The Queen (5 page)

T
HE BLINDING LIGHTS IN THE
studio always took some adjusting to. Adding the weight of the jeweled dresses my maids insisted I wear for the
Report
made the hour almost unbearable.

The new reporter was interviewing the girls. There were still enough of us left that it was easy to be skipped over, and, for the moment, that was my goal. But, if I had to be asked a question, it wouldn’t be so bad to have it come from Gavril Fadaye.

The previous royal announcer, Barton Allory, retired the night the new Selection candidates were revealed, sharing the moment with his hand-chosen replacement. Twenty-two years old, from a respectable line of Twos and sparkling with personality, Gavril was easy to like. I was sad to see Barton go . . . but not that sad.

“Lady Piper, what do you think the primary role of the princess should be?” Gavril asked, the bright flash of his teeth making Madeline nudge me in the arm.

Piper gave him a winning smile and took a breath. Then another. Then the silence got uncomfortable.

It was then that I realized that we should all be slightly terrified of this question. I darted my eyes toward the queen, who would leave on a flight immediately after the cameras turned off. She was watching Piper, daring her to speak after she’d warned us to be silent.

I checked the monitor, and the fear in her face was painful to watch.

“Piper?” Pesha whispered beside her.

Piper finally shook her head.

Gavril’s eyes said he was searching for a way to save this, to save
her
. Barton would have known what to do, for sure. Gavril was just too new.

I raised my hand, and Gavril looked up at me, grateful.

“We had such a long conversation about this the other day, I’m guessing Piper just doesn’t know where to start.” I laughed, and some of the other girls followed. “We all agree our first duty is to the prince. Serving him is serving Illéa—and that might seem like a strange job description, but us doing our part allows the prince to do his.”

“Well said, Lady Amberly.” Gavril smiled and moved on to another question.

I didn’t look at the queen. Instead, I focused on sitting upright as the stab of another headache started in. Maybe
they were caused by stress? But if that was the case, then why did I get them for no reason at all sometimes?

I noted on the monitors that the cameras were not focused on me or even my row, so I allowed myself a tentative brush of my forehead. Of all the things, I could tell my hands were getting softer. I wanted to prop my head up on my arm completely, but that wasn’t possible. Even if the rudeness would have been forgiven, the dress wouldn’t allow me to bend that way.

I pulled myself up, focusing my breathing. The steady ache was growing, but I willed myself to stay upright. I’d worked through feeling sick before, and under much worse conditions.
This is nothing,
I told myself.
All I have to do is sit.

The questions seemed to last forever, though I didn’t think Gavril had spoken to all the girls. Eventually, the cameras stopped rolling. I remembered then that I wasn’t quite finished. There was still dinner before I could go back to my room, and that usually lasted about an hour.

“Are you all right?” Madeline asked.

I nodded. “Tired probably.”

We turned our heads to the sound of laughter. Prince Clarkson was talking to some of the girls in the front row.

“I like his hair tonight,” Madeline commented.

He held up a finger to the ladies he had been speaking to and circled around the crowd, his eyes on me. I made a small curtsy when he approached, and as I stood, I felt his hand go around my back, binding us together and keeping our faces from the others.

“Are you sick?”

I sighed. “I tried to hide it. My head is throbbing. I just need to lie down.”

“Take my arm.” He held out his elbow for me, and I wrapped my hand around it. “Smile.”

I lifted my lips. Despite the discomfort, it was easier with him there.

“Very generous of you to grace me with your presence,” he said, just loud enough so the girls we were standing by could hear. “I’m trying to remember what dessert it is you like best.”

I didn’t answer but continued to look happy as we exited the studio. I let my smile drop once we were out the doorway, and when we reached the end of the hallway, Clarkson scooped me up.

“Let’s get you to the doctor.”

I clenched my eyes together. I was getting nauseated again, and my whole body was starting to feel clammy. But I felt more comfortable in his arms than I would have on a chair or bed. Even with all the swaying, being curled up with my head on his shoulder felt like the best thing in the world.

A new nurse was in the hospital wing, but she was just as kind as she helped Clarkson get me into a bed, with my legs propped up on a pillow.

“The doctor is sleeping,” she said. “He was up all last night and most of the day with two different maids, helping them deliver. Two boys back-to-back! Only fifteen minutes apart.”

I smiled at the happy news. “There’s no need to disturb him,” I told her. “It’s only a headache, and it’ll pass.”

“Nonsense,” Clarkson replied. “Send for a maid and have our dinners brought here. We’ll wait for Dr. Mission.”

The nurse nodded and headed off.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I whispered. “He’s had a rough night, and I’ll be fine.”

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t make sure you were properly taken care of.”

In my head I tried to turn those words into something romantic, but it sounded more as if he felt obligated. Still, if he had wanted to, he could have gone to eat with the others. Instead, he chose to stay with me.

I picked at my dinner, not wanting to be rude, but my head was still making me feel sick. The nurse brought some medicine for me, and by the time Dr. Mission showed up, his hair slick from a shower, I felt much better. The throbbing was more like a tiny pulse than a ringing bell.

