Beautiful Crown Princess

The prince's hand was still on the door when he told me I was all appearance and no substance. I was standing beside the bed in a satin gown that cost more than my father's first car. A dozen pins tugged at my scalp beneath the diamond tiara. The suite smelled of white roses, candle wax, and the sharp little sting of the champagne I hadn't managed to drink. "My mother may have mistaken a pretty face for a qualification," Prince Adrian said. "I won't." I looked at his hand on the door. "Are you planning to leave?" "I'm planning to sleep in my own room." "That sounds like leaving." His jaw tightened. His wedding jacket hung open, his white tie already loose. All evening, I'd watched him smile as if each camera flash were an unpaid bill. "I didn't ask for this marriage," he said. "Neither did I." That made him pause. He looked at me properly then, or nearly. His eyes moved from my face to the tiara, then down to the necklace at my throat, as if the jewels supplied an answer I had failed to provide. "You could have refused." "So could you." "Not without putting the crown in a worse position." "And I couldn't refuse without putting my family in the center of a royal scandal. We both made a choice." "Your choice was to become Princess of Bellacourt." "My choice was to keep my father's name out of the papers." His hand slipped off the door. For the first time since the reception, his expression looked uncertain. Then he hardened it again. "The ceremony is finished," he said. "Tomorrow, you'll be photographed at the palace gates, and Mother will have her picture. Don't expect anything more from me." "I'm not expecting anything from you tonight." He gave me a short, humorless laugh. "Good." The door clicked shut behind him. I stood there until the sound of his footsteps disappeared along the corridor. Then I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed and pulled the tiara pins out one by one. My fingers shook, but I didn't cry. I'd spent too many months learning what happened when I cried in front of people who wanted to use my face. My father had called the engagement a rescue. The Queen had called it a partnership. The papers had called it a fairy tale. I called it a contract with very expensive stationery. ***** Six months earlier, I'd been helping my father close the Gull House Hotel for the winter when a royal car pulled up outside. The hotel sat on a bluff in Larkhaven, a fishing town on the eastern coast of Bellacourt. The paint on the porch rail peeled every spring. The lobby clock ran twelve minutes slow. My father insisted both flaws were part of its charm. I was carrying a box of old menus when a woman in a navy coat stepped through the lobby doors. "Miss Ellis?" she asked. "Depends who's asking." She showed me a card. Lady Maren Vale, private secretary to Queen Celeste. I looked past her at the car. "Did my father forget to pay a tax?" "Not that I'm aware of." "Then the Queen is either very interested in fish chowder or very lost." Lady Vale's mouth moved as if a smile had tried to get out and changed its mind. "Her Majesty would like to meet you." I didn't go right away. I set the box down, washed my hands, and told my father where I was going. He stared at the card. "Did you do something?" he asked. "Not that I know of." "Then don't let anyone make you feel guilty for it." The palace was a pale stone building above the capital harbor, with windows tall enough to make a person feel inspected. I followed Lady Vale through rooms lined with portraits and sat in a reception room that was mostly polished wood. Queen Celeste entered without an announcement. She wore a dark green dress and no crown. Her silver hair was pulled back, and her gaze settled on me with the calm precision of someone choosing fabric. "Miss Ellis," she said. "Thank you for coming." "You sent a car. It seemed impolite to make it wait." She indicated a chair. "You're direct." "My father says it saves time." The Queen sat opposite me. "Your father has a hotel in Larkhaven." "He owns it. I help." "And you've worked in the harbor association's office?" "Seasonal bookkeeping. Mostly invoices and complaints." "Do you enjoy public life?" "I don't know. I've never had any." Her expression didn't change. "People respond to you." "I don't know what that means." "It means they remember your face." There it was. I was used to people noticing my face. I was less used to hearing it described as a national asset. The Queen slid a photograph across the table. It showed me on the Gull House porch, holding a paper cup of coffee while rain blew off the sea. The shot had appeared in a local paper beside an article about the failing harbor wall. I'd been caught looking at the photographer, damp hair in my eyes, not smiling. "Why did you choose that picture?" I asked. "Because you don't look as if anyone told you what to say." "Maybe nobody did." "That is what I need." I glanced up. "Need for what?" The Queen took a breath. "Bellacourt's ports are changing. We have a proposal to restore the eastern coast, improve roads, and attract new investment. The plan is unpopular. The Crown needs someone people can believe." "I'm not a planner." "No one is asking you to design a harbor." "Then what are you asking?" She held my gaze. "To stand beside my son. To be the next Crown Princess. To make people look at the future instead of the arguments about it." I stared at her. "You want me because I look good in a photograph." "I want you because the photographs of you have been honest." "That's not the same as wanting me." "No," she said. "It isn't." The answer was so clean it left me nothing to argue with. I should have stood up. I should have thanked her for the tea and gone back to the hotel. Instead I thought of the bank's final notice, tucked in my father's desk drawer. I thought of the Gull House roof and the loan we could no longer refinance. The Queen's offer came with money for the hotel, money for my father's care, and a marriage that would turn our private trouble into a national spectacle. I asked for time. She gave me three days.