“It’s like we’re in Outlander,” I whisper to El. “This is really a lot more than I bargained for.”
“Daisy!” El says again, giving me a glare before walking forward with her best princess smile, Alex coming to stand next to her.
“Mr. McDougal, we are terribly sorry for this misunderstanding,” she says, her voice so soothing it’s like an auditory head pat. “You do have a lovely home, and—”
“This is breaking and entering!” Mr. McDougal continues, and Seb sighs, rolling his shoulders.
“I did not break, although I did enter.”
“And who let ye in?” Mr. McDougal is practically panting now, his barrel chest heaving, and I glance over my shoulder to see Spiffy and Dons edging close to the wall, choking back giggles. What are they—
“Bloody hell,” Miles mutters next to me, and I look up to see he’s watching Spiffy and Dons, too.
My eyes land on the crossed swords affixed to the wall just as Seb grins at Mr. McDougal and drawls, “Lovely lass who lives here gave me a key.” Making an exaggeratedly innocent expression, he adds, “I believe she said she was your granddaughter?”
If I’d thought that Mr. McDougal seemed rage-y before, it’s nothing to how he looks now. Face purple, he gives this huge shout and lunges for Seb just as Spiffy and Dons pull the swords from the wall, metal scraping along stone as the points of the swords drag on the floor.
“Duel!” Spiffy shouts, and for the first time, I realize just how drunk he and his brother are. Like, crazy drunk.
And now they’re armed with swords that look like they were last used about three hundred years ago.
“Stephen!” Alex says, stepping forward to snatch the sword away from him, but before he can, Dons rushes forward with his own sword.
Straight at the farmer and Seb.
Chapter 9
Some good things that happened this afternoon:
1) Mr. McDougal did not press charges and accepted both Alex’s sincere apologies and his offer to meet the queen upon her return from Canada.
2) We managed to get to Sherbourne Castle just as a huge rainstorm swept in, literally walking up the front steps as the bottom seemed to fall out of the sky, drenching everything.
3) No one actually got stabbed. Dons had been trying to toss the sword to Seb in some sort of cool maneuver, but it ended up just clattering to the floor before it could do any damage.
4) . . .
No, that’s it. Those were the good things that happened today, and the rest was a complete disaster.
The castle, however, is gorgeous. Well, parts of it are. The entire back end of it appears to be a ruin, but the main building is exactly what I would’ve dreamed of as a kid had I been into the whole princess-and-castle thing. There’s even a turret with a flag flapping in the wind, and it’s easy to imagine standing there, watching, like, Braveheart come riding in from battle, all blue-faced and yelling about freedom.
As Ellie and I step through the big double doors of the castle, I scoot closer to her and whisper, “So is there a reason you failed to mention that Alex’s brother and all his friends are basically human dumpster fires?”
“Shhhh!” Ellie hisses, looking around her, but Alex is talking to Miles, and the rest of the Royal Wreckers are heading back to the parlor, laughing, punching each other, basically a walking advertisement for bad decisions.
“I thought Flora was the only one who was a mess,” I add, still whispering. “Is she here?”
Turning back to me, she smooths her hair with her hands, probably drawing power from its mystical shininess. “We’ll see her once her school term is over,” Ellie says, “and as for Seb and his friends, I know they can get a little out of hand, but—”
“Out of hand?” I whisper back. “Ellie, that was full-scale insane. There was nearly a duel! Seb, like, tried to steal some dude’s house! And you’re worried about our family being embarrassing?”
“No one is worried our family will embarrass me, first of all,” she says, and I scoff.
“Okay, sure.”
Ignoring that, she goes on. “And those are Seb’s friends, not Alex’s.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
I glance over to see Alex thumping Miles’s shoulder in that way boys do, and Miles shoots a quick look at me before heading off in the same direction as the other Wreckers. Only Ellie, Alex, Sherbet, and I are left in the main foyer, and while I want to ask Ellie more about Seb, Alex is already walking toward her, one hand out.
“Drink, darling?” he asks, like we’re in a Masterpiece Theatre show about murder in the 1930s or something.
Ellie sighs and places her hand in his. “Yes, please,” she says, and off they go, violins probably swelling on the soundtracks inside their heads.
As I watch them go, I wonder: Is this why Ellie kept things so separate? Was it less to keep us from embarrassing her new fancy-pants family and more to make sure we never knew how not perfect her new life was?
That’s . . . interesting to think about.
