17. “Royalty” - Egzod Maestro Chives
“Royalty” - Egzod + Maestro Chives
“You’re sure this is going to work?” I say.
“I’m sure,” Preston says from beside me in the car. “The info went out last night.”
“And you’re sure it won’t look like an intentional leak? Because if they find out the palace—”
“Relax, Celia. It will work.”
My eyes drift down to the hand he’s just placed on my leg. The knot of unease in my stomach increases. “Okay,” I say quietly.
He continues staring out the window. “The press tends to be too busy scooping the story to question where the scoop came from. But just in case, I covered our tracks.”
After the catastrophe that was my air time on the news a few nights ago, made so by Elizabeth Gable’s flawless interview that followed, Preston decided that we needed to remind people of just how much they adore their queen.
Most of the engagements I attend are private, allowing those I’m meeting with my full attention, and they are easier to maintain from a security perspective.
But that doesn’t mean the public isn’t hungry for a secret spotting of the queen herself.
That is what Preston is counting on. By leaking the details of my engagements today, he hopes to draw at least a few members of the press to the events, where they will be able to get prime footage of the queen at her best, serving water to invalids in the hospital and molding things out of clay with children.
“You’ve got this,” he says, increasing the pressure of his hand on my leg before releasing it. “You’re the queen of Wesbourne. Is there anything you can’t handle?” A lopsided, boyish smile lifts one side of his mouth.
A hysterical chuckle trips past my teeth. Does he want me to start a list?
Davies shifts in the seat in front of us in the limo. There’s a flash of annoyance on his face as he looks at Preston, but he masks it quickly. “We’ll need to delay our exit just a bit longer, ma’am,” he says. “We need more time to secure the grounds.”
He doesn’t need to explain. I finish the sentence for him in my head. Since we’re expecting company.
Davies balked at Preston’s plan when he was informed of it this morning, but by then it was too late. He hides his disdain for the press secretary better than Henry does, but I recognize the tension in the set of his shoulders.
Despite their less-than-eager acceptance of our press secretary, without him, the entire royal family’s reputation would be in shambles, and Wesbourne would no longer have a monarchy.
I nod and offer Davies a small smile. He remains stoic for a few more seconds, but his facade slowly crumbles, and he gives me a minuscule smile in return. No one’s going to accuse him of being a teddy bear, but neither are they going to accuse him of ever dropping the ball on duty.
The car slows, and we pull up to the back entrance of Billings Memorial Hospital. Davies shoots me another look, which I know is his reminder to stay in the car. He doesn’t bother with Preston. He’d probably welcome a bullet in the back of my press secretary’s unsuspecting head.
Preston scrolls on his iPad. “Anything you want to go over before we do this?”
“I think I’m all set.” I take a deep breath and smooth down my skirt. When I told Renaldo that I needed something soft and feminine for today, he pulled out a teal midi dress with loose lines and a small floral print.
He was right. It’s perfect. It’s the exact thing someone like Elizabeth Gable would wear.
The public needs to be reminded that I can also be warm and nurturing. In spite of how in control I feel in a suit, they don’t do me any favors in that department.
I steel myself as we approach the back door. This has gotten easier with time, but it has yet to be something I can do without holding my breath and shielding myself from the memories.
I glance at Davies. As though he’s attuned to even the movement of my eyes, his own jerk sideways to meet mine. I don’t have to ask if he remembers our little adventure to the hospital three years ago. That was one of the stupidest decisions I’ve ever made, and one that cost him his job.
“It’s not too late to turn around,” he says without moving his lips.
I lift my chin. “They’re expecting me.”
The doors open, and we step into the aggressively air-conditioned room. The security team leads us down corridors lined with supply closets and offices. Even those smell like antiseptic. I remind myself to breathe through my mouth.
The staff has given us the service lift for our private use today, and we take it to the top. The plan is to work our way down, stopping on each floor to greet one or two patients and to give the press plenty of time to find us.
Preston has done the recon work of figuring out which patients afford the best opportunity for a visit that may or may not coincide with press coverage.
I admit to feeling a little queasy about the way we’re turning something that should be a kind gesture into nothing short of a political move, but I also can’t deny that Preston’s plans have had a 95 percent success rate so far.
