12. “All Too Well” - Taylor Swift
“All Too Well” - Taylor Swift
I’m now officially procrastinating. My first of the three days is gone, and I’m no closer to making a decision than I was when I walked out of the palace, dragging the ruins of my demolished world behind me.
Henry keeps calling, but I always let it ring through.
I can’t talk to him until I know what to say.
I haven’t talked to Beck yet either for the same reason.
What do I tell him? Hey honey, how would you feel if I broke off our engagement because a better opportunity came along?
If our situations were reversed and he said that to me, he’d be lucky to leave the room with all his appendages still attached.
I consider flipping a coin. I even spin it on my desk, but the circles make me dizzy. I imagine explaining to the prime minister that I made my decision because the coin landed face up, but I have a bit too much pride for that.
Speaking of pride, if I’m being truly honest, that’s one of the biggest issues at stake here. It’s what kept me quiet about the diary in the first place, has prevented me from doing a single interview since, and is now complicating this whole thing by rearing its atrocious head again.
If I do what Parliament is requesting, some people will see me as heartless and cruel for leaving my fiancé behind—all in a bid for power and fame, they’ll say.
This bothers me more than it should. I’m also worried that I’ll lose the faith of the people whose interests I’ve been championing these past few years.
My opinion on the outdated class system is no secret, and I’ve been a vocal advocate for equality.
I will lose their trust entirely if I accept the position as their queen, lording over them like I’m somehow their superior.
On the other hand, if I say no to this whole thing and try to get my life back to what it was, I’ll still be ostracized by those who think I’ve made the wrong decision. And, of course, I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I could have saved Wesbourne from a civil war.
No matter which way you spin it, my life will never be the same again, and now there will always be people who hate me. I’m trying not to let this bother me, but it does.
By the time noon rolls around, I haven’t done anything to get me closer to a decision besides accept Beck’s dinner invitation.
There’s a sickening dread simmering in my stomach at the thought of what I’m going to say to him, but I push it aside.
Until I know how to proceed, there’s no use stressing over it.
Maisie calls to ask if I’m willing to meet with Kira Radbury’s mother.
She has unofficially stepped into the role of my private secretary/gatekeeper-to-the-world since the Society closed, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
She had the foresight to send flowers to Ms. Radbury because she knew I was too preoccupied to remember.
“She says it won’t take long. I think she wants to thank you in person for the flowers and for what you’re doing to protect children like Kira.”
Which to date is nothing, thanks to that failed meeting with the petition committee.
“I’m heading into the city this evening,” I say. “I could meet her then.”
Beck and I agreed to have dinner at his flat. I didn’t relish the idea of Davies and Lane, or any other restaurant patrons, being privy to our conversation.
Maisie offers to arrange everything and get me the details. Four hours later, I’m once again riding in the back seat of the obnoxious Crown-issued SUV, which might as well be a military tank, on the narrow country road.
I don’t know what I’ll say to Kira’s mother, and I don’t have a bloody clue what to say to Beck. I’m hoping my fairy godmother will transform me into a pumpkin by the time I get there so I can avoid both situations.
Maisie has arranged for me to meet Ms. Radbury at Flynn Park. It’s one of the less frequented ones in the city and has the benefit of being close to Ms. Radbury’s home in the eastern district.
I’m shadowed by my favorite PPOs, and when we arrive, they insist on securing the area before allowing me to exit the car. It’s complete overkill because this section of the park is clearly deserted, but I do as I’m told and stay in the vehicle while Lane scouts the perimeter like he’s 007.
When I’m finally permitted to get out, I see Ms. Radbury waiting for me on a wrought iron bench. She stands as I walk over, my guard dogs sticking to my side like Velcro. I plan on stepping in if they try to pat her down, but they stop about ten yards away from us, offering the illusion of privacy.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Kira’s mother says, and gives a short bob that I belatedly realize is supposed to be a curtsy. She is young, only a few years older than me. She must have been just a teenager when her daughter was born.
“You don’t need to do that,” I tell her. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“I don’t mean to take much of your time. I just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Kira. Not enough people care about what happens to kids like her.”