“I’m sorry for the delay, Your Highness,” he said with a bow.

“It’s no problem,” Prince Clarkson replied. “We’ve been enjoying a lovely meal in your absence.”

“How is your head, miss?” Dr. Mission took my wrist in his fingers to check my pulse.

“Much better. The nurse gave me some medicine, and that did a world of good.”

He pulled out a little light and shone it into my eyes. “Maybe you should take something daily. I know you try to
fix them once they start, but we might be able to stop them from happening. Nothing for certain, but I’ll see what I can get you.”

“Thank you.” I folded my arms over my lap. “How are the babies?”

The doctor beamed. “Absolutely perfect. Healthy and fat.”

I smiled, thinking of the two new lives that started in the palace today. Would they be best friends, maybe? And grow up telling everyone the story about how they were born so close to each other?

“Speaking of babies, I wanted to discuss some of the results of your physical.”

All humor left my face, left my whole body. I sat up straighter, bracing myself. I could read in his expression that I was about to be sentenced to something.

“Your tests show several different toxins in your bloodstream. If they’re showing up this heavily after weeks of being out of your home province, my guess is that the levels were much higher when you were there. Now, for some people this wouldn’t be an issue. The body responds, adjusts, and can live without any side effects whatsoever. Based on what you told me about your family, I would say two of your siblings are doing just that.

“But one of your sisters gets nosebleeds, correct?”

I nodded.

“And you get constant headaches?”

I nodded again.

“I suspect your body is not taking these toxins in stride.
Between the tests and some of the more personal things you’ve told me, I think these bouts of tiredness, nausea, and pain will continue, probably for the rest of your life.”

I sighed. Well, that wasn’t worse than what I was experiencing now. And at least Clarkson didn’t seem bothered by my condition.

“I also have reasons to be concerned about your reproductive health.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed. In my periphery, I noticed Clarkson shift in his seat.

“But . . . but why? My mother had four children. And she and my father both came from large families. I just get tired, that’s all.”

Dr. Mission remained composed, clinical, as if he wasn’t discussing the most personal parts of my life. “Yes, and while genetics help, based on the tests, it seems that your body would be . . . an unfavorable habitat for a fetus. And any child you might conceive”—he paused, flitted his eyes toward the prince before looking back at me—“might be unfit for . . . certain tasks.”

Certain tasks. As in not smart enough, healthy enough, or good enough to be a prince.

My stomach rolled.

“Are you sure?” I asked weakly.

Clarkson’s eyes watched the doctor for confirmation. I supposed this was vital information for him.

“That would be the best case. If you manage to conceive at all.”

“Excuse me.” I leaped from the bed and ran down to the bathroom near the entrance of the hospital wing, flung myself into a stall, and finally heaved up every last thing in my body.

A
WEEK WENT BY
. C
LARKSON
didn’t so much as look at me. I was heartbroken. I had foolishly let myself believe it was possible. After we’d moved past the awkwardness of our first conversation, it seemed as if he’d gone out of his way to see me, to look after me.

Clearly that had passed.

I was sure that one day soon Clarkson would send me home. Sometime after that my heart would mend. If I was lucky, I’d meet someone new, and what would I say to him? Not being able to create a worthy heir to the throne was something theoretical, a far-off maybe. But not being able to create any sort of healthy child? It was too much to bear.

I ate only when I thought people were watching. I slept only when I was too exhausted not to. My body didn’t care for me, so what did I care for it?

The queen returned from her holiday, the
Report
s continued, the days of endlessly sitting like dolls rolled blindly into one another. It was nothing to me.

I was in the Women’s Room, sitting by the window. The sun reminded me of Honduragua, though it was drier here. I sat praying, begging God to have Clarkson send me home. I was too ashamed to write my family and tell them the bad news, but being around all these girls and their aspirations to climb castes made it worse. I had limits. I couldn’t hope for that. At least at home I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

Madeline came up behind me and rubbed her hand on my back. “You all right?”

I mustered a weak smile. “Just tired. Nothing new.”

“You sure?” She smoothed her dress beneath her as she sat. “You seem . . . different.”

“What are your goals in life, Madeline?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean just that. What are your dreams? If you could get the most out of life, what would you ask for?”

She smiled wistfully. “I’d be the new princess, of course. With tons of admirers and parties every weekend and Clarkson on a string. Wouldn’t you?”

“That’s a lovely dream. Now, if you were to ask the
least
out of life, what would you ask for?”

“The least? Why would anyone go for the least they could have?” She grinned, joking even though she didn’t understand.

“But shouldn’t there be a least? Shouldn’t there be a bare
minimum that life should give you? Is it too much to ask for a job you don’t hate, or for someone to truly have and hold? Is it too much to ask for one child? Even one some would call flawed? Couldn’t I at least have that?” My voice broke, and I put my fingers over my mouth, as if my tiny bones would be enough to stop the hurt.

