“I think we can all agree that there are many things we’d like to change about America’s history,” Sam exclaimed with such vehemence that he lifted an eyebrow. “But isn’t the point of studying the past to celebrate the good and have conversations about the bad? To learn from all the mistakes our ancestors made?”

  The guy nodded slowly. “So, that’s what you stand for? Fixing the mistakes of the past?”

  “That’s what the Crown should stand for, but I’m not the Crown. My dad is, and then someday my sister. I’m just the spare.”

  Normally Sam might have added something flippant, like all I stand for is tequila and dancing on tables, but something about the boy’s gaze made her bite back the words. Instead she sighed. “I guess I’m still figuring out what I stand for.”

  He studied her for a contemplative moment, then replied, “I’m Liam, by the way.”

  “Sam.”

  His eyes glinted with amusement. “I know.”

  There was a beat of silence, though it felt less hostile than before. Sam cleared her throat, suddenly disconcerted. “I’ll just…um, I’ll find those limes and get back to the party.”

  Liam didn’t leave. He just stood there, arms crossed, as Sam opened one of the refrigerators at random. It was stacked with neatly labeled containers of sauces and soups, and a single can of diet soda on the shelf—as if someone, maybe Chef Greg, needed to always have it within reach.

  “Wrong fridge,” Liam cheerfully informed her.

  Sam refused to give him the satisfaction of asking for his help. She just moved from one stainless-steel door to the other, glancing over steaks and tubs of yogurt and wheels of cheese until she finally found the fruits and vegetables: peaches and crisp asparagus and deep red strawberries all competing for space. Sam grabbed a mesh bag of limes and glanced around for a knife.

  Liam lounged against one of the counters, watching her. But when Sam grabbed a kitchen knife and began hacking at the lime, his expression shifted from sardonic amusement to horror.

  “Stop!” he protested, and her knife fell still. He added, in a tone that verged on laughter, “What did that lime ever do to you?”

  Sam glanced down at the mangled, pulpy mess on the cutting board. She’d tried slicing the lime in half, but it was tougher than she’d expected, so she’d switched partway through and tried halving it lengthwise. Normally her fruit arrived from the kitchens already sliced. She felt a flush of self-consciousness at her own ineptitude.

  “I suppose you think you could do better?”

  “Anyone could do better, unless your goal was to torture that lime into giving away its secrets.” Liam shook his head. “This is too painful to witness. Just…let me.”

  Sam huffed out a breath but stepped aside, watching as he grabbed a fresh lime from the bag and sliced it into neat, even wedges. His motions were quick, yet almost lazy at the same time, as if he could have done this with his eyes closed.

  “Why are you here so late?” Sam asked. Clearly, Liam was the last person in the kitchens.

  “I don’t mind closing out. Usually I don’t even have to mop floors, just wait for deliveries and drive the garbage truck on my way home. It’s not a bad way to make extra cash. At least I don’t have to wear a stupid apron or, worse, leggings.”

  That was when recognition struck. “Wait a second. You used to work at the palace gift shop, didn’t you?”

  Liam snorted, still chopping limes with almost-frightening speed. “I wondered if you would remember.”

  Every now and then, Sam liked to put on oversized sunglasses and stop by the gift shop at the visitors’ center, just to see how long it would take for someone to recognize her. The tourists—eagerly discussing their guided visits or audio tours, scrolling through photos on their phones and posting them to social media—were blissfully oblivious. Often Sam could stand right next to them, browsing a puzzle or postcard with her own face on it, and they didn’t even notice.

  Until one of them saw her and squealed, and then she had to hurry out amid a torrent of photos, to escape back into the Washington family’s private part of the palace. Her Revere Guard, Caleb, always rolled his eyes at her escapades, but he technically couldn’t complain as long as she stayed within the palace grounds.

  She’d seen Liam behind the register a few times, she recalled now. He would make eye contact with her, then purse his lips against a laugh and turn aside.

  “I hated working at the gift shop,” Liam said bluntly. “I mean, whose idea was it to put your cashiers in scratchy tight pants, anyway?”

  “They’re breeches,” Sam corrected, and he rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I hated the breeches. And the tourists are awful customers. Half of them wandered around for an hour, then didn’t buy anything except a poster of your brother.”

  Of course they did. Jeff was the object of half of America’s romantic fantasies.

  “Posters of Jeff were really the best-selling item? What about all that gross cherry stuff?”

  “Second-most popular,” Liam agreed. “Which I’ll never understand. What’s the appeal of cherry preserves or cherry brandy?”

  “Stay away from the cherry brandy! It’s a lot boozier than you’d think,” Sam warned.

  “Sadly, I learned that lesson the hard way.” Liam looked up, eyes dancing. His fingers darted perilously close to the blade, though he never cut himself.

  Sam hopped up to sit on the counter, her lime-green sneakers dangling against the cabinets. “You should come join our graduation party. Once you’re off the clock, I mean.”

  His movements stilled, and he tilted his head, studying her. “This is your graduation party?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “But your parents aren’t here. Or your sister.”

