Probably because there was no one else she could say it to, except maybe Sam. And while Sam would have given her unconditional love, Nina also knew that Sam wouldn’t have understood, not really.

“No, I’m glad you did.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse. “My mom is the best, no question. She’s got more energy than anyone I’ve ever met. But I always worried about her, too. I used to think that it was my fault that my dad left, since…well, my mom is so amazing, so there’s no way he could have left because of her.”

“Ethan, you can’t blame yourself for your dad’s leaving,” Nina whispered, her heart sore.

“Yeah, I know that. But…” He sighed. “I guess it’s one thing to know it, and another thing to actually believe it. To actually feel like it’s not my fault.”

Nina’s hand tightened over his. She realized how rare it was for Ethan to speak with such raw honesty.

“I don’t know who my dad is,” he said clumsily. “The only thing my mom ever says about him was that they loved each other a long time ago, but that he couldn’t be part of my life. She doesn’t seem to resent him for it.”

“I don’t know anything about my biological father either,” Nina admitted. “Except that he was a medical school student who donated sperm for extra money. Oh, and that he didn’t have any family history of disease.”

“You don’t wonder about him?” Ethan asked.

No, Nina was about to lie, but bit it back. “Sometimes, but I try not to. I know who my parents are. That man is just a stranger who helped them find their way to me.”

Ethan’s gaze was fixed on the horizon. “When I was little, I had all these outlandish theories about who my dad might be. I thought he was a superhero, or an astronaut—that he was off saving the world, and would come back for us eventually.” He sighed. “I think I was in middle school when I finally realized that he wasn’t coming.”

He leaned forward, the lines of his body languid and weary.

Nina turned toward him. “It doesn’t matter who your father is. You know that, right? His choices don’t determine who you are. Only your choices do that.”

“I don’t always make the best choices,” she thought she heard Ethan mutter, so softly she couldn’t be certain.

“Look at me.” She grabbed his head with both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You are not defined by your father. Neither of us is, okay? You are you, and you are a complete person, and you are good.”

“But I wonder sometimes…if I found him, if I knew who he was…would I feel like I belong?”

Nina was silent. She’d lived around the royal family long enough to know how it felt, standing on the outside of something, peering in with lonely eyes.

“But you do belong,” she said adamantly. “You belong with me.”

Ethan’s weight shifted. For an instant Nina thought he might kiss her—but instead his arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close.

Nina turned her head to the side, resting it on Ethan’s shoulder, and breathed him in. She thought about childhood dreams and grown-up dreams and wondered how and where those two things might collide. She thought about the feel of Ethan’s heart, beating steadily against her own.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, hugging on the top of the Statue of Liberty, but it was long enough for her to realize one very important thing.

This was the same Ethan who, for years, had convinced Nina that he was snarky and arrogant. Maybe he still was those things. But now she appreciated the wicked edge to his humor, knew the arrogance was just a defense mechanism. She knew the real Ethan, the one behind all the emotional armor.

Ethan stepped away, looking a little sheepish. His eyes flicked curiously around. “I wonder…”

“What?” Nina demanded, as he marched over to the back of the viewing platform, where the spikes of the statue’s crown rose sharply overhead.

“I can’t believe it’s still here,” he said with a grin. “I must have done this when I was ten.”

“What’s still here?”

He pointed, and suddenly Nina saw it: EB, scratched out in blocky letters on the metal’s surface.

“You delinquent! You defaced a national monument?”

“Your surprise is rather insulting.” Ethan reached into his pocket for a key, holding it on an outstretched palm.

Nina hesitated, then smiled.

“Give me a boost,” she requested. Ethan obediently picked her up, holding her around the waist so she could scratch out NG on the furled sheet of copper, right below his EB.

When he put her down, the two of them stood there staring up at their initials—binding them together, here on this landmark, for all eternity.

Normally Beatrice dreaded invitations. She received thousands per year, and while she hated letting people down, she simply couldn’t say yes to them all.

But for the past few months, she’d been waiting desperately for an invitation that never arrived.

She knew precisely what it should have looked like, because she’d seen them before, back when they used to arrive for her father: a scroll of heavy parchment tied with a red ribbon. Most Gracious Sovereign, it would begin, your dutiful and loyal subjects in Congress assembled do entreat you to attend our gathering….

Beatrice knew it would be unprecedented, for a monarch to show up at Congress without an invitation. But no Congress had ever failed to invite the monarch to its closing session, either.

How could Beatrice fulfill her duties as queen if her own legislative branch didn’t treat her like one?

And so, this morning, she’d invented an errand that sent Robert far from the palace. To her relief, he’d left without protest.

Now she was in a town car, headed toward Columbia House, the meeting place of both bodies of Congress.

Outside her window, the city rushed past in a blur of gray stone and brightly colored billboards. People in suits streamed up and down the stairs to the metro. Towering over two city blocks was the bulk of the Federal Treasury Building, topped by an enormous copper eagle. Several minutes later, the car turned in to Columbia House’s back entrance.

Beatrice’s muscles tightened in fear. She wanted to throw open the car door, yet she forced herself to wait until her driver came around to open it for her. She reached up to touch the gold chain of state that hung around her neck. It was so heavy, its weight pressing into the top of her spine—but her father had never bowed his head beneath it, and neither would Beatrice.

She was decked out in the full regalia of her position. The ivory sash of the Edwardian Order, the highest of America’s chivalric honors. The heavy, ermine-trimmed robe of state. And, finally, the massive Imperial State Crown. It was all too big for her—especially the crown, which kept falling off the back of her head, or slipping down to catch on her nose.

The trappings of state were heavy and clunky on Beatrice’s slender frame because they had all been designed for men.

A young man in a suit, most likely some kind of congressional assistant, sprinted forward. When Beatrice stepped out of the car in full ceremonial attire, he went pale. “Your Majesty,” he exclaimed—then seemed to recall himself, and swept her an abbreviated bow.

“Thank you for coming to greet me.” She passed him with a few crisp steps, trying not to think about how utterly wrong this all was. She should have been stepping over this threshold with fanfare, not stealing through the back door of her own government like a thief in the night.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he breathed, rushing to catch up with her. “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you.”

Beatrice’s heels made sharp clicks on the polished granite of the floor. She drew in a breath, summoning every last shred of her confidence. “Will you lead the way…” She trailed off, waiting for the young man to provide his name.

“Charles, Your Majesty.” His eyes drifted to the crown, and his resolve wavered. “I—that is—it would be my honor,” he stammered, and fell into step behind her. Of course, he couldn’t actually lead the way, since no one was permitted to walk ahead of the reigning monarch.

Beatrice started down the long hallway of Columbia House, past various wooden doors, all of them shut. She had to walk with agonizingly slow steps; the robe of state dragged behind her like an enormous velvet rug. It felt like someone had grabbed hold of her hair and was yanking her backward.

At the entrance to the House of Tribunes—the lower chamber of Congress—Beatrice looked expectantly at Charles. “Please knock. Do you know what to say?”

His throat bobbed, but he managed a nod. Then he sucked in a breath and pounded on the door—once, twice, a third time. “Her Majesty the Queen requests the right to address this gathering!”

Utter silence followed Charles’s words.

Except it was worse than silence, because Beatrice realized she heard a soft chorus of sounds from within: uneasy whispers, the rustling of robes, hurried footsteps. Everything except what she should have heard, which was a shouted response to Charles’s statement, welcoming her inside.