10. “Fire Save Us” - Iliya Zaki
“Fire Save Us” - Iliya Zaki
A hushed quiet fills the drawing room when we walk in, like at a wake, everyone afraid of speaking above a whisper for fear of resurrecting the dead.
A footman ushers us to chairs at a large table in the center of the space, and a server brings us tea and coffee.
The wheels of the drink cart fracture the silence like a high-pitched giggle as she pushes it around the room.
The prime minister is already seated across from us, in murmured conversation with someone I assume to be one of the Crown’s advisors.
The palace’s press secretary is seated near them, as well as a few other people.
No one from the royal family is here, but I can’t imagine we’ll be meeting without them.
I accept a cup of tea and use it to warm my icy fingers.
I chose it in hopes it would calm my nerves, but I probably should have asked for coffee instead.
Because let’s be honest: nothing is going to calm my nerves at this stage.
The next hour could very easily determine my future. I might be sick before it’s over.
Henry enters the room, which prompts Beatrice to sit up straighter. He winks at her before unbuttoning his suit coat and sitting down on the opposite side of the table. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
I sip my tea and visualize ramming a hundred darts into that pretty face of his. Beside me, Beatrice runs her fingers through her hair before toying with the ends. Does she have any idea how obvious she’s being?
“Why are we here?” she whispers to Henry.
Before he can answer, King William and Queen Olivia walk in. Henry’s parents are as dissimilar as any two people I’ve ever met, like opposing chess pieces.
William is dark and brooding, his face lined with a hard anger he’d look naked without.
But if he’s a storm cloud, his wife is the sun.
Olivia is petite and polished and looks more blue-blooded than her husband does.
Her blonde hair is flawlessly swept away from her face, leaving it free to smile and radiate warmth in the wake of William’s storminess. Wesbourne loves her. They tolerate him.
But no matter what you think of his tax hikes or the permanent scowl on his face, you have to admire the guy.
Anyone who can mastermind the institution of ten thousand new jobs during a global recession, all while backing the implementation of more trade programs in public schools, can’t be all bad.
Of course, the more people hold jobs, the more the Crown collects in income tax, which subsequently lines William’s own pockets.
But you won’t catch me complaining about something that has so significantly improved this country.
Everyone now stands in deference while the king and queen take their seats.
The prime minister opens the meeting and recounts the recent events that we are all too familiar with already, which have culminated in the need for some kind of action on the part of the Crown.
Are they just coming to this realization, or is the intention to give the rest of us the impression that they’ve simply been too busy in the past month to care?
“The most concerning of all of these events is the call to arms that has recently been broadcast throughout this city, as well as the other major cities in Wesbourne.
It appears the citizens have decided to take matters into their own hands.
We have no idea how many people would actually rise up, but any number is too many.
“Our country cannot withstand a war of any kind. If we are divided, we become ripe for invasion. Although the United States is our ally, our treaty specifically stipulates that they will not offer aid in the event of a civil war. It is imperative we avoid that at all costs.” The PM clears his throat and continues.
“As some of you know, Parliament held an emergency session yesterday.
During that session, several suggestions were made as to how we might maintain the peace in Wesbourne.
Of these suggestions, only one was voted by the majority to be in the best interest of our country and her people.
Only one seemed to carry the potential to ultimately diffuse the ticking time bomb we are facing right now and hopefully eliminate all talk of civil war.
Parliament voted to go ahead and present this option to the parties who will be affected and who will ultimately need to decide on the course of action they are willing to take.
“Prince Henry and Celia, Duchess of Whitmere.” He pauses and looks down the table at the two of us.
“Parliament is asking both of you to consider your loyalty to your country of utmost importance right now. You both have a claim to the throne, depending on the perspective. With that in mind, a suggestion has been made that would require sacrifice, but that may, in fact, save this country.”
Oh god. My stomach is wound into a ball so tight, I’m afraid to move for fear of rupturing it.
I clasp my shaky hands together in my lap and try to imagine what the PM is going to say next.
Will Henry and I have to enter some kind of competition for the throne?
A sword fight, or an obstacle course? I know the idea is absurd, but whatever he’s about to suggest, it’s obvious I’m not going to like it.
The prime minister continues. “The only solution that appears to stand a chance of preventing a civil war is for the two of you to get married.”
The room is silent.
And spinning.
And suddenly very warm.
Too warm.
But somehow I am cold, my fingers icicles. I’m frozen—a literal statue.
Everyone can hear my racing heart. It’s impossible not to. It’s so loud.
I can’t turn my head to look at my mother, but I can see her hands from the corner of my eye. They are clenched and white. I glance down at my own lap, where my hands mirror hers.
I refuse to look at Henry. His eyes pull at me like magnets. He wants me to meet his gaze. I can feel it. We’re a set of Tricky Dogs. He’s the black Scottie. I guess that makes me the white one.
I look everywhere but at him.
The wood grain of the table scurries away from me in both directions. My salmon-colored teacup is missing a tiny fleck of gold from its rim. A piece of dust floats down and lands silently in my tea. Beatrice is shredding a napkin on her lap beside me.
“Forgive me, sir, but I’m not sure I understand how that would solve anything.”
Henry’s voice shatters the silence like a wrecking ball. The effect is immediate: people begin to breathe again, to fidget.
“No apology needed, Your Royal Highness. The marriage is only the first part of our proposal. The second is a joint coronation in three months. This would be announced to the public in hopes of appeasing both parties, those who wish to continue the current lineage and those who wish to”—he glances at me, and a red flush creeps up his neck—“see Catherine’s descendant on the throne. ”
“But I’m only the heir. What does this mean for my father?”
