugs at my heart. There’s something about him, about the way his lips curve up that reminds me of someone. Someone I once knew or someone I met only in passing.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, young man,” I say as I stand up again. “Thank you for the flowers.”

He doesn’t remove his thumb from his mouth, but he continues gracing me with that endearing grin.

His mother’s smile is slightly abashed. “Thank you,” she says. “He’s been waiting for this day for a long time.” She’s young, blonde, and looks like she just left a modeling shoot, not like she’s mum to a toddler.

I sense Davies at my elbow. Time to move on. “Pleased to meet you both,” I say, then allow him to lead me to the next spot they’ve selected for me to stop at.

Less than ten minutes later, I’m ushered into the back of the limo. In the space of a half hour, I’ve spoken to thirty-six citizens and made the day of hundreds more.

“Was the media able to get coverage of the little boy?” I ask once I’m seated.

Maisie looks up from the tablet perched on her six-months-pregnant belly. “The angle was a little tricky, but I think they should have been able to get most of it.”

“Maybe that should be corrected next time?” I suggest.

She darts a look at Garrett, our location coordinator. “I’m on it,” he says.

“Preston?” I say, turning to the palace press secretary.

“Our crews got lots of good footage.”

“With the little boy?”

“Of the whole thing,” he says. “But yes, of that too.”

“Good. That will be the highlight, correct?”

He nods, then gestures to the computer in his lap. “I’m already uploading the footage. The package will be out to all of the stations in”—he checks his watch—“no more than two hours.”

“Okay.” I allow myself to relax into the cushioned seat.

It was a successful walkabout, but that little boy was the jackpot of my day. Footage like that is sure to cement me in the minds of my people as a queen who cares about all her subjects, no matter how young or old.

It takes finesse to partner with the press, and fortunately, I have the best team in the business for that. The collaboration may be unlikely—usually celebrities try to hide from the media—but we’ve found a way to spin the attention in the best possible way.

By ensuring members of the press get the best seats in the house, so to speak, we are simply doing our job. They are the eyes of the world’s viewers, and by giving them premium content, we are directly influencing how the world sees the royal family. It’s a terrific arrangement.

The best part? By keeping the royal family in the good graces of her people, we ensure that Wesbourne need never consider doing away with her monarchy and crumbling her already shaky foundation.