Royally Matched

  For a moment I don't breathe. I can't. The shock of my brother's words has knocked the air right out of my lungs.

  Granny's too, if her whisper is any indication.

  "You truly believe that?"

  "Absolutely. And, frankly, I'm disheartened that you don't."

  "Henry has never been one to rise to the occasion," she states plainly.

  "He's never needed to," my brother insists. "He's never been asked--not once in his whole life. Until now. And he will not only rise to the occasion . . . he will soar beyond it."

  The Queen's voice is hushed, like she's in prayer.

  "I want to believe that. More than I can say. Lend me a bit of your faith, Nicholas. Why are you so certain?"

  Nicholas's voice is rough, tight with emotion.

  "Because . . . he's just like Mum."

  My eyes close when the words reach my ears. Burning and wet. There's no greater compliment--not to me--not ever.

  But, Christ, look at me . . . it's not even close to true.

  "He's exactly like her. That way she had of knowing just what a person needed--whether it was strength or guidance, kindness or comfort or joy--and effortlessly giving it to them. The way people used to gravitate to her . . . at parties, the whole room would shift when she walked in . . . because everyone wanted to be nearer to her. She had a light, a talent, a gift--it doesn't matter what it's called--all that matters is that Henry has it too. He doesn't see it in himself, but I do. I always have."

  There's a moment of quiet and I imagine Nicholas leaning in closer to the Queen.

  "The people would have followed me or Dad for the same reason they follow you--because we are dependable, solid. They trust our judgment; they know we would never let them down. But they will follow Henry because they love him. They'll see in him their son, brother, best friend, and even if he mucks it up now, they will stick with him because they will want him to succeed. I would have been respected and admired, but Grandmother . . . he will be beloved. And if I have learned anything since the day Olivia came into my life, it's that more than reasoning or duty, honor or tradition . . . love is stronger."

  For a time, there is no sound save for the occasional pop of the fire and tinkling of glasses, as the Queen considers. Contemplates before she acts wisely. It's what she does.

  What leaders do.

  I've paid enough attention through the years to know that much. And I'm self-aware enough to admit that I never have.

  The Queen inhales deeply. "Nothing I have attempted has improved the situation. What do you suggest, Nicholas?"

  "He needs space to . . . acclimate. Time outside the spotlight to process the scope of his new situation and duties. To learn what he needs to, in his way. And make it his own."

  "Space." The Queen taps her finger on the table. "Very well. If space is what the boy needs, then space he shall have."

  I'm not sure I like the sound of this.

  Two weeks later, I know I don't.

  Anthorp Castle.

  She sent me to fucking Anthorp Castle.

  It's not the middle of nowhere--it's the end of nowhere. On the coast, with jagged cliffs and icy ocean on one side, forest on the other--the nearest thing resembling a town an hour's drive away. This isn't "space"; it's banishment.

  "Banishment! Be merciful, say 'death.' For exile hath more terror in his look."

  Romeo was a pussy, but at this moment, I feel him.

  I sit in the middle of the massive four-post bed, strumming my guitar to the drumbeat of the moon-soaked waves crashing below my open window. The air is cool, but the fire burning bright in the fireplace makes up for it. My fingers pluck out the familiar notes of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." It's a comforting song. Depressing and sad, but comforting in its easy repetition.

  Disgusted with myself, I set my guitar aside and punch my arms into my robe. Then I wander the castle a bit, saying hello to the creepy suits of armor that stand sentry at the end of each hallway. Though I could use the rest, I don't want to even try going back to sleep.

  Because the dreams have come back. Nightmares.

  They were relentless when I was first discharged from military service--reminders of the attack that killed a group of soldiers at an outpost just after I visited. I got a reprieve after I confessed to Nicholas and Olivia what happened and they suggested I reach out to the families of the fallen men.

  But the night I stepped foot in Anthorp Castle they returned with a vengeance--and a cruel new twist. Now, when I crawl to the bodies that litter the ground and turn them over to check for survivors, it's not the soldiers' lifeless faces that stare back at me. It's Nicholas's face, and Olivia's . . . Granny's. I wake up gasping and dripping with cold sweat.

