Chapter 3
Penelope
Rule number one of being the spare: never expect people to like you.
Of course they don’t. You’re just the other one: a ‘break glass in case of emergency’ kinda gal.
And that’s aside from the fact I’m a constant irritation to Morrigan, and she’s everyone’s favourite.
Obviously. I mean she is the heir apparent.
I draw pink over my lips and huff as I glance in my ensuite mirror. It’s not the right shade. I hunt through my makeup bag and pull another one out. Powder puff, it should match my designer baby pink heels and dress. But when I draw it over my lips it still isn’t right.
I huff in the mirror and clap my balled fists together, drawing my index finger over my knuckles, and then tap my little finger on the pads of my other middle and index fingers. The thinnest most pathetic thread of magic peels from the palace wall.
“Oh, come on, I actually tried,” I whine, knowing damn well the palace isn’t going to answer. The silvery thread drifts through the air and lands on my mouth. My lips shimmer and tingle, and when they settle, my lipstick is finally the correct colour. I stroke the wall in thanks.
I examine myself, pout, and smile, pleased that my lips match the dress. The designer sent it to me, asked if I’d wear it out and be photographed. I was only too happy to oblige, of course, given the way the dress clings to my figure.
It’s a dream. Fits like a glove. Cut short, curving around my ass, and displaying my ugly long legs.
That’s another thing Morrigan got. Curves.
And the same figure and olive skin to die for as our mother, while I got gangly limbs, our father’s pasty white skin and equally boring blonde hair.
Even the blue of my eyes is basic. It’s not like I can do anything about it either.
I’m no good at hair-dying magic, unlike my sister.
I can manage the odd lip tint and occasionally manage to reheat food when I’ve taken too long to eat.
I’ve got maybe a dozen pieces of magic under my belt and not a single fucking Collection tattoo.
Unlike Morrigan, who has gone and studied in all the top mansions, castles and palaces in the realm. In record time she’s learned enough that the mansions have bestowed upon her a Collection tattoo, meaning she has unrestricted access to their magic.
And I’ve got nothing.
Which is precisely why I’ll eat a barrel of Borderlands dirt before I ask her for help changing my hair colour. And that is why my hair stays platinum blonde and hers is as dark as the night sky.
I sigh as I stare into the mirror, dissatisfied as usual. My watch tells me it’s time to go. I exit the bathroom and head to my bedroom desk. My fingers brush the letters strewn over it.
I’d like to tell you they’re some sort of romantic love letters. Invitations to swanky parties or, gods only know what. But they’re so much worse. I shuffle some papers over the top to hide them.
To hide my secret.
My fuck-up.
It should have worked. It could have if the lords had all played ball. If Roman would have just given me something… anything. I swear I’d have delivered a message to his brother too. But no. Well, fuck him. He’s probably dead now anyway.
I’m just gutted because this would have been my first real achievement in palace politics. But no. The only person who ever gets credit for anything is Morrigan.
I shuffle the papers again, realising I probably should have told someone. But what good would it do? It’s not like they’re going to follow up on the threats. It’s just all pomp and ego. Trying to force me to fix their mess.
A knock on the door startles me as I brush the last of the letters away.
Benedict, Mother’s chief of staff, is by the door. “Your Highness, the carriage awaits for the family meal this evening.”
Joy.
“I’m not going.”
Benedict gives a nervous laugh. He brushes a hand over his moustache. “While I’d love to entertain your antics this evening, Ms Penelope, I’m afraid the consequences would be too severe for the pair of us. Her Royal Highness Queen Calandra was adamant that you should attend.”
I grit my teeth.
His eyes drop to his jacket pocket and he pulls out a letter. “I’m afraid I need to inform you that I found this.”
Shit.
No one knows about the letters. They’ve been finding their way into the palace or into my carriages without going through the royal postal system for a couple of weeks. I thought I was keeping them secret.
Benedict’s eyes skirt from me to the letter, his brow rising. “So this wasn’t the first one. You already know?” His tone is low, not a threat exactly. And not a warning either. More like a mildly irritated protectiveness.
“I…” I start.
Oh, fuck me. This isn’t good. The truth is, I never wanted to date Roman. I did it to piss Morrigan off.
Obviously.