  Sam stared at him blankly. Was it normal for teenagers to hang out with their families after high school graduation? The idea gave her pause. Spending your graduation night playing beer pong beneath a three-hundred-year-old portrait, wandering around a national monument while your parents were at a charity gala, looking at the Mona Lisa—it was probably a strange way to live.

  Sam wouldn’t really know, since she’d never lived any other way.

  “Thanks for the invite,” Liam went on, “but I’m busy later. I’m heading to a concert.”

  “What concert?”

  The sounds of the party emanated from down the hall, voices and the beat of music all distinctly louder than they’d been twenty minutes ago. That was how it always went at the twins’ parties: the energy only ever went in one direction—up.

  “You wouldn’t know the band. They’re playing at Enclave. A place on the east side,” he added, in answer to Sam’s confused look.

  “What kind of music is it?”

  “Not your type, Princess.”

  He stacked the lime wedges perfectly to one side, then began washing the knife in the sink. Sam leaned back to brace her palms on the cool stone of the countertop.

  “You have no idea what type of music I like, and I told you, call me Sam.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted around Liam’s face. “I’ve heard the soundtrack to your graduation party all night. This concert…it’s rock. Less mainstream, more alternative, but not fully punk rock, either.”

  “I want to go,” Sam blurted out.

  Liam looked at her skeptically, so she said it again: “Take me with you. I want to see this not-punk-but-still-alternative-rock concert.”

  “I seriously doubt your security would let you come to Enclave.”

  “What makes you think we’re telling security?”

  A plan was forming in Sam’s mind. She slid off the counter, feeling buoyant and invincible, and looked up at Liam with a smile.

  “You said you have to drive the garbage truck on your way home. Does anyone actually check the back of the truck when you leave?”

  He made a strangled sound deep in his throat. “You want to sneak out of the palace in the back of a garbage truck? What’s going on here? Did someone dare you or something?”

  “No, I wasn’t dared. I can assure you that I’m perfectly capable of coming up with a plan like this on my own.”

  “That much I believe.”

  “What are you, scared?” she challenged.

  Liam hesitated a moment longer, then let out a breath. “Why not? I’ve always had a thing for breaking the rules.”

  “Excellent.” Sam flashed a wild, defiant smile. She didn’t have her purse with her, just her phone, but that didn’t really matter. There was never any need to carry money around when your dad’s face was on it.

  Liam stepped into a closet, emerging a moment later with a jangling set of car keys. “Okay, Princess. Let’s jailbreak you out of here.”

  5

  beatrice

  Beatrice reached down for the lever that would adjust the passenger seat. Connor glanced over, though he kept both hands firmly on the wheel. “Do you want help reclining that? You can lean back and sleep, if you want.”

  “What? No, I’m not tired.” She actually felt wide awake, her muscles sizzling with energy. She slid the seat backward on its track, then kicked off her silver heels and stretched out her legs. Her toes, painted a pale pink, gleamed in the dim lighting. “This was all I wanted to do. My legs felt cramped.”

  “Sorry, that seat was too far forward. Usually no one sits up here.”

  “Their loss.”

  The night was dark around them, the narrow two-lane road winding steadily through the rural Virginia forest. They hadn’t yet come across another car. Beatrice had waited until they were a few minutes past Montpelier before asking Connor to pull over so that she could walk around to the front seat. They weren’t breaking any rules, technically speaking; nowhere in her security binders was it explicitly mandated that royalty must ride in the back of the car. It was just assumed. Probably because no one in the royal family had ever been friends with their Revere Guard.

  She looked forward to the occasions when she got to sit with Connor in the front seat. It had been easier at Harvard, where she and Connor were always together, walking to class or studying in the library or ordering ramen from Tatsuya. But ever since she’d graduated, occasions like this—shuttling from one event to the next in small enclosed spaces—were the only times she and Connor got to be alone.

  “I’m surprised you wanted to drive back so late,” he remarked.

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose, a gesture she would never have allowed herself to make in public. “Stay overnight with the Madisons? No thanks.”

  When the reception had concluded, the Duke and Duchess of Virginia had urged the Washingtons to please stay the night—there were so many guest rooms at Montpelier, and it would be their honor to host a royal visit. Her parents had been too polite to refuse, but Beatrice had insisted that she needed to get home. “It’s only an hour and a half’s drive,” she’d told her parents, who’d exchanged glances. “An hour and a half on dark, winding country roads,” King George had argued.

  But Beatrice hadn’t been eager to spend more time with the Madisons’ spoiled, selfish daughter, Gabriella. When they’d talked earlier, Gabriella had droned on about her plans to design a line of couture sweatpants, about a ski trip to Verbier that Beatrice had seriously missed out on, and about the most amazing little salon she’d found in Paris. Had Beatrice ever thought of redoing her eyebrows? Because she could really use a visit to Valérie, Gabriella had said somberly.

  Gabriella’s brother was even worse. James had spent all night looking at Beatrice as if she were a particularly rare and juicy steak he’d like to devour.

  “I have an early engagement tomorrow morning,” Beatrice had insisted. At that, her father had acquiesced, as she knew he would. Duty always came first.