  Not fucking fun.

  So tonight, I stroll.

  Eventually I end up in the library on the first floor. I fall into the chair behind the desk, take a page from one stack of documents, and read over the laws governing the marriage of the Crown Prince, which is basically a list of requirements for the bride:

  "Verifiable aristocracy in the lineage, within a recognized marital union."

  Though, farther down, it states bastards are acceptable in a pinch. How open-minded.

  "Certified documentation of Wessconian citizenship by natural birth."

  As opposed to hatchlings or clones, I suppose.

  "Virginity as evidenced by the insertion of the trusted Royal Internist's two fingers into the vagina, to confirm intact hymen tissue."

  Whoever thought this up was one sick son of a bitch. And definitely male. I doubt they'd be so exacting if the law required a prostate exam for members of Parliament.

  "I'm makin' tea. Do you want a cup?"

  I look up to see Fergus standing in the doorway, in his robe and slippers, his face scrunched and crabby.

  "I didn't know you were awake, Fergus."

  "Who can sleep with you prowling around the halls like a randy cat?"

  "Sorry."

  "Do you want a cup or not?"

  I put the paper back in its pile.

  "No, thank you."

  He turns, then pauses, and looks back at me, quietly adding, "It was the same with the Queen."

  "What was the same?"

  "The lack of sleep. When she was a lass, after just three hours she'd be up and about like that grotesque rodent with the bass drum."

  He means the Energizer Bunny.

  "I didn't know that about Granny," I say softly.

  He hobbles over to the bookshelf, running his finger along the bindings before sliding a thick book out.

  "Reading used to help. This was her favorite."

  The heavy volume gets dropped on the desk with a thud.

  Hamlet. Interesting.

  "You realize they all die? The King, Queen, and sweet Prince are all dead at the end."

  Not exactly the stuff of pleasant dreams--especially for my family.

  "I said it was your grandmother's choice, not mine."

  He shuffles off without another word.

  I flip through the pages. And talk to myself.

  "This above all, to thine own self be true. Easier said than done, Polonius."

  Because this isn't supposed to be my life. None of it is me. The title, the responsibility, wandering around this cold, ancient stone behemoth with nothing but the echo of my own damn footsteps for company. And although I'm supposed to be "acclimating," it's just not happening.

  Because Nicholas is wrong. I'm his blind spot; I always have been. I used it to my advantage when it suited me. He is good and well-meaning . . . but he is wrong.

  And we're all fucked because of it.

  The silence closes in, making me twitchy. Reminding me of a damn tomb. And the words repeat in my head like a whispering ghost.

  To thine own self be true, Henry.

  Maybe that's the problem. And the solution.

  I hop to my feet, pacing. Thinking--I think better when I move. I think a lot better after a good fuck, but, if wis
hes were horses . . .

  The point is, I haven't felt like myself in a long time. I need to get my groove back. I need to get my freak on. I need to do me for a while.

  And then I need to do ten women--maybe a full dozen.

  I'm shit at politicking and golfing, terrible at wise decision-making or doing what I'm told, but what I've always been good at is entertaining. Putting on a show. Making people happy. I'm the life of the party and one hell of a host.

  I push and pull at the idea--like Play-Doh--and after a moment, it starts to take shape. I didn't ask for this, but it's time I own it. If I'm going to fail spectacularly, I want to fail my way. Go out with a bang.

  And a party. A month-long party, the castle brimming with twenty beautiful women falling all over themselves for my attention. Matched: Royal Edition suddenly seems like a bloody fucking brilliant idea.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  And as if God is speaking to me, the pressure on my shoulders loosens. The weight that's been sitting on my chest, making me think I'm constantly having a goddamn heart attack, relaxes.

  And I feel . . . good. In control.

  I stand up, leaving the documents and ridiculous laws behind me. I go straight up to my room, grab my wallet off the bureau, and slide out the sharp-edged business card that's still inside.

