Chapter Text
So today was the worst.
Well, not the worst worst. The day I broke my ankle and my cat died was worse, but this was still pretty awful.
When I arrived at school, Nahuseresh walked in with his arm around Kamet’s waist, and they kissed in front of the door to the History classroom. (Not with tongue or anything, but that might only have been because Mr Magus told them off and then Nahuseresh had to get to his own class because the bell had already rung.)
Then at lunch, Helen’s cousins insisted on a loud and dramatic reenactment of that time I kind of almost poisoned that baron in my grandmother’s house. (It sounds like a bigger deal than it is. Every other person in the Peninsula is a baron or a contessa of some sort, kind of like people here are Mr/Ms/Mx/Mrs/Dr/etc. And Helen’s cousins made it seem like he died instead of spending the day over the toilet with diarrhoea. It was an inconvenience, not murder).
But the word ‘diarrhoea’ was thrown around along with the murder, and at one point, Nahuseresh looked up and must have overheard. And then we locked eyes across the table for this interminable moment that was also over in a heartbeat, and then Boagus’ impression of the servant tasked with guiding this baron to the bathroom became too enthusiastic and he accidentally slapped me in the eye. Which Nahuseresh saw.
I’m slightly worried I’ve got a black eye now, which is just the improvement my face needed.
And then, in debating club, Kamet dazzled everyone with his stupid, literary analysis on why Ophelia was the true protagonist of Hamlet, and he won by a mile, because he is a genius sent specifically to annoy me.
Helen says I shouldn’t be jealous of Kamet, because I have lots of things going for me that he doesn’t:
- Helen as a friend
- A terrifying glare that makes adults fear for their lives
- The gift of eyesight
- A personality
- Helen as a friend (important enough to be listed twice)
(Note: this is an exhaustive list.)
They didn’t include things that Kamet has that I do not:
- Nahuseresh as a boyfriend
- Skin that is perfectly even
- Thick, shiny hair that does what it’s supposed to do
- The longest-running winning streak in the debating society’s history
(Note: this probably isn’t an exhaustive list but it’s getting me down so I’m ending it there.)
Every part of my body says I should curl up and treat myself to a rewatch of Gilmore Girls but tomorrow’s debate is on Antony and Cleopatra and I’m sure Kamet will have something brilliant to say so instead I’ll be rereading that and making notes that won’t do me any good if I freeze up in the middle of the debate. UGH. At least mum texted that she’s getting sushi so we don’t have to cook.
Things are getting better. I am manifesting it.
*
Hey, do the gods read people’s diaries? And then decide, ‘wouldn’t it be funny if, after that dramatic entry, things got worse?’ Because my father called and said he’s in town and he’s now expecting me to have dinner with him and Grandmother Alyta in the Palace. (Not actually a palace, just the rebranded Plaza. I think she made them change it.)
So instead of being self-indulgent (Gilmore Girls) or virtuous (Antony and Cleopatra), I now have to find a dress that will persuade the doormen that I am not going to steal anything just so I can sit and be told off for two hours.
*
Okay.
Okay okay okay okay WHAT
WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT
*
This just in: things could get worse
I can’t even write about it.
Oh, my gods. Someone wake me up from this nightmare.
*
So it’s two in the morning and I still can’t sleep so I might as well write down the conclusion to the worst day in the world.
I arrived at the Palace about five minutes early, which was my first mistake. Even though Grandmother Alyta and my father are both staying there, they are far too Peninsular to show up on time, and I was afraid I’d miss them if I went to their hotel rooms, so I waited in the lobby for about twenty minutes. Instead of magazines or anything, the Palace had a selection of leatherbound volumes on the history of Attolia for guests to peruse while they’re waiting. I now suspect that was ordered by my grandmother as well.
Eventually, my father came down. Suit, tie, blonde on his arm. He kissed her goodbye on her cheek, which might have seemed proper had I not also seen his hand moving down to her butt. She giggled and slapped him away, and then left, her heels leaving this elegant, clacking noise with every step. My father watched her go, only turning to the waiting area after the porter had closed the door behind her.
His smile dropped.
‘Aren’t you getting up to greet your father?’ he asked, so I did. He kissed me on the cheek as well. ‘Where is your grandmother?’
‘She hasn’t arrived yet.’
He looked at his watch. ‘That woman.’
I decided not to point out that he was just as late. Instead of waiting for her, he marched to the Palace’s restaurant and demanded a table for three, and for a bottle of Dom Pérignon, except he calls it Dom P, not wasting any time or syllables on something so unimportant as communication with staff. That was normal. What was not normal was the phrase that followed: ‘We have something to celebrate, I suppose.’