On impulse, I reach out and wrap my fingers around Ms. Radbury’s. They’re icy. “What happened to your daughter was terrible, and I will do everything in my power to prevent it from happening to other children.”
She offers me a sad smile, and my heart breaks again at the tragedy this woman has endured at such a young age. “If only things had worked out differently, and you were actually our queen.”
Her words jolt through me, but there’s no way she could know about Parliament’s proposition. She’s only referring to Helena’s secret. “I’m not sure how much good I’d do from the palace either.”
“Why not? You’d have more power.”
I look at the trees around us, glowing like embers in the light of the setting sun. “I’d feel like such a hypocrite. I’m not sure people would trust me anymore.”
“Sure they would. It’s different when those in power are on your side.”
Is it? Maybe. I’ll have to mull this over later, since I’m going to be late getting to Beck if I don’t leave soon. I thank Ms. Radbury and ask her to let me know if there’s anything else I can do. She agrees, and I’m ushered back into the car by my attentive hounds.
As the city sweeps past us, I use the precious minutes to think about what I’m going to say when I see Beck. He deserves the truth. The problem is, I’m not sure what the truth is anymore.
Do I want to be queen? Am I willing to give up everything for Wesbourne? Will I be able to live with myself if I don’t save her? I don’t have the answers to any of it.
As we pull up in front of Beck’s apartment building, in a small hippie village near downtown, my eyes snag on a piece of Mylar caught in a bush beside the front door.
A shudder crawls down my spine. It’s just a deflated birthday balloon, I tell myself.
But that does nothing to dissolve the taste of death in my mouth.
Beck has made individual beef Wellingtons, a green peppercorn sauce, fingerling potatoes, and fresh green beans—which he picked up at the farmer’s market this morning, along with strawberry almond baklava from the confectioner’s stand.
He’s capped the whole thing off with a very nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.
I feel sick.
I was surprised the first time I saw his flat.
I’d been expecting a stark and cold bachelor pad, but his warm gray walls are tastefully hung with art in a variety of styles and mediums. A supple leather sofa faces a television he only turns on when I’m here, and three stools sit at a bar that separates the kitchen and living room.
All of the surfaces are free of junk mail, magazines, and odds and ends, and are instead decorated with pictures of the two of us and his sisters.
An impressive collection of books takes up a good portion of one wall, and they aren’t there for vanity either. He’s read nearly all of them.
During my time at uni, I came across a study that showed that couples who live together before marriage have a higher divorce rate than those who wait until after their vows.
When we got engaged, Beck and I decided we had everything going in our favor already.
It seemed crazy to tempt the universe. After the wedding, we were planning to live in at his place for a year or two before moving to Maison de Lierre for good.
Life with him would be easy, comfortable.
I wouldn’t have to nag him about leaving his wet bath towel on the floor or putting the milk carton away empty.
He’d indulge me with Gilmore Girls and foot rubs, and I’d buy him a hardcover political thriller for every birthday and holiday.
And to think I’m considering dousing the whole thing in gasoline and lighting a match.
“Aren’t you hungry?” He points at my plate with his fork. I’ve managed to take two bites of the incredible pastry he’s prepared.
“It’s delicious. I’m just not feeling the best.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”
I nod. That’s why I’m here, but the words refuse to form.
He watches me, and when he realizes I’m not going to say anything, he adds, “I’m assuming you’re still thinking about the diary?”
I bite my lip and nod again. I’m a coward, pure and simple. The least my fairy godmother could have done is load me up with courage when she rejected my request to be transformed into a gourd.
“Are you also thinking about the emergency Parliament session?”
My head snaps up. Of course he knows about the meeting.
He works at the palace. Maybe he knows about everything.
Maybe I’ve been stressing, running myself ragged over how to tell him, and he’s known all along.
Maybe it’s not as big of a deal as I’m making it into; maybe there’s a legal loophole or the situation has died down since the meeting or—
A glance at Beck’s confused face ends my fantasy. He doesn’t know anything.