And I saw an opportunity and thought I could use his contacts to my benefit. I figured it had been long enough since he was banished that it would look like it was my doing. It’s not like I expected the lords to get pissed enough to send me death threats.
I just wanted to do something better than Morrigan for once. She gets everything. She’s the heir; I’m just the spare in case something happens to her. I’m not important.
Not wanted.
Not needed.
Do you have any idea how much that shit can fuck a girl’s psyche up? It’s not like I stand a chance against her. Look at her… Total overachiever. Power seeping from every pore in her body. Born a queen.
I am, in essence, useless.
So, call a bitch crazy, but I took whatever opportunity I could find. But apparently, I’ve fucked up…
And sure, I probably shouldn’t have gone to visit Roman in Sangui City. Gods forbid anyone actually found out. But I was cornered and needed help. The plus side of seeing him get his comeuppance wasn’t too bad either.
Besides, it’s not like anyone noticed I’d left New Imperium, and it was only one night.
Benedict coughs, drawing my attention back to him. His eyes fall away from mine as he holds the letter out.
“It’s not the original,” I say.
He nods, solemn. “It’s a copy.”
I knew it. The writing isn’t in red. It’s in muted black, like a magician used replicating magic on it. But if that’s not the original…
“Benedict…Where is the original?” I do threaten him with my tone.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I had no choice,” his voice is now a whine.
I knead my temples. “Tell me you didn’t go to—” but I fall momentarily silent as she strolls into sight, right as her name reaches the tip of my tongue.
“—Daria?” I finish.
“This is your life we’re talking about,” Benedict says.
I snatch the letter out of his hands. I hope it gives him a paper cut and really hurts. “Is it? Or are you just worried about Morrigan’s wedding?”
His eyes widen like carriage wheels, he pouts and then touches my arm, completely ignoring my comment. “You must attend this evening.”
I grumble but he vanishes down the corridor knowing I’ll acquiesce.
I nearly leap out of my skin as I turn back to the door only to come face to face with Daria, who halts close enough I actually have to crane my neck to look up at her, and I’m tall.
“Daria,” I say, twitching and knowing full well I’m about to be scalded.
Daria is severe. Her features are sharp and angular. Like her sense of humour. Bracing, cutting, and only funny when you’re not on the receiving end of it. She is the only topic Morrigan and I actually agree on. The woman is as vicious as she is feral, but it’s what makes her good at her job.
“Your Highness,” she says, staring down the blade point of her nose at me.
“What can I do for you on this lovely evening?” Of course, I know exactly what I can do for her, and this evening is turning out to be anything but lovely. But I’m not giving her an opening if I don’t have to.
“Must we play games? This is quite the serious matter.”
Oh please, I only ever play games, and she damn well knows it. But her face remains utterly devoid of emotion. So boring.
Fine. “Have you told Calandra?” I ask.
This time, Daria twitches. Interesting, so Mother doesn’t know.
“Do I need to tell her? How serious is this?” she asks.
Serious enough that I probably need to give royal land away, embezzle money and beg Stirling to make the deal of a lifetime, but no big, honestly.
“It’s fine. It’s probably just some fan boy wishing he could get a piece of me.”
Daria’s eyes narrow to slits.
I tuck the letter into my handbag. “I’m going to be late. Is there anything else?”
“How long has it been going on?”
“Not long.” Half a lie. It’s been going on two straight weeks.
“I’m launching an investigation. And you’re getting a bodyguard. A personal one.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter. It’s just some city boy desperate for attention.”
Daria leans down into my face. “Your safety is my concern. Not which fanboy wants to slip his todger in your knickers.”
I open my mouth but all that comes out is a stifled cough-laugh. The word todger should not be allowed in the mouth of someone so stern.
She continues, ignoring my lip twitch. “There will be no protesting. You will take the bodyguard, or I will personally chain you to this room. And given the imminency of the royal wedding, I think we both know which Calandra would prefer. Understood?”
I press my lips together to stop the scream from coming out and nod. But not before giving her a sly birdie as I march down to the palace vestibule. Was it childish? Probably. Did it make me feel better? Absolutely.
My new bodyguard is standing by the carriage. His arm out wide, indicating I should get in. He looks like he’s eighty. Wrinkled, hunched over and as beige as the clothes he’s wearing.
Fucking great.