Like, what does that mean? Celebrations are nice, yet he sounded as resigned and disappointed as he had when the Grandmother’s physician had completed my annual health review and announced I’d probably grow taller than six feet.
It was an ominous and confusing start.
Suffice to say, things did not improve.
We each had a glass of champagne poured. My father took his phone and placed it on the side of the table, then folded his hands together for the usual questions while we waited.
‘How are things going at school?’
‘Very well.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Very well, sir,’ I said.
‘Are you top of your year?’
‘No, sir.’
He grunted and took a swig of champagne. ‘Why not?’
Because Kamet e dai Annux is not only obscenely beautiful, but also a genius (see earlier entry). Blaming my failings on someone else, especially a scholarship student who relied on the school’s charity, would not fly with my father. I looked at my hands, feeling my body freeze up the way it does when I’m uncomfortable. ‘I suppose I didn’t work hard enough.’
‘But you will change that from now on.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your piano lessons?’
‘I’m currently learning a new piece by Bartok.’ I had been learning it for a while. My fingers are not so quick to learn as my mind.
‘I hate Bartok,’ he said.
‘I will learn something else.’
Not that he would know. Despite paying for my classes, he had thankfully never been to any of my piano recitals. My mother had also stopped coming, but that was because I’d asked her to stay away. I didn’t need any further witnesses to the pity applause that followed my performance.
Somehow, he had already finished his champagne, and a waiter appeared behind him to top him up.
Just that moment, my grandmother arrived. This might have been a cause for relief had it been anyone else, but Grandmother Alyta has a special way of lowering the temperature wherever she goes. She did not greet either of us until she had been seated and a glass of champagne was kept cool by her icy hands.
Grandmother Alyta does not engage in the vulgar business of growing old. For as long as I can remember, she has had the same perfect, chestnut bob and smooth, pearly skin, which she credits on washing her face only with fresh rainwater from Attolia. Like my father, she is very good-looking for her age, which is probably why they both always look slightly confused when they see me again.
‘Mother,’ my father said.
‘Philippe,’ she said in turn. She moved her eyes to me, raising her eyebrow just slightly, but high enough to warn me of the words to come. ‘Irene, must you look so sullen? The lines of your mouth will set like that if you don’t watch out.’ Annoyance aired, she once again looked at my father. ‘Have you told her?’
‘Not yet.’
Fortunately, her eyebrows were still up, so she did not have to make an effort to show her continued disapproval.
‘Leaving it to me, as always,’ she said. She had a sip of her champagne. ‘Let’s not beat around the bush. Irene, you know your father’s testicular cancer is gone. However, the treatment has left him infertile, which means you are now his only child.’
(I have always been his only child. That said, suspect she never saw me as his real child, considering I was born out of wedlock at a time when he was engaged to someone else. My mother went ballistic when, six months pregnant, she found out she was the other woman. They agreed he would move back to his country somewhere on the Little Peninsula after his semester abroad, and would leave all the parenting to her, save for alimony payments and summer holidays. Until today, Grandmother Alyta would announce me as Philippe’s love child, which sounds nicer than just child, but was not intended in that way.)
‘Oh,’ I said. I glanced at my father, whose face remained expressionless in the news of his infertility. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘You won’t be for long,’ said my grandmother. The waiter reappeared, and she ordered for us. ‘This change in circumstances means you are Philippe’s heir.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. I glanced at my father. He wasn’t dying, was he? ‘But that won’t matter until he is dead, right?’
‘It does matter,’ she said. ‘Without any chances of legitimate heirs, you will have to be formally recognised as the child of the Crown Prince of Attolia, thereby removing any doubt as to the succession of our throne.’
She spoke as if she were talking about a transfer to a new school, instead of a speech from some historical novel. I blinked, unsure whether she was playing around, but a lifetime’s experience with her hatred for humour suggested otherwise.
Instead, I looked at my father. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Irene, your grandmother has been perfectly clear,’ he said. ‘When my father, the king of Attolia, passes away, I will become king. When it is my turn to join the spirits of our ancestors, you will ascend to the throne. I never intended it to be you who followed in my footsteps, but the effects of the chemo leave me no choice.’
The world went slightly fuzzy at that point. But I mean, honestly?
What the Hell?
‘Don’t gawk, Irene,’ my grandmother said. ‘Princesses do not show their surprise on their faces.’
I blinked, which might be breaking princess protocol because she narrowed her eyes at me, but what was I supposed to do? What on earth was this?
‘Princesses?’ I finally managed.
Grandmother glanced at my father. ‘Has she been hit on the head since my last visit? I thought she was clever.’
