Nobody in Particular(115)

Father, wearing ceremonial garb of black and gold, draped in sashes, looks far too elated to be annoyed with me. Instead, he claps me on the shoulder, then turns to Danni, his eyes softening warmly the way they often do lately when Danni’s around. I’m not entirely sure whether he’s so very fond of Danni because of who she is as a person, or because he associates her with all the things that have gone so very right since the public learned of her significance to us. More likely than not, it’s a combination of both.

“How was your examination, Daniela?” he asks.

“Great, really great,” Danni says. “Congratulations on your jubilee. Has it been a good day?”

“It’s been an excellent day,” Father says. Then he gives a short laugh, as though he’s marveling at the thought.

I suppose, when Father pictured his future jubilee celebrations this time last year, he hadn’t imagined quite so large a crowd, and certainly not the overwhelming level of positivity and revelry we’ve seen from the people in attendance today. But a lot can change in a year.

Trumpets blast outside, announcing his cue to head onto the balcony. Because it’s his jubilee, he goes out alone at first, to have his moment. The crowd breaks into enthusiastic cheering and whooping, and Danni spins me around to check me over, ready for my own appearance. “You’re perfect,” she whispers, letting her fingers rest below the emerald tiara that’s been sewn into my chignon. It’s only my first time wearing it since I was finally allowed to debut it on my eighteenth birthday, as per the custom. Danni leaves her hand in place much longer than she needs to, letting her thumb brush my temple. Even after all this time, her touch still makes me shiver.

Mum walks out now, and the cheering rises again.

“I love you,” I say to Danni.

“Love you, too.”

“Shall we?” I ask, pressing my lips against hers quickly, while we have a moment of semi-privacy. Then, I straighten my back, and together we walk onto the balcony last.

Traditionally, only the royal family appears on the balcony. However, some months ago, Father decided that, while we were discarding the time-honored tradition of heterosexual royal romances, it couldn’t hurt to very slightly alter this particular tradition alongside it. He first asked Danni to join us several months ago as something of a test, I believe, after seeing just how enthusiastically the public—most especially, the younger members of it—responded to Danni’s and my relationship. And the near-hysterical response from the crowd at Danni’s appearance alongside us that day cemented his decision to continue extending the invitation.

He always has been one to prioritize anything that would improve the reputation—and the reception—of the royal family. It’s only surprising because it never occurred to me—or him, I imagine—that my relationship with Danni could ever be one of those things. Last year, it hadn’t seemed possible. It hadn’t been done, so therefore it couldn’t be done. But I suppose the problem with clinging too tightly to tradition is that you can miss it when the public sentiment toward what has always been done has marched on ahead of you.

In the end, it wasn’t our family the country was losing faith in. It was the past they were rejecting. A past we used to represent.

Until me. Until Danni.

Squinting as the sun bursts into my eyes, I raise my hand to wave at the crowd below as it explodes into ear-splitting applause. The sea of people spreads almost as far as I can see, writhing and gesturing and calling out to us. Calling out to me. I wave again, raising my arm higher, and it ripples out over the crowd like a current as the volume and movement surges further.

I don’t know all the answers yet. I don’t know if things will change should Danni and I become engaged, or what will happen if we have children. I couldn’t say for certain what would happen should another referendum take place, and I don’t know if there is quiet resentment brewing where I can’t yet see it. It’s not possible to know the future in its entirety, nor has it ever been. All I can do is observe the present, and use it to fuel my hope.

So, like I always do, I count the signs in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE. I only spy a couple, scattered sporadically. The number grows smaller with each count, as the months tick by. And, as usual, I check for angry signs calling Danni and me disparaging names, something I initially assumed we would see a lot of.

As usual, there’s not a one.

After all those months post-Amsterdam, walking onto the balcony to an icy hostility from the crowd below, I can still scarcely believe the reception. It’s an odd and wonderful thing, to barely dare to hope you might be tolerated as you are, only to find out the real you is beloved the way the false you never was.

I steal a look at Danni. She looks confident, and beautiful, and utterly self-assured. She catches my eye, gives me a radiant smile, and gestures for me to turn back to the crowd. “Look. They’re excited to see you,” she mouths.

I should, I absolutely should.

But I can’t tear my eyes away from her.

Nor do I want to.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





For the past several weeks, I have asked myself over and over: How can I possibly acknowledge all the people who are responsible for bringing this book to life, when it took eleven years? How can I properly thank everybody, how do I make sure I don’t forget the people who were important back in the beginning, and what order do I thank people in? I don’t know the answer to the first two questions, but I have decided that in regards to the third, I will attempt to acknowledge chronologically.