A sudden bang reverberated through the car, and they swerved a little on the road before Connor regained control of the wheel.

  “No, no, no.” He quickly pulled over and killed the ignition. The headlights blared into the darkness for a moment, then went out.

  “What happened?” Beatrice whispered. For a panicked instant, she’d thought the noise was a gunshot.

  “I think we got a flat.” Connor glanced out at the trees and fence posts with a sigh. “We’ll be fine. I just need to put on the spare.”

  “Okay,” Beatrice said faintly as he threw open the door and disappeared around the back of the car.

  She tapped at her phone, but the words no service glared at her from the top left corner. They really were in the middle of nowhere.

  It was so dark and so very quiet, the only sounds the gentle hum of insects and the wind rustling the leaves. It felt almost like they’d traveled back in time, to before the Revolution, before the Washingtons—to a world without electric lighting, where the only illumination came from the stars.

  Beatrice looked up and was almost relieved to see the glowing speck of an airplane crossing the sky, breaking the spell.

  She slid back into her strappy sandals, then opened her door and stepped out onto the grass. Her heels sank into the damp earth.

  Connor was leaning over the trunk of the car, twisting the latch of the spare-tire well. When he cursed under his breath, Beatrice leaned forward nervously to see what had happened.

  The spare-tire well was empty.

  “I’m sorry, Bee.”

  “Connor, this isn’t your fault,” she protested, but he shook his head.

  “It is, actually. I’m supposed to do a routine vehicle check every time we hit the road; it’s part of our protocol. But tonight…”

  But tonight he’d been too focused on Beatrice, she silently finished. On helping her get out of Montpelier and back on the road toward home.

  “I won’t let you take the blame over this,” Beatrice assured him, trying to convince herself as much as Connor. What if Sean put him on probation or, worse, transferred him to another assignment?

  Phone clutched in her hand, she began waving it in the air like those people in the commercials, trying desperately to catch a signal.

  “I already tried calling for backup. My phone doesn’t have service either.” Connor reached for a red plastic box tucked to one side of the trunk and began sifting through its contents: a flashlight, a pair of leather gloves, a whistle. When he found a folded metal contraption, he knelt along the side of the car and shifted it beneath the car’s frame.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There’s a tire-patching kit in the emergency box. I should be able to get us back on the road, at least long enough to reach the nearest gas station.”

  Connor shrugged out of his blazer and tossed it to Beatrice, who snatched it from midair. She watched as he rolled up the sleeves of his button-down, her eyes drifting to his bare forearms. His shirt was open at the neck, revealing a maddening glimpse of black ink: the edge of his tattoo.

  “You should put the jacket on. It’s cold out.” Connor began cranking the side of the car slowly upward.

  “I…thanks.”

  The blazer was too big for her. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, reminding her of when Samantha used to sneak into her closet as a child and try on all of Beatrice’s clothes. She cuffed the sleeves and nestled deeper into the blazer, which still felt warm from Connor’s body. It smelled like him, too, something spicy and clean and indefinably boyish.

  When the car had risen a few inches, he bent down to examine the tire. Beatrice knew at once that something very bad had happened: she could see it from the set of Connor’s shoulders.

  “Did we hit a nail?” she asked, hazarding a guess.

  “I could fix a nail with some sealant. This”—he gestured to the jagged hole in their tire, the size of a golf ball—“looks like we drove over a piece of scrap metal. I can’t patch this.”

  He stood with a groan, lifting a forearm to wipe at his brow. There were a few spots of grease on his wrists and the sleeves of his once-crisp button-down.

  “It sounds like we should get help,” Beatrice said slowly.

  Connor nodded. “I’ll go check out that convenience store. Stay in the backseat with your head down. Or, better yet—would you be okay getting into the trunk?”

  “You can’t be serious.” Beatrice tilted her chin to glare up at him. “I’m going with you.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “You’d rather I stay in this car alone than come with you?”

  “I can’t take you into a closed building where we haven’t done a security sweep.”

  Beatrice held his blazer closed at her throat with one hand. Sometimes Connor brought out an obstinate, almost childish side of her, a side that few people ever saw. “I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”

  “I assure you that I can.”

  “But you won’t.”

  She turned and started marching back in the direction they’d come. Her heels were a bit unsteady on the asphalt, the skirts of her pale pink gown floating around her legs as she walked.

  “Bee—this could be dangerous.”

  Connor’s tone had dropped, become gruff and pleading. She halted in her steps and stared back at him, wisps of hair falling from her updo to frame her face.

  “What if none of this was an accident?” he whispered.

  She paused. “You mean, someone took the spare tire from our car, then put a piece of metal on the road so that we would run over it?”

  “Yes, exactly.” Connor’s blue-gray eyes gleamed somberly.

  “Seems unlikely.” Beatrice threw up a hand, indicating their surroundings—the sounds of night, crickets and wind and small rustles in the underbrush. “There’s no one here, Connor.”

  There was nothing ominous about the darkness; it felt tranquil, even exciting.