‘She is not normally this slow,’ he answered.
‘Princesses?’
‘Which you are,’ he said. ‘Or will be, once the paperwork is through. We just need your mother’s signature, and then you can move to Attolia and start your proper education.’
‘Move to Attolia?’
‘Yes. It is time you were introduced to the people.’
At this point, my brain was working harder than it ever had before. A lot of things started to make sense, including, but not limited to, the guards that always patrolled the walls outside my grandmother’s home, the constant flow of barons and dukes at her dinner table, and their perpetual confusion when I told them I wanted to become a journalist or a professor. They must have thought I was so stupid.
Taken together, it was too much, like the system got overheated and just burnt down.
‘I’m not moving to Attolia,’ I said, in what I’d intended as a sensible, mature tone but came out as a wail. ‘I can’t! I have school to finish. And my friends all live here. And I don’t know whether Harvard acknowledges the Attolian education system when it comes to applications –’
‘Irene, lower your voice,’ my father said, just as my grandmother chastised, ‘Don’t be hysterical.’
Several diners had turned around to look at us, and I realised I’d half-risen from my chair. I sat back down, forcing my muscles to keep still, be poised, not show any hysteria. But I don’t think I was being hysterical. They couldn’t just move me to Attolia, only because they’d suddenly made me a princess.
A princess! Who even is a princess in the twelfth century? I’ve been a supporter of republics all my life! And now I’m expected to perpetuate a monarchy? To be the heir to a throne? Who do they think I am, Sansa Stark?
I wanted to run, but years of scrutiny under my grandmother’s gaze pinned me to my chair. ‘I am terribly sorry, Grandmother, but I think you have made a mistake. I can’t be a princess.’ I wanted to add: I mean, look at me! but didn’t, because they were already looking at me like they agreed with my assessment.
‘You are a princess,’ she said. ‘The blood of the royal house of Attolia runs through your veins. Whether you like it or not, you are second in line to the throne, and your education on that front has been sorely lacking, because someone thought he could gallivant around indefinitely before fulfilling his duties.’ She kept looking at me, like I’d been the one gallivanting instead of merely being a gallivanting by-product. ‘This is not a mistake that we will make again.’
Two waiters arrived, placing our starters in front of us. Like in all fancy restaurants, it was minuscule and came with a glass of wine larger than the food. I hadn’t even touched my champagne, didn’t need alcohol to feel light-headed and out of this world.
‘Grandmother,’ I said. ‘You cannot be serious.’
She bristled, and picked up her cutlery. ‘Do not accuse me of frivolity.’
‘I’m not –’
‘Do not contradict me,’ she added. ‘It is bad form to contradict the queen without prior permission.’
The queen.
The queen the queen the queen.
That word shocked me so much, I didn’t even think to point out that, if I relied on her permission, I would never be allowed to contradict her, ever.
My grandmother was a queen. Of some random Peninsular country.
A queen.
She probably even had a crown. And not made of plastic like the ones they hand out at school dances. I’d seen the Attolian crown jewels on one of my summer trips, when we got a private tour of the National Museum. They were only removed from the museum at very important state events, such as weddings, deaths, coronations.
I don’t know what happened next. I might have eaten, but I can’t for the life of me remember what I had. Certainly my father and grandmother spoke at me, detailing the schedule I would follow once I arrived in Attolia, but the details escaped me. Everything passed in a haze of cutlery clanking against plates and waiters smiling politely as they brought and removed our food, until at last my father pushed back his chair.
‘It is time for you to go home,’ he said. ‘Teleus will take you back.’
Teleus is his driver. Or maybe bodyguard, considering just how massive Teleus is.
‘I can go back on my own,’ I said. ‘My bicycle is parked just outside.’
Both my father and grandmother looked at me like I’d suggested walking back naked.
‘Your bicycle?’ my grandmother said. ‘Irene, I suggest you cease your attempts at humour. They do not suit you.’
‘Teleus will be much faster,’ my father said.
I was itching to cycle and get some fresh air, but they had already turned their backs to me and were leaving the restaurant. My father made the quickest phone call ever – ‘Take her home, now’, no greeting, no thanking, no nothing – and then we were in the lobby again. My father and grandmother made straight for the lifts.
So Teleus took me home, in a big, fancy car that smelt of new leather and a woman’s perfume. When we pulled up outside our building, Teleus met my eye in the rear view mirror.
‘Would you like me to walk you upstairs?’ he asked.
I shook my head. I wanted to be alone.
And I got what I wanted: when I entered our apartment, it was empty. Mum still hasn’t come home now and it’s 3:30. I should try to get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow things will look better.
At least now things really can’t get worse.