“Amberly?” Madeline whispered. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “Really, I just need rest.”

“You shouldn’t be here now. Let me walk you to your room.”

“The queen will get upset.”

She chuckled once. “When isn’t she upset?”

I sighed. “When she’s drunk.”

Madeline’s laughter this time was lighter and more real, and she covered her mouth, hoping to avoid drawing attention. Seeing her like that helped my mood, and when she stood, it was easier to follow.

She didn’t ask more questions, but I thought I might tell her before I left. It would be nice to have someone know.

When we got to my room, I turned and embraced her. I took my time letting go, and she didn’t rush me. For that moment I got the least I needed out of life.

I walked to my bed, but before I crawled in, I dropped to my knees and folded my hands in prayer.

“Am I asking for too much?”

Another week passed. Clarkson sent two girls home. I wished with all that was in myself that it had been me.

Why wasn’t it me?

I knew Clarkson had rough edges, but I didn’t believe him to be cruel. I didn’t think he would taunt me with a position I’d never have.

I felt as if I was sleepwalking, going through the motions of competition like a ghost rewalking her last steps over and over. The world felt like a shadow of itself, and I trudged across it, cold and tired.

It didn’t take long for the girls to stop asking questions. Every once in a while I felt the weight of their eyes on me. But I’d moved beyond their reach, and they seemed to understand it was best not to bother with the stretch. I fell below the queen’s notice. . . . I fell below most everyone’s notice, and I didn’t mind it too much down there, alone with my worries.

I might have gone on that way forever. But one day, a day as bland and weary as any of the others that had passed, I’d been so far gone that I didn’t notice as the dining room cleared. Nothing registered until a suit was standing across from me on the other side of the table.

“You’re sick.”

My eyes went up to Clarkson’s and flitted away almost as quickly.

“No, I’ve just been more tired than usual lately.”

“You’re thin.”

“I told you, I’ve been tired.”

He slammed a fist on the table and I jolted up, startled into looking at his face again. My sleepy heart didn’t know what
to do with itself.

“You’re not tired. You’re sulking,” he said firmly. “I understand why, but you need to get over it.”

Get over it?
Get over it?

My eyes welled up. “With everything you know, how could you be so mean to me?”

“Mean?” he retorted, practically spitting the word. “This is kindness, pulling you back from the brink. You’re going to kill yourself like this. What will that prove? What will that even accomplish, Amberly?”

For as harsh as his words were, his voice seemed to caress my name.

“Worried you might not have a child? So what? If you’re dead, there’s no chance at all.” He took the plate in front of me, still full of ham and eggs and fruit, and pushed it toward me. “Eat.”

I wiped away the tears from my eyes and stared at the food. My stomach rebelled just seeing it. “It’s too heavy. I can’t take it.”

He lowered his voice and came in closer. “Then what can you take?”

I shrugged. “Bread, maybe.”

Clarkson stood back up and snapped his fingers, summoning a butler.

“Your Highness,” he began with a low bow.

“Go down to the kitchen and bring back bread for Lady Amberly. Several types.”

“Immediately, sir.” He turned and nearly ran from the
room.

“And, for God’s sake, bring some butter!” Clarkson shouted at his back.

I felt another wave of shame. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was botching my chances with things I couldn’t control, it was even more humiliating to ruin it with things I could.

“Listen to me,” he pleaded softly. I managed to look at him again. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t just check out on me.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

He shook his head. “I’m Clarkson with you.”

And it was worth every speck of energy it took for the smile to cross my face.

“You have to be spotless, do you understand? You need to be an exemplary candidate. Up until recently, I didn’t think there’d ever be a need to tell you that, but now it seems I do: don’t give anyone a reason to doubt your competence.”

I sat there, stunned. What did he mean? If I’d had any more clarity of mind, I’d have asked.

Not a moment later, the butler returned with a tray full of rolls and twists and loafs, and Clarkson stepped back.

“Until next time.” He bowed and left, arms tucked behind his back.

“Will this do, my lady?” the butler asked, and I dragged my tired eyes to the pile of food.

I nodded, picked up a roll, and bit.

It’s a strange thing to discover how much you matter to people you didn’t really know you mattered to. Or to find that the slow disintegration of yourself causes a smaller version to happen in other people.

When I asked Martha if she wouldn’t mind bringing me a bowl of strawberries, her eyes welled up. When I laughed at a joke Bianca told, I noticed that Madeline sort of gasped before she joined in herself. And Clarkson . . .

The only other time I’d seem him really upset was that night we’d caught his parents fighting, and I sensed that his becoming slightly unhinged then was his way of expressing how much they meant to him. That he got so bothered over me . . . it wasn’t my preferred way of him letting me know he cared. But if that’s what he knew, it made sense.

That night when I tucked myself into bed, I promised myself two things. First, if Clarkson cared that much, then I was going to stop treating myself like a victim. From now on, I was a contender. Second, I was never going to give Clarkson Schreave a reason to get upset like that again.

His world looked like a storm.

I was going to be its center.