  Standing here with Connor, alone, Beatrice felt the way she used to as a child at the beach house—when she got out of the car and sprinted along the shore, bare feet splashing in the surf. It was a feeling of liberation, of an unnamed excitement.

  The night seemed to crackle with possibility.

  “If there is a threat, which I seriously doubt, then the safest place for me is with you. You’ll protect me if something happens, won’t you?” she asked, as if she wasn’t already sure of the answer.

  “You know I will. I’d do anything for you, Bee.”

  Those last words shot through her like an arrow, made her muscles go taut and gooey all at once.

  “Then it’s settled.” Beatrice started walking before she could dwell on this feeling.

  Connor’s hand drifted to where his gun was holstered, but he trotted to keep up with her. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

  Despite the circumstances, Beatrice couldn’t help the smile that stole over her features. This was starting to feel like an adventure.

  6

  samantha

  “Do you normally drive to concerts in the palace garbage truck?” Sam kicked her feet onto the dashboard as she leaned back in the passenger seat. She’d insisted on moving up here the moment they’d dropped off the trash at the dump.

  “Of course not.” Liam cast her a sidelong glance. “Normally I drive my badass Italian motorcycle.”

  “You have a motorcycle?” she exclaimed, and he snorted.

  “If I had a motorcycle, do you think I would be driving this thing across town?” His mouth curled in amusement. “I usually take the bus, but given that tonight is a special occasion, we’re driving the garbage chariot all the way to Enclave. No complaining,” he added.

  Sam threw up her hands in surrender. “I’m not complaining! I just always thought that if a cute boy helped me ditch my security, it might involve fewer banana peels and egg cartons.”

  She realized, a beat too late, that she’d called Liam cute. As if his already massive ego needed any more inflating.

  “This plan may not be glamorous, but at least it’s effective.” He grinned. “Next time you sneak out of the palace, ask someone who actually owns a motorcycle. Or maybe you can ride off on a horse from the stables.”

  Samantha groaned. “Ugh. That sounds like one of the bad TV movies they’re always making about me and Beatrice.”

  “The movie version is all horseback and sunsets, while the real version is a backseat full of trash? That sounds right.” Liam grinned. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Actually, this isn’t the first time I’ve hidden in trash. Once, when I was little, I crawled into the dumpsters during a game of hide-and-seek.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I wanted to win! My friend Nina always beat us. Jeff and I never did figure out where she was hiding,” Sam realized. “And it bothered me. I have a bit of a competitive streak, you know.”

  “What a surprise,” Liam said sarcastically. Sam ignored him.

  “So I went into the side yard and hid in the dumpster. Except that once I’d crawled into it, I couldn’t get back out. The sides were too steep.”

  Liam looked surprised. “How long were you in there?”

  “A few hours. Eventually someone brought out a bag of trash and found me.” Sam realized now that it had probably been someone with Liam’s job.

  They pulled from the main road into a quieter side alley. Sam felt the city’s clamor receding behind a veil, replaced by the low rumbling of music, the neon of bar signs. Yellow-and-blue graffiti was scrawled over the nearest entrance to the metro. The streets felt suddenly too narrow for the massive truck, though Liam seemed unfazed.

  “You know, that’s the kind of story that will never make it into your biography, though it really should,” he observed.

  “I doubt I’ll have an official biography.” Sam tried to sound flippant, as if she didn’t particularly care. Royal biographies were for important family members—for the heirs, for future rulers. If history remembered her at all, it would be as Beatrice’s sister, not for her own sake.

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” Liam quipped. “If tonight’s any indication, your biography wouldn’t exactly fit on the shelves with The Royal Gardens: A Photographic Tour.” He pulled the truck into a spot and twisted the key in the ignition. “We’re here, by the way.”

  Sam glanced up; they were parallel parked alongside a building with an unmarked red door. “Are we allowed to park here?” she asked dubiously.

  He swung open the door. “I figured you were handling that. You have a universal parking pass, right?”

  “Um…”

  “Can’t you hang a tiara in the window so the cops ignore us?”

  “Very funny,” she deadpanned.

  Liam pointed to a sign on the street that read no parking 7 am—7 pm. “Look, we’re fine. Now come on—the side entrance is this way.”

  “Side entrance?”

  “I figured you’d want to watch the show from backstage,” he said slowly. “Unless you want to do the whole VIP thing, get a table in the mezzanine, look down on everyone?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to watch the show wherever you and your friends are. That’s why I came.”

  “Not a good idea. I don’t mind breaking the rules, but I also don’t want to be responsible for compromising your safety.” Liam shrugged out of his denim jacket and tossed it to her. He seemed to consider her, then grabbed a baseball cap from the glove compartment for good measure. “Here, put these on. No one would wear a white dress like that at Enclave.”

  Sam couldn’t argue. There was no denying that the dress was a bit fussy.

  He led her to the back of the building, where a guy with intimidating muscles stood at the door. “She’s with me, Talal.”

  Without even checking her ID, the bouncer pressed a bright blue stamp onto the inside of Sam’s wrist—EC, it said in block letters—and waved her past.