“King William has agreed to abdicate for the good of Wesbourne.”
I dart a quick glance at the king’s face. He hasn’t done so willingly, that much is clear. But then I’ve never actually seen him smile, so maybe his face simply doesn’t know how.
“Of course, since Celia would be rising to the rank of crown princess and then queen, the duchy would be passed down to the next heir in line,” the PM says.
More silence follows. The processing part of my brain is currently experiencing a malfunction.
“You must be joking, sir.” The sound of my own voice shocks me.
I didn’t realize I was capable of speech.
That opinion must have been shared, because I can almost hear the eyes collectively turning in my direction.
“I understand the predicament this puts you in, Your Grace. I know you are engaged to be married to someone else. Parliament was in session for eight hours over this. If there was another way, we would’ve found it.”
“But there must be another option. Can we not persuade the people to keep peace? Surely there are enough level-headed people in this country who are willing to see reason.” The more I fight the hysteria threading my voice, the thicker it grows.
“Even if it were that simple—which it’s not—but if it were, there’s still the matter of the diary’s allegations. People aren’t simply going to forget about it.”
This is absolutely preposterous. They are actually proposing that I marry Henry.
Henry.
No horror movie in the world could inspire a nightmare this horrendous.
One of us would end up dead. Within a week. Probably him. Which means I’d go to prison for life. Maybe I could plead self-defense? If I could hold off until I became queen, could I exonerate myself? Do queens even have that kind of power?
“Couldn’t Beatrice do it instead of me?” If the depths of my desperation weren’t already apparent, the fact that I’ve just offered up my own sister to a wolf flips on the flood lights.
Bea jerks her head up at my words, and a sharp pang flares in my chest. She’s actually hoping it’s a possibility. But let’s be honest—so am I.
The PM shakes his head. “I’m afraid Lady Beatrice is too young. The law dictates a ruler must be twenty-one before being crowned. So even if you were to abdicate your potential right to the throne, Lady Beatrice couldn’t take your place for several more years.”
Of course. I knew that. My fight-or-flight response is firing on all cylinders and skewing my ability to remember the name of my country, let alone the intricate nuances of her ascension laws.
Another thought grips me. “You said I would have to give up my dukedom. That includes our home, doesn’t it?”
The PM has turned a bright, mottled red.
Apparently, upending people’s lives isn’t something he does with any regularity.
“Since Maison de Lierre is the seat of the Duke or Duchess of Whitmere, I’m afraid that, yes, the entirety of it would go to”—he consults a paper in front of him—“your cousin, Benjamin Chapman-Payne, the new Duke of Whitmere. Should you choose to accept this responsibility,” he tacks on to the end.
How comforting. I have a choice. Which door do you choose, Celia? Hell or Hades? “But that’s our home!” I blurt out.
I worry at my bracelet, a fragile link to sanity between my fingers. My mother tenses beside me. Raising your voice at the prime minister, in front of the king, is not an acceptable thing for a lady to do. But I’ll wager no lady has ever been put in my position before.
“I know how shocking all of this must be.” The PM fixes his attention on my mother, who is sitting as though a broomstick has been superglued to her spine. “A set of rooms in the palace would be readied for each member of your family, ma’am. The three of you would assimilate into the royal family.”
She nods but doesn’t say a word. Her fairy godmother has just granted her deepest wish. What is there to say except “thank you”?
The prime minister’s face couldn’t possibly get any redder. It is now the color of a ripe beet. He resumes his attack on my world. “Which brings us to another matter. Your Grace, you would, of course, be asked to resign from your position at the Historical Society, effective immediately.”
The last support beneath me gives way, and I fall. “Excuse me? You do realize I’m the director of the Society?”
“I do, Your Grace. But if you choose to go through with this, your duties as a working royal will keep you much too busy to hold a job outside the palace. Not to mention, under the circumstances, it seems best to cut your ties with the diary and the Historical Society indefinitely.”
It’s too much. My fiancé, my home, my career. My entire life and identity. They want everything. Every single bloody thing.
“Parliament is aware of the enormity of this request. It will require sacrifice and a dedication to your country. We don’t expect you to jump into this quickly. We ask that you give it serious thought before making a decision.”
“How long do we have?” Henry is cool and collected. I am a deranged mental patient.
“Parliament is willing to give you three days to come to a decision, Your Royal Highness.”
“And if we say yes?” Henry again.
“The wedding will be in one month from now.”
I sputter a cough into my hand. “Just to clarify, we have three days to decide our future, then we’d be married in a month and crowned in three?”
“That is correct, Your Grace.”
“What a generous offer.”
The prime minister tightens his lips. “I’m not asking you to choose who you want to marry or what you want to do for the rest of your life. I’m not asking what you want at all.” His eyes soften infinitesimally. “I’m asking you to decide how much you’re willing to sacrifice for your country.”
“What if we decide we’re not willing to do this?” Henry’s voice startles me out of my downward spiral. Is saying no actually an option?
“Parliament is putting measures in place to attempt to maintain peace, but the likelihood of them being successful is thin. As a backup, we are preparing for an outbreak of war.”
My heart lurches downward. It hits my toes with a thunk. I have two choices: either follow through with this ridiculous plan, or drive Wesbourne to a civil war and, ultimately, ruin.
I’ve been grappling for a solution, anything, to prove there are other options. But it’s clear now.
Preventing a civil war is up to me and that intolerable human being across the table.