  Then I pick up my mobile and dial.

  "OH, balls."

  I stare at the email on my mobile--at the summons--from Mr. Haverstrom, my boss. And though the sunny afternoon air is crisp, sweat immediately prickles my forehead.

  Annie's blond ponytail snaps like a whip as she turns toward me. "Oh my God, tell me someone sent you a dick pic!" She holds out her hands. "Let me see, let me see! What kind of balls are we talking about? Big balls, odd balls . . .?"

  "Schweddy balls?" Willard adds, unhelpfully, from his chair across the small, round patio table.

  Annie claps her hands. SNL reruns are big in Wessco. "I love that bit." She eats a mouthful of salad off her fork. "Did I ever tell you about Elliot's balls?"

  I meaningfully meet Willard's brown eyes, then check the time. Three minutes, seventeen seconds.

  That's how long it's been since Annie last mentioned Elliot Stapleworth, her giant douche-canoe ex-boyfriend. He broke it off with her two weeks ago, but she's still hopelessly hung up on him. She deserves so much better. Especially since he's not just any douche-canoe--he's one who's never heard of manscaping.

  "They were the hairiest little monsters I'd ever seen. Like two baby hedgehogs curled between his legs, but not at all in a cute way. I used to get pubes caught in my throat all the time."

  There's an image I don't need in my head.

  Willard frowns. "What a rude prick. Nothing kills a mood faster. I keep my boys smooth as a baby's bottom."

  And that's another one.

  I look him straight in the face. "I could've gone my entire life without knowing that."

  He winks at me.

  Annie leans forward. "But, since we're on the subject, tell us, Willard, are your manly parts . . . proportional?"

  Willard is just over four feet ten inches tall, only slightly above the height threshold for dwarfism. But his personality is seven feet high--bold and direct, with clever sarcastic wit to spare. He reminds me of Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones--only kinder and more handsome.

  "Annie!" I gasp, blushing.

  She pushes my shoulder. "You know you want to know."

  No, I don't. But Willard wants to answer.

  "I'm blessedly unproportioned. Just as a blind man's other senses are more developed, God overcompensated me in that department." He wiggles his eyebrows.

  She nods. "I'll be sure to tell Clarice when I'm convincing her to let you take her out this Saturday."

  Annie is a notoriously bad matchmaker. Though Willard's gotten the business end of her attempts more than once, he keeps letting her try.

  What's the definition of insanity again?

  Annie looks toward me. "Now, back to your mystery balls, Sarah."

  "Mr. Haverstrom--"

  She gags. "Mr. Haverstrom? Gross! I bet his bits smell like overcooked green vegetables. You can just tell by that permanently unhappy face. Definitely broccoli balls."

  Damn. And I really liked broccoli.

  "Sarah wasn't referring to Mr. Haverstrom's literal balls, Annie," Willard explains.

  Annie flaps her hands. "Then why'd she bring them up?"

  I take off my glasses, cleaning them with the cloth from my pocket. "Mr. Haverstrom sent me an email. I'm to go directly to his office after lunch. It sounds serious."

  Saying the words makes my anxiety kick into overdrive. My heart pounds, my head goes light, adrenaline rushes through my veins, and I can feel my pulse in my throat. Even when I know it's silly, even when my brain recognizes there's nothing to be panicked about, in unpredictable situations or when I'm the center of attention, my body reacts like I'm the next victim in a slasher film. The one who's stumbling through the woods with the mask-wearing, machete-wielding psycho just steps behind her. I hate it, but it's unavoidable.

  "Remember to breathe slow and steady, Sarah," Willard says. "If anything, he's probably going to offer you a promotion. You're the best in the building; everyone knows that."

  Annie and Willard aren't just my friends, they're my coworkers here at Concordia Library. Willard works downstairs in Restoration and Preservation, Annie in the Children's department, while I spend my days in Literature and Fiction. Everyone thinks library science is all about shelving books and sending out overdue notices--but it's so much more.

