9. “We Fall Apart” - We As Human #2
The new club downtown, sure to be crawling with reporters more than happy to capture all of us on camera?
Leslie: Imagine if it is true! Can we be your ladies-in-waiting when you become queen?
Oh, god.
The news story has turned into a political nightmare in the space of one day.
Citizens across Wesbourne are taking sides.
Some, mostly those who have always supported the monarchy, are completely dismissing the diary and will do anything to keep King William on the throne.
Others are outraged at the thought of an illegitimate king reigning.
With rioters still camped outside the Historical Society, we have opted to remain closed until things die down, hopefully within a few days.
I can’t risk jeopardizing our employees or volunteers.
The truth I don’t confess to anyone is that I’m not sure I have enough courage to face that angry mob again.
Henry glimpsed the chink in my armor, but we haven’t spoken since that day.
He’s likely been advised to keep away from me, and you won’t catch me complaining about that arrangement.
Distance from me means distance from Bea.
But it turns out even my own home isn’t the safe haven I thought it was. On Wednesday, I receive a letter, tucked in a stack of bills and junk mail like some innocuous invitation. I open it, and the message makes my blood run cold.
STOP THIS MADNESS OR WE’LL STOP YOU. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.
It’s not like the location of the estate of Whitmere is a secret, but that doesn’t negate the obvious malice behind the missive.
“What is it?” my mother asks as she enters the library. She must’ve read something on my face.
I hand her the sheet of paper, and her face blanches as she reads it. “This is nonsense,” she says, but I can see she’s as shaken by it as I am. “No one would actually try to hurt us.”
“They threw a rock through my office window. I don’t think anyone knows what they will or will not do.”
Since the first article, photos of the royal family and me have cropped up everywhere.
Nauseating headlines accompany them: Two Royal Families Wage War Over Crown.
Duchess Celia Barred From Palace. The Ultimate Game of Thrones.
According to many sources, I’m nothing more than a grubby crown-snatcher, intent on ruining the nation if it means finding my way to the glory and power of the throne.
I was expecting this. If it was someone else in my shoes, I would be leading the chorus of naysayers. How dare anyone mess with our beloved Wesbourne and her monarchy, regardless of how much we like or dislike her current king?
What I didn’t see coming was those who proclaim me a national hero.
They’ve become information whores for anything they can find on “Princess” Celia—the name doesn’t even make sense, but they love it.
Videos dissecting my fashion choices are going viral, and my blog crashed under the heavy traffic it is now receiving.
I’m getting so much fan mail I’ve had to open a new email account.
I’ve even heard that a local designer sold out of a particular dress I wore several weeks ago.
The whole thing is utterly ridiculous. I just want life to go back to normal.
I have over a million wedding details to take care of, but with tensions running high, I’ve been advised to lie low for the time being.
Read: stay locked inside my house, which would have felt like punishment regardless of what was happening outside.
The Crown is reluctant to acknowledge the issue. It’s as if they think that by addressing it, they’re somehow giving credit to the diary or to my supposed claims, neither of which I expect them to do, but their lack of response has only left the people more confused and distressed.
I can’t count the number of requests I’ve received for interviews, some polite, others downright demanding.
I ignore them all, because what am I supposed to say?
By giving an interview, I’d be giving weight to the diary regardless of what I said, and the last thing I want to do is further drive a wedge between my family and the Crown.
Despite the headlines, I have no intention of making any demands on them.
So until the palace acknowledges the scandal and gives me a clue as to how to handle everything, I intend to remain silent and away from prying eyes.
It’s been two weeks since the news about the diary broke, and I’m in the library working on wedding invitations.
I’ve already met with the calligrapher twice.
Deciding between the final three sketched designs is proving to be the most difficult part of this whole process.
The problem isn’t that none of them are perfect.
It’s simply that there are more pressing issues at the moment than choosing between copper holographic or silver foil.
“Celia, you’re going to want to see this.”
I look up from my desk as Beatrice walks into the room. Her steps falter when she glimpses my face. I’m still smarting from her betrayal and the havoc it wreaked, and as a result, am keeping her at arm’s length. “I very much doubt that.”
She holds out her phone. A news video dominates the screen. “Someone set fire to the palace.”
“What?” I take it from her hand.
A reporter is stationed outside the palace gates as a cloud of smoke billows from the side of the building in the distance.
“—confirmed there was a fire in the east wing earlier this evening. Police are unsure if it was deliberately set, but early reports are pointing to an act of terrorism. Fortunately, the east wing is used very infrequently, and no casualties have been reported. We’re seeing an increase in violent acts, and we advise all citizens to stay inside unless absolutely necessary. Caution is recommended in all—”
I stop the clip, and the reporter’s face vanishes. I wish I could make the churning pit of bile in my stomach disappear as easily.
Bea looks like a broken toy as she takes her phone back. “What’s happening? It feels like the whole world is falling apart.”
“I wish I knew.”
I call Henry, and he answers on the first ring.
“I heard about the fire,” I tell him.
“A bunch of lunatics. Things are getting bad,” he says. “There was a shooting downtown too, a confrontation between two different groups that ended badly.”
“Because of the diary?”
“Seems so. There’s even been talk of taking up arms and storming the palace.”
Acid rises from my stomach and burns the back of my throat. How did things escalate so quickly? And what is it going to take to regain the peace we had less than a month ago?
“I got a threatening letter.” I don’t know what has prompted me to bring it up; it seems silly to mention in light of everything else that has happened.
There’s a pause, then Henry asks, “When?”
“A few days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” His voice takes on a lethal edge.
Bea’s mouth has popped open. She’s probably wondering the same thing. I didn’t say anything because I knew she would freak out, and because I’d rather face whoever sent the letter than my sister at the moment.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say to both of them. Clenching a pencil between my fingers, I begin doodling on the paper in front of me, hard, heavy lines swirling together. “Nothing happened.”
“For fuck’s sake, Celia,” Henry growls. “You are not to go anywhere without an armed escort, understand?”
I want to tell him where he can stick his armed escorts, but even I recognize the common sense behind his directive. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“For once in your life, just do as you’re told. I’ve got enough on my plate without worrying about you, too.”
“I never asked you to worry. I’ll be fine.”
“But if something happens to you, the Crown will take the fall for it.”
The tip of my pencil snaps. Henry’s never exhibited such regard for the Crown’s reputation before. “Your concern is touching.”
“Just stay safe, okay? I’ll let you know if there’s anything to report.” He ends the call abruptly.
I remain in exile, and by the time another week passes, a bomb threat has been made against the palace, several businesses broken have been into and looted, and a police officer has been shot during a particularly nasty riot. The Wesbourne I know and love has turned into an ugly monster.
I wonder if I’ve been mistaken all along. Is there any good in this country worth saving, or have I been living in delusion? Half the nation wants me out of the picture entirely, and the other half thinks I should be crowned her queen without further ado.
None of them care what I want.
Someone has taken a giant black crayon to my beautiful drawing and scribbled on it, until the beauty has been obliterated and only the ugly remains.