Nobody in Particular(17)

EIGHT

ROSE




At any royal event, there are multiple aspects I struggle with. I’m no great fan of small talk, though I manage to force it—if only passably so—and constant social interactions drain me, and it’s all but impossible for my mind not to wander during speeches. But far and away the part I dread the most these days is the balcony appearance.

Ostensibly, the balcony visits are a chance for the royal family to interact with our people—all the while offering a marvelous photograph opportunity. Father, however, has always used it as an unofficial barometer for the family’s popularity. He takes careful note of how sprawling the gathered crowd is, and how loud the cheering, and even how much movement he spies throughout the throng. Our first balcony appearance following that night in Amsterdam, the crowd all but fell quiet when I walked out. I’ll never forget the strained look on Father’s face that day.

I wondered, briefly, if he wished he could throw me off it.

Now, waiting in the attached area before we go out, I keep adjusting the bodice of my dress. I can’t seem to get it in the right position. Finally, Mum places a calm hand on my arm and shakes her head at me, so I move to chewing on the inside of my cheek instead.

If it’s a royal event, I follow Mum, who follows Father. If there is an honored guest at the event, however, they walk out alongside Father, and tonight is the state banquet for the visiting prime minister.

So, Father goes out first, alongside the prime minister of the United Kingdom and the prime minister of Henland. The crowd erupts into cheers. Mum follows, and the cheering swells. I release my cheek from between my teeth and walk out last, and the crowd simmers down. My chest plummets, and I switch to biting down hard on my tongue to remind myself to keep the disappointment and embarrassment off my face.

At least they aren’t booing me.

I wonder what Father would do if they ever did.

Forcing my chin up and plastering on a smile, I wave alongside my family. In the crowd below, hundreds of flashing lights twinkle up at us. It’s as though the stars from the night sky have fallen to the ground.

Taking a leaf from Father’s book, and not for the first time, I silently count the number of anti-monarchist signs I see in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE. Et cetera. It’s my way of ascertaining where we stand this month. How well we’ve done, and how badly our mistakes have affected our standing with the very people we’re meant to be serving. Today, as has been happening often lately, I lose count.

Almost ten years ago, when I was seven, the country held a referendum on whether to abolish the monarchy altogether. Though clearly the monarchy was maintained, the vote was far too close for comfort as far as my parents are concerned. Especially when it became clear from the numbers that many municipalities within Henland are distinctly anti-royalist. Though the theme of my life has always been the importance of maintaining the royal line, the urgency increased enormously following the referendum.

Well, it’s bloody lucky for me that I’m historically such a natural at keeping within the lines and winning over the public, isn’t it? It would be rather awkward if I were so prone to misstepping that I single-handedly prompted the abolition of a six-hundred-year-long line of royalty, now, wouldn’t it?

Yes, thank goodness being perfect comes easily to me. If it didn’t, I might be under the kind of pressure that could make someone crack, right now.

The Hennish prime minister, Urmila Kapoor, falls into step behind me when we leave the balcony. She’s a short woman with an explosion of chestnut curls and a beauty mark just below her left eye. “Rose, how have you been?” she asks. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

Urmila isn’t the type to take digs at people, at least, as far as I know. So, chances are, she means the question innocently. It’s hard to take it that way, though, when it’s approximately the twentieth time someone’s asked me something along those lines today alone.

“Doing my best,” I say with a gritted-teeth smile.

“That’s all anyone can ever do,” she says.

Back inside, the approximately 150 attendees are milling about in formalwear while a string quartet provides ambiance. I spot Alfie with his parents, but I don’t approach him yet. If I don’t work the crowd a little, Father will be out for my blood, especially after yet another failed balcony appearance.

So, I find Mr. Cloughton, whose father was close friends with my grandfather, and I ask after his family, and he asks me if the drink in my hand is nonalcoholic. And I check in with the Spanish ambassador, and she recommends a therapist she says helped her son immensely when he was going through a troubled phase of his own. And I greet Lord Oliphant and his wife, and they ask me if my parents are speaking to me yet—as a joke, of course, just a lark, of course. And I laugh, and they laugh, and Alfie rescues me before I shatter the flute of alcohol-free champagne clenched in my fist.

“Your smile is strained,” he says to me, linking our arms together as we walk. He’s wearing a tailored navy suit over a shirt of the softest lavender and a tie in a purple so deep it borders on burgundy. I wonder if he has to work as hard as I do to be so polished.

“Everyone is digging at me. It’s just dig, dig, dig.”

“They’re loving it,” he says. “The chance to feel morally superior to royalty doesn’t come around every day. Let them have their smug little moment and don’t let them see they’re bothering you. Right now it’s all over your face.” He pinches my cheek, and I wave his hand away, the corners of my mouth lifting reluctantly.