  “Okay, who are you? Do you know the owner or something?” Sam hissed, following Liam into the club’s dim interior.

  They were standing to the right of the stage, where a tangle of cords surrounded a drum and a couple of microphones on stands, instruments at the ready. Out in the club, beyond the edge of the stage, crowds of people in leather and crop tops and jeans were crammed together, jostling eagerly for space. She could feel the weight of the audience’s excitement as if it were the heat of the spotlight.

  “Liam!”

  Samantha flinched, pulling the baseball cap lower over her brow, but as the stranger rushed over, she realized that he wasn’t even looking her way. “You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!”

  “Sorry, Jesse. I got held up,” Liam said laconically.

  Jesse was covered in even more ink than Liam, tattoo sleeves disappearing beneath his faded vintage T-shirt. His dark blond hair was shaggy and long, bangs constantly falling into his eyes. He glanced at Sam, finally noticing her.

  “Sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Jesse.”

  Jesse looked at her expectantly, and Sam realized, with a delicious sizzle of surprise, that he was waiting for her to give her name. This never happened.

  “Martha,” she heard herself say, the first alias that came to mind. After all, it was one of her middle names.

  “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.” Jesse nudged Liam, then turned back to Sam. “How long have you guys been a thing?”

  “We’re not,” Liam hurried to say, just as Sam replied, “About an hour, if you count travel time.”

  “An hour, huh?” Biting back a laugh, Jesse gestured toward the crowd. “Well, that’s longer than most of the relationships in this place.” He cast one last glance at Samantha. “Have we met?”

  “I think I’d remember you,” Sam said smoothly.

  Jesse nodded as if that made perfect sense, then turned back to Liam. “We need you onstage.”

  Samantha felt color rising to her cheeks. She waited until Jesse had vanished before hissing, “Are you in the band? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I told you I was going to a concert.”

  “Yes, a concert! Not your concert!”

  “We’re just the opening act. The real concert is the next group, the Vandals—they’re amazing.”

  “Liam!” Jesse called out from onstage. A third guy was already set up behind the drums, tossing a drumstick like a spinning top and then catching it in midair.

  “Look, promise me you’ll just stay backstage, okay?” Liam hurried to say. “No one will bother you here, I swear. But I can’t really control what happens out in the crowd.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to get arrested for treason if you get pickpocketed or recognized or something.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Sam gave him a nudge. “Now go!”

  She stood backstage while Liam’s band did their sound check and tune-up. When Jesse—who seemed to be the lead singer—finally tapped the microphone so they could introduce themselves, a frenzied roar rose up from the crowd. Enclave wasn’t a big club, and the noise seemed to reverberate on the inside of the walls and bounce back to them magnified.

  Sam leaned back against a brick wall, near the door with the bright red exit sign that must lead back to the alley.

  Their band was good. Sam didn’t normally listen to this type of music, all messy and raw and white-hot with emotion, but she could still tell that they were good. The lyrics, the guitar, the drum threading underneath it all like a heartbeat—like everyone’s heartbeats, like all the pulses here in the entire club—it was addictive; it was exhilarating.

  To her right was another door. In the dim light she could see the sign: exit to general admission. It taunted her, and Sam had never been able to resist what she wasn’t allowed. Before thinking twice about it, she drifted forward and placed her palm on the door, then pushed it open.

  She was standing on the edge of a mosh pit. Bodies were pressed together in sweaty, delirious confusion, everyone jumping and shouting, their fists pumping in the air, their voices hoarse. Sam slipped into the crowd as easily as a droplet of water being absorbed into a vast ocean.

  And no one noticed her.

  Maybe it was her sloppy low ponytail and baseball cap, or the oversized denim jacket, or maybe everyone was too drunk or excited to notice. Maybe it was simply context—because who would expect to see a princess crushed among a bunch of alternative-rock fans in a cavelike club on the east side? Whatever the reason, no one recognized her. Not a single person looked at her and saw Princess Samantha. They just saw another fan.

  Liam was up there onstage, strumming a guitar as he and Jesse sang about love or hate or whatever this song was about, probably both, and Sam was down here at the center of things. The crowd pressed in on her and she took an elbow in the ribs and someone stepped on her toes, but none of it bothered her. She was having fun, enjoying this moment of feeling ordinary, even if she knew it wouldn’t last.

  Eventually Liam’s band finished their set. Anticipation crackled through the room as the main act, the Vandals, began to set up onstage. Samantha was still letting the room’s energy carry her along when a hand grabbed her elbow.

  “You weren’t supposed to come out here!” Liam hissed.

  Now a few people did look their way. Miraculously, yet totally logically, they didn’t spare Sam a second glance. They had eyes only for Liam, the sexily disheveled singer who’d been onstage a few minutes before. They couldn’t have cared less about the girl he was talking to.

  “This is fun. I don’t want to leave,” she spluttered, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her back through the crowd, which had already forgotten about them as the Vandals launched into their opening song.

  * * *

  “Spend a night alone in this alley, or a year alone abroad?” Liam posited.

 

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