The man is brilliant, and he understands politics and swinging public opinion in our favor.
The press office gave each selected patient notice that they would be receiving a special visitor and warned them they might be caught on camera.
Preston taps away at the map on his screen. “Room 1086,” he says.
After the room is swept by the security team, Davies leads me inside. I tug at the rubber gloves I’ve been issued, making sure the bands are securely in place around my wrists. The least I can do is keep from making these patients any sicker.
There’s a young woman in the bed at the center of the room.
She has lovely thick auburn hair that frames an even lovelier face.
Neither of those is as radiant as her smile, though.
Her entire being shines with it, like it’s a crack in the sidewalk, letting in light to help everything in its path grow.
“Hello,” I say. “You must be Samantha.” I return her smile, but there’s no way mine has even half the wattage hers does.
“Your Majesty.” Her voice is a little throaty and breathless, as though she just raced down the halls to reach her room before I did. “It is such an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine.” The words slip out by instinct after all this time.
“If you say so,” she says with a laugh that’s just as throaty as her voice. “I had to ask Harry Styles to wait until tomorrow to visit.”
Her unexpected humor is exactly what I need to help me relax.
My eyes travel around the room. It’s like being inside a flower garden.
There are bouquets on nearly every surface, and the walls are papered with incredible drawings of summer blooms. The curtains on the window overlooking the city are thrown open as wide as they’ll go.
Even the balloons floating above a few of the bouquets don’t bother me. They’re not the sad Get Well Soon ones the gift shop specializes in but invigorating reminders to Rock On! and Slay ’Em, Bae!
I turn back to Samantha, who is still bestowing that heart-stopping grin on me. She’s covered in a fleece tie-dye blanket rather than the standard hospital-issue sheet.
I gesture to the room. “It’s so colorful in here.”
“I adore color, so my friends made sure I had some.” She inclines her head toward the wall opposite her bed. “My friend Emilia painted that one.”
I turn to admire the painting she pointed out, giving it the requisite oohs and aahs it deserves, all while wondering what Samantha is doing here.
She appears perfectly healthy. Her skin has a peachy glow that makes her look like she just came back from the coast. Her hair didn’t get that lustrous on its own, and she’s even wearing makeup.
I’m asking myself if it’s possible that Preston planted her here for optimal optics and simultaneously telling my stomach to calm down when she says, “Do you like flowers?”
I startle out of my concentration. “I do,” I say. “Hydrangeas in particular.”
“My favorites are chocolate cosmos. They’re hard to grow, but if I could, I’d plant a giant patch of them outside my bedroom window.
They smell just like chocolate.” She closes her eyes for a moment, as though she’s remembering the scent of them, and then her eyes flutter open and she laughs.
“Well, I’d have someone else plant them.
Don’t think I’ll be kneeling in the soil again. ”
My brows tug together in the center of my forehead. I remind them to relax. “Can I ask why you’re here? You don’t seem . . .”
“Sick?” she says. “Technically, I’m not. But they’re still monitoring my spine. The doctors thought there was some activity a few days ago, but it looks like it was a fluke.” Her smile isn’t as large as before, but it’s still brighter than most people’s.
“What are they monitoring it for?” I ask.
She blinks at me like she’s unsure what I’m asking. “To see if there’s a chance of correcting it?”
I tilt my head to the side. I want to follow what she’s saying, but I am completely in the dark here. “Did you injure it?”
“I broke it in a car accident. I’m paralyzed from the neck down.”
Davies’s steadying arm remains solid behind me as I take an instinctive step backward.
“Oh, fudgesicles,” Samantha says. “You didn’t know. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m so sorry.” She directs the last sentence to Davies, who is still offering support around my waist. “I just assumed they told you.”
I shake my head. “But you’re so . . .”
“Normal-looking?” She laughs. “Fate decided to steal my movements and leave my face.” She tilts her head to the side, and I imagine her hands coming up to meet her chin like she’s posing, but they’ll never do that again.
“Happy,” I say.
“Oh.” There’s a beat that I think she would fill with a shrug if her shoulders were able to move. “I try to be. Some days are harder than others.”
How is every day not a living hell, I want to ask. “How do you do it?” I say instead.