  She leaned forward to play with the radio, though most of what came up was static. “We aren’t getting the Washington stations here,” she observed, and laughed. “Where are we?”

  Their headlights pierced the darkness a short distance ahead of them, but the surrounding forest was an ink-dark shadow. The road kept winding up and down, gently skirting the edge of a hill or river and then curving back in the other direction.

  “If you think this is rural, you should see where I grew up,” Connor remarked. “People used to walk around the Walmart, drinking wine from a Pringles can, and call it a wild Friday night.”

  Beatrice gave a very unladylike snort. “I have to say, that does sound wild.”

  “In that case, you and my grandparents would get along.” Connor glanced over and smiled.

  Beatrice couldn’t take the suspense anymore. She shifted, pulling up the skirts of her gown so she could tuck one bare foot beneath her. “So? What did you think of tonight?”

  “Two out of four.”

  “You’re definitely giving a point for food,” she guessed. “I saw you devouring those honey-butter chicken biscuits during the cocktail hour.”

  “It’s not my fault I was standing by the door to the kitchens!” Connor protested. “Besides, I had to eat enough for both of us. I’m guessing you didn’t even try one.”

  “Sadly, no,” she admitted. Her etiquette master had been adamant that Beatrice could never eat while standing up, especially something like a biscuit that would crumble or leave her fingers greasy. The only exception, of course, was a bite of cherry pie during a garden party, because it was patriotic—and even then she was allowed only a single, careful bite on the edge of a fork.

  “Okay, so food for sure,” she went on. “And music?”

  This was always one of Beatrice’s favorite parts of a royal event: the part afterward, when she and Connor compared notes. He was an astute observer, and he usually saw or heard things that Beatrice missed while she was busy trying to work the room. By now they used a system of their own invention, where they judged the merits of an event based on four distinct categories.

  “I’d give this one food and theme, actually. I really liked the Mona Lisa.”

  “You said it was underwhelming!”

  Connor shrugged. “You were right; that painting is more complicated than it seems. There are layers to it. Secrets that you don’t notice at first.”

  Beatrice looked over, curious, but he was staring responsibly at the road. All she saw was his profile: the square line of his jaw and his muscled shoulders.

  “I’m glad I changed your mind,” she said. “Though I’m still surprised you gave this one a point for theme. I thought you hated all the Soirée Bleue decorations.”

  Connor chuckled. “Those were absurd, weren’t they? It felt like I was underwater.”

  “That’s exactly how I described it!”

  “The Madisons seem…”

  “Over-the-top?” Beatrice prompted.

  “I was going to say snobby. I’ve been to a lot of pretentious evenings with you, Bee. One of the hazards of the job,” he said ruefully. “But this one just about takes the cake.”

  “You’re not the one who had to actually talk to the Madisons,” Beatrice reminded him. “James was unbelievably pompous.”

  “What did you expect? He’s a future duke. You’ve met a lot of those by now, and as far as I can tell, they’re all pompous.”

  There was a glow on the right-hand side of the road as they drove past a convenience store. A neon sign over the door read open, and a painted-wood caterpillar out front advertised apples for sale!, though Beatrice was quite sure apple season wouldn’t start for months. Most likely the caterpillar had been out there since last fall.

  “I had to deal with the Madisons, too,” Connor told her as the store disappeared behind them.

  Beatrice blinked. “What?”

  “Their daughter practically accosted me near the end of the night.”

  “Gabriella? She…” The words came out blocky and strange; Beatrice swallowed. “She hit on you?”

  “She offered to give me a ‘private tour’ of her family’s estate. What a line. How often do you think she uses it?”

  Beatrice’s stomach clenched at the thought of Connor slipping upstairs with Gabriella. Not that it was any of her business.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, staring down at her hands. Her diamond bracelet glittered as its facets caught and reflected the moonlight. “I mean, if you wanted to stay the night, um, we could have, well…”

  “Please. I’m not interested in ‘going on a tour’ with Gabriella,” Connor cut in.

  They were verging on dangerous ground. Beatrice had never dared to ask about Connor’s dating life. But it felt easier here in the car, on these winding roads—as if she and Connor had retreated into a bubble of their own creation, warm and dark and safe.

  Perhaps that was why Beatrice said, “Because you have a girlfriend?”

  The noise Connor made at that was so bizarre, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, that the strange tension between them seemed to dissipate.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Um, Bee, when exactly would I have time for this mythical girlfriend? I’m always with you.”

  Beatrice was unreasonably pleased by that remark. Still, she strove to sound nonchalant—the way Sam would—as she replied, “I don’t know what you do when you’re off the clock.”

  “Sleep, mostly.” His mouth curled a little at the corners. “Keeping an eye on you is exhausting.”

  An image of Connor in bed, presumably shirtless, flashed through Beatrice’s mind. It struck her that they both slept in the same building—a sprawling building with many rooms and staircases, but still. To get from her bed to his, she would just have to go down a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs to the third-floor staff dormitories. Only a few minutes’ walk, yet they might as well have lived on different planets.

 

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