Samantha had never been any good at waiting. But for once she was sitting as patiently as a princess should, one ankle tucked demurely behind the other the way Daphne had taught her. When security came, she wanted to greet them with some degree of dignity.
It had been a split-second decision. She’d seen the expression on Beatrice’s face at Connor’s arrival—a look of anguish, of agony—and felt a sickening wave of guilt.
She had done this, by mailing Connor’s wedding invitation.
Sam didn’t know what Beatrice would choose, but she felt certain of one thing—Beatrice needed time. Time to process the fact that Connor was here. Time to sort through the tangled knot of her feelings.
Before she could second-guess herself, Sam had sprinted up the stairs to Robert’s office and set off the emergency alarm.
She couldn’t have done this a year ago; only now that she was heir to the throne did she have the authority. The system still didn’t make it easy on her: she had to scan her fingerprints and her eyes, and provide one of the emergency security codes that Robert had so irritatingly made her memorize.
At once, steel-reinforced doors had slammed down throughout the palace—doors that couldn’t be lifted until security completed a thorough sweep of the property. Sam had done the impossible for Beatrice, and had made time stop.
Of course, the system had recorded her login; the security team would figure out soon enough that she was to blame. Until then, she would sit here in Robert’s office, waiting for them.
Sam wondered what Marshall thought about all this. Had he made it to the throne room, or had the sirens gone off while he was still wandering the halls? Were things between them ruined forever, now that he’d seen that stupid moment with Teddy?
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, Sam stood.
Robert Standish flung open the door. “You,” he snarled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry for all the confusion I caused,” Sam said carefully. The chamberlain slammed his hand against the doorway, and she gave a startled jump.
“Why the hell did you set off that alarm, today of all days?”
Sam tilted her chin upward, stubborn until the end. “I had my reasons. What are you going to do, carry me out Traitor’s Gate and send me off in exile?”
“I’m taking you to Her Majesty.”
He reached out to grab Samantha’s arm, but she recoiled. “I know how to walk,” she said coolly.
Neither of them spoke as they marched down the staircase and along the main front hallway.
All around them the great machinery of the palace was groaning back to life. Footmen and security guards brushed past, their eyes burning with curiosity when they saw the chamberlain with the princess. Even the historical figures in the oil portraits seemed to be staring. In the ballroom a string quartet were arguing in low tones; the violinist was gesturing rapidly with his bow, underscoring each word with a flourish. Sam wondered what the musicians had thought when the doors closed, locking them in the ballroom alone.
As they turned the corner, Robert broke into an almost-jog. Sam hurried to keep up, though the narrow cut of her dress constricted her steps.
And there was Beatrice, standing at the entrance to the Brides’ Room. She looked like the paper doll versions of herself that they sold at the palace gift shop: pale and crisp, as if her edges had been drawn with a very sharp pencil.
“What’s going on?” she asked, gesturing them inside.
“It was a false alarm,” Robert said tersely. Beatrice let out a relieved breath, but the chamberlain’s eyes fixed meaningfully on Samantha. “Your sister set it off.”
A beat of silence followed his proclamation: a sticky, strained silence that condensed between them like the sweat dampening Sam’s back. Sam longed to close her eyes, but forced herself to hold her sister’s gaze.
“I see,” the queen said at last.
Robert blinked, evidently startled by the calm of her reply. “Your Majesty, the princess put the safety of thousands of people at risk—”
“Was anyone hurt?”
Sam had never before seen Beatrice like this, in such full, crackling command of her authority.
“Our reputation was hurt! All those guests were sent into an unnecessary panic—not to mention what the media will say when they learn that we halted your wedding without reason. Samantha knowingly engineered a false sense of alarm,” he spluttered. “She needs to be punished!”
Beatrice looked from Samantha to Robert and back again. “You’re right. Sam should be punished,” the queen concluded, and Sam’s chest seized. “But the punishment is mine to give.”
“Your Majesty—”
“What happened today will stay between us. Robert, you’ll make a statement explaining that we received a threat and had to halt the wedding, but that you won’t be providing any details about the threat as a matter of national security. As for punishment…” Beatrice looked at Samantha, her expression unreadable. “Given that she interrupted my wedding, I will decide what my sister has to do as retribution.”
Robert blinked. “With all due respect—”
“That is a direct order,” Beatrice said smoothly.
It was clear from the set of Robert’s jaw that he violently disagreed, but he acknowledged her statement with a stiff nod.
“Your Majesty, almost two hundred of your guests have already departed, including most of the foreign royalty,” he went on. “No matter how much we reassure them, they claim that they no longer feel safe. The only one who hasn’t already headed to his plane is the King of Germany, and that’s because he apparently slept through the entire fiasco.”
“Who needs foreign royals anyway?” Sam asked, as brightly as she could. “Don’t we have a backup guest list? Or, wait—you could go grab two hundred people from the streets! Think of the PR opportunities!”
Robert closed his eyes and released a long-suffering breath, as if silently praying for strength.
“There’s no need for any of that. We’re postponing the wedding,” Beatrice declared.
The Lord Chamberlain nodded. “Of course, but for how long? We could wait a few hours, or I suppose we could restage everything for tomorrow morning, if you’d rather start fresh.”
The queen shook her head. “We’re postponing indefinitely.”
When Robert realized what she meant, his eyes narrowed. “Beatrice. I will not let you do this.”
“May I remind you to address Her Majesty by her proper title,” Sam chided, and he clenched his hands at his sides.
“What is your plan, Your Majesty?” he asked, sneering. “You’re going to cancel an expensive, intricately planned, global event just because you’re getting cold feet?”
Sam shot Beatrice a livid glance, desperate to interject, but Beatrice gave her head a tiny shake. And Sam realized that this was a battle her sister needed to fight for herself.
A battle that she’d needed to fight for months, but hadn’t been confident enough to, until now.
“It might be a global event, but it’s still my life,” Beatrice said quietly.
Robert’s face was mottled red with outrage. “If you fail to go through with this wedding, you will destroy your family’s legacy. After everything the monarchy has done—”
“Excuse me, everything the monarchy has done?” Sam cut in. “What part of our legacy are you defending, Robert? The colonizing? The gross human rights violations my ancestors committed in the name of expansion and progress? Slavery?” She shook her head so emphatically that her earrings danced. “You can’t possibly say that’s all fine, but, oh no, if my sister postpones a wedding, it’ll destroy the monarchy forever!”
“What could either of you know about legacy?” Robert’s tone was blistering, all trace of politeness utterly gone. He narrowed his eyes at Beatrice. “You are just a girl sitting on a throne that is far too big for you, occupying shoes you can never hope to fill!”
Beatrice stood up straighter. “I am the head of state, not just a girl in a tiara!”
Robert laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Beatrice, you are a girl in a tiara! That is precisely your job—to smile and do as you’re told and wear the tiara! But if you persist in doing this, you won’t have a tiara for very much longer. As your chamberlain, and the steward of your family’s reputation, I cannot let you go through with it.”
“About that,” Beatrice replied, with a stubborn ferocity as palpable as heat. “You’re dismissed. The Crown no longer has need of your assistance.”
Sam gasped at her sister’s pronouncement. Robert’s brows furrowed in indignation. “You can’t mean that.”
“You’re free to go pack up your things,” Beatrice repeated. “I’ll let the Undersecretary of the Household know that you’re leaving.”
“But—the wedding—”
“Is no longer your concern.”
Robert’s expression was ugly, and twisted with malice. “This country will never accept you ruling alone.”
“No, you were the one who couldn’t accept me ruling alone,” Beatrice corrected. “I’m not sure what the country is going to think, but I’m willing to give them a chance.”