Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELLA
Asking Alya for a dress was, apparently, the easy part. The fact that she, despite being almost a head taller than I, managed to find me a flattering blue dress within two hours’ notice is proof of the castle staff’s efficiency.
What I overlooked was the part after getting into the dress—which apparently included being scrubbed and styled within an inch of my life to make me sparkle as much as the subtle shimmer in the dress’s fabric does. All of it while Alya watches on the side with the glee of a five-year-old.
“C’est beautiful, non?” The stylist asks me through the mirror while her hands play with my fresh curls like a kid with Christmas ornaments. Apparently, royal etiquette about when not to touch a royal doesn’t apply when it comes to beautifying.
“It’s very nice,” I agree politely. I try to steal a glance at Alya, who is grinning like a Cheshire Cat, her own dolling up done an hour ago. “But isn’t it a bit much for a soirée?”
“Non, non—not much!” The stylist insists, practically indignant. “C’est très jolie. Une vraie princesse.”
I run out of high school French when Alya launches into a conversation with the stick-thin woman she’s managed to recruit for our styling session.
How a teenager manages to have more poise than I do in a fancy cocktail dress is a little humbling, but I guess a few days of training isn’t exactly comparable to a lifetime’s worth.
A long talk later, Alya excuses the stylist, who leaves behind her a novel-length’s worth of instructions in rapid Franglais.
Alya assures her with something I don’t catch before the woman finally disappears.
And then it’s just us—two princesses, one by blood and one by act. Alya looks practically giddy.
“You look gorgeous, Ella.”
“It’s your dress.” I smile a little nervously.
I don’t hate the curls and the subtle, classy make-up that took an hour to apply.
And at least I have hope that Miss Franglais used professional products that will last the whole night.
But after almost a week of training and preparation, this is the moment I’m about to debut as Archer’s fiancée.
And it’s wreaking havoc on my stomach.
“One that fits you ten times better.” Alya chirps happily. “But you do look a little pale. Did you have a proper lunch?”
“I did.” I try to smile. The contacts are a little drying, and I shove some eye drops into my tiny purse before I forget. I think the term for the little thing with a clasp should be a clutch, or something. Who knows. I never was one for fashion. “I just hope I don’t cause another PR disaster.”
“Miss Fenway already took care of that,” Alya says airily. “Everyone believes your love story now.”
“My love story?”
“With Archer.”
“About how I met him at an airport years ago?”
“Yes! And have been secretly in love ever since,” Alya says with a theatrical swoon. I chuckle. “People love fairy tales. You’ll be fine.”
“But fairy tales aren’t real.”
“Maybe not.” She shrugs. “But most people want them to be. And that’s enough.”
Is it enough? I catch another glance at my reflection.
Somehow, pretending to be Prince Archer’s fiancée feels half parts dream-come-true and half parts being thrown on stage as an understudy who’s never attended any rehearsals.
These royals—they’ve been raised for this, trained and drilled their whole lives for this.
What does a girl from small-town USA know? How can I even justify being in the same room with these people?
Someone knocks, and I turn just as Alya swings my door open.
“You’re late,” she says to whoever is at the door.
“I am never late,” comes the reply. “You, on the other hand, look remarkably on time tonight, Little Sister.”
I hold my breath as Alya snorts and steps aside, leaving me face-to-face with Prince Archer in a suit. My heart trips. Some ladies like cowboys or abs on a beach bod. Me? I apparently like a man who looks like he stepped right out of a fairy tale.
He nods his head in a small bow, and I very nearly melt into a puddle on the floor.
“You look beautiful,” he says. No flowery compliments. No flirtatious undertones. He says it like it’s the most commonplace observation, like it’s a fact.
My lungs work overtime to restore oxygen to my respiratory system as he walks into the room and stops in front of me.
He lifts a small box. “I brought something for you.”
I tear my eyes from his face and look down at what looks very much like a ring box, although a little more flat than usual.
I frown. “But I already have a ring.”
He makes a sound that almost resembles a chuckle this time. “It’s not a ring. And, like everything around here, it’s more of a loan for the evening.”
“A tiara then?”
Alya laughs out loud. I am very relieved my blunder isn’t caught on camera, or witnessed by a room full of reporters. Why did I ever think I could manage this?
Archer flips the box open.
I notice the blue first. It’s not surprising, given how much everything is always aquamarine-themed around here.
But there’s also some silvery filigree around the main round gemstone.
I don’t see a chain, so it might be a pin of some kind.
As a whole, the piece is old-fashioned yet pretty.
As jewelry goes, it might not entirely be my style, but I’ve been raised too polite to decline something so kindly offered.
“It looks pretty.”
“Hm.”
I look up. Is there some kind of royal protocol for accepting a piece of loaned jewelry? I try to remember something from the three thousand rules that have been explained to me over the past few days.
“It’s called the Langford Brooch,” he says.
The words click. And my jaw drops.
It takes me a beat to calm myself. “As in—Anthony Langford?”
“As in Lady Langford, his mother, for whom this piece was commissioned.”
“My great-great-grandmother was a lady?”
“It appears so.”
“And Anthony Langford—”
“Was a younger son, hence no title.”
“Ah.”
My eyes fly back to the brooch. All my life, my family’s ties to Northandria have felt more like legend than history. And just because there is a castle sharing our name doesn’t exactly have to mean much. People make wrong connections and draw wrong conclusions all the time.
But here’s proof—tangible, historical proof—that the family lore isn’t just a bunch of make-believe. It’s the sort of thing that I came to Northandria subconsciously searching for and never thought possible to uncover, even in my wildest dreams.
My throat tightens. My eyes sting.
But Archer, dear Prince Archer, who probably sees heirloom jewelry by the dozen a day, simply offers. “Would you like to wear it?”
I barely manage to choke out, “Yes.”