  It's about fostering community and information technology, organization, helping others find the needle in whatever haystack they're looking in. In the same way emergency-room physicians must have diagnoses and treatments at their fingertips, librarians, at least the good ones, need to be familiar with an array of topics.

  "I've got the flask I stole from Elliot down in my locker," Annie says.

  Time: three minutes, forty-two seconds. And the record of nine minutes, seven seconds continues to hold strong.

  "You want a nip before you head over?" Annie offers sweetly.

  She's a good friend--like Helen to Jane in Jane Eyre. As kind as she is pretty.

  I shake my head. Then I pull my big-girl knickers up all the way to my neck. "I'll let you know how it goes."

  Annie gives me a thumbs-up with both hands and Willard nods, his brown, wavy hair falling over his forehead like a romance-novel rogue. With a final wave to them both, I leave the small outdoor stone patio where we meet each day for lunch and head inside.

  In the cool, shadowed atrium, I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of books and leather, paper and ink. Before Wessco was its own country, this building was a Scottish cathedral, Concordia Cathedral. There have been updates through the centuries, but wonderfully, the original structure remains--three floors; thick, grand marble columns; arched entryways and high, intricately muraled ceilings. Working here sometimes makes me feel like a priestess--the strong and powerful kind. Especially when I track down a hard-to-find book for someone and the person's face lights up. Or when I introduce a reader to a new series or author. There's privilege and honor in this work--showing people a whole new world, filled with characters and places and emotions they wouldn't have experienced without me. It's magical.

  Mark Twain said, "Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life."

  At Concordia Library, I've yet to work a single day.

  My heels click on the stone floor as I head toward the back spiral stairs. I pass the circulation desk, waving to old Maud, who's been volunteering here twenty hours a week since her husband, Melvin, passed away two months ago. Then I spot George at his usual table--he's a regular, a retiree, and lifelong bachelor. I grab two of the local papers off the stack, sliding them in front of him as I go.

  "Good afternoon, George."

  "It is now, darling,"
he calls after me.

  Along the side wall are a row of computer desks, lined up like soldiers, and I see Timmy Frazier's bright red head bent over a keyboard, where he's typing furiously. Timmy's thirteen years old and a good lad, in the way that good lads still do naughty things. He's got five younger siblings, a longshoreman dad, and a mum who cleans part-time at the estate on top of the hill.

  My mother's estate.

  Castlebrook is a tiny, beautiful town--one of the smallest in Wessco--an old fishing village that's never thrived, but is just successful enough to keep the inhabitants from leaving in search of greener pastures. We're about a five-hour drive from the capital, and while most of the folks here don't venture too far, we often get visitors from the city looking for a quiet weekend at the seaside.

  St. Aldwyn's, where all the local children attend, is just a ten-minute walk away, but I bet Timmy could make it in five.

  "Is there a reason you're not in school, Timmy Frazier?"

  He smiles crookedly, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen or stop typing. "I'm goin' back but had to ditch fourth and fifth periods to finish this paper due in sixth."

  "Have you ever considered completing your assignment the day--or, God forbid, a few days--before it was actually due?"

  Timmy shrugs. "Better last moment than never, Sarah."

  I chuckle, give his fiery head a rub, and continue up the steps to the third floor.

  I'm comfortable with people I know--I can be sociable, even funny with them. It's the new ones and unpredictable situations that tie me up in knots. And I'm about to be bound in a big one.

  Damn it to hell.

  I stand outside Mr. Haverstrom's door, staring at the black letters of his name stenciled on the frosted glass, listening to the murmur of voices inside. It's not that Mr. Haverstrom is a mean boss--he's a bit like Mr. Earnshaw from Wuthering Heights. Even though he doesn't get much page time, his presence is strong and consequential.

  I take a breath, straighten my spine, and knock on the door firmly and decisively--the way Elizabeth Bennet would. Because she didn't give a single shit about anything. Then Mr. Haverstrom opens the door, his eyes narrow, his hair and skin pale, his face lined and grouchy--like a squished marshmallow.