Sherbet moves closer to me, hands in his pockets. “Shall I show you up to your room?” he asks, and I nod. I wouldn’t mind holing up somewhere private for a little bit.
“Follow me,” Sherbet says, jerking his head toward the main staircase.
As we walk along, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet on the steps, I glance around again at all the stuff. Paintings fill up all the wall space, and little tables covered in clocks and porcelain eggs and miniature portraits are scattered everywhere.
“How would you know if anything went missing?” I ask, and Sherbet turns, looking at me and then around again as though he’s just now noticing that his house is full of things.
“Huh,” he says, gripping the banister with a long-fingered hand. “I’m not sure we would know, really.” He laughs then, some of his dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Most houses like this are stuffed to the gills,” he says, continuing up the stairs.
“I guess owning a place for like a thousand years will do that,” I reply, and he laughs again, stepping onto the landing.
“Yes, that, but also, families like ours would always make sure to have extra trinkets lying about in case anything caught the monarch’s eye when they visited.”
I stop just behind him, looking at an end table littered with all sorts of bits and bobs: a magnifying glass with a jeweled handle, a thumb-sized naughty shepherdess figurine, a leather-bound journal so old the spine is flaking. “What do you mean?” I ask, and he looks back at me, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, just that if the king or queen were visiting your house, they might see something they wanted, and they’d take it. So it behooved hosts to fill their house with extra knickknacks or objets d’art, so they could give away something less valuable or sentimental.”
I try to imagine someone visiting my house and just . . . taking whatever they wanted.
“But what if you didn’t want them to have it? What if they didn’t fall for the extra junk and wanted, like, a book your dead grandmother gave you?”
Sherbet shrugs. “Then you gave it to them,” he says. “They’re royal.”
Like that explains everything. And heck, for these types of people, maybe it does. Seb did just try to commandeer someone’s farm, after all.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here, Daisy,” Sherbet goes on. “I know today was a bit mad, but tomorrow is the race, and that should be a good deal calmer.”
Oh, right. The race, aka An Reis, a fancy, Ascot-like thing we’ll be attending that’s probably in that folder Glynnis prepared for me. I know nothing about horses or races, but how hard can it be?
We make our way farther down the hall until Sherbet stops at a door and opens it with a flourish, giving a little bow. “If anything is not to your satisfaction, please let me know,” he says, and then he’s off down the h
all, back toward the stairs and, I’m sure, more drinks.
The room is smaller than I’d expected, but maybe that’s just because the bed is so massive, it takes up most of the space. It’s covered in a floral bedspread, and there’s a tiny canopy that I like, but other than that, it mostly feels . . . weird. Other than my bag—resting on an ancient-looking luggage rack at the foot of the bed—it’s all deeply unfamiliar and even a little unwelcoming. The walls are stone, and while there are two windows looking out toward the stream that cuts across the property, the glass is so warped and distorted that it makes it seem like I’m looking outside through water.
It’s also cold in the room, and while there’s a radiator under the window, no matter how I twist and pull at the knobs, nothing seems to happen.
Defeated, I flop down on the bed, pull the musty-smelling bedspread up around me, and am asleep in minutes.
* * *
• • •
When I wake, it’s dark outside, which means it’s late. Really late. Past ten, at least, and I sit up, groggy. I’d fallen asleep in my dress and cardigan, both of which are now hopelessly wrinkled, and hopelessly ineffective against the chill in the room.
I’ve probably missed dinner, but even the rumbling in my stomach doesn’t make me want to face what’s downstairs, so instead, I open my bag and start pulling out clothes. I settle on a pair of pajama pants (plaid, very fitting), a tank top, an old long-sleeved T-shirt on top of that, a sweater, and, for extra measure, a scarf wrapped around my head. Even in all those layers, though, I’m still not warm.
Shivering, I rub my upper arms. How the heck is this place so cold in June? Back home, we were running the air conditioner nonstop by this point. It’s not like I’d expected Scotland to be balmy or anything, but when we’d been here before, it was in the fall and winter. I expected cold then, but this was ridiculous.
I go back to the radiator lurking under the nearest window, but twisting the knob on the bottom only results in a bunch of loud thumps and a rushing-water sound that is, to be honest, pretty freaking alarming.
I twist the knob again and the noises stop, but the room is still freezing, and with a sigh, I get back in the bed, being sure to pull out the folder Glynnis put together for me as I do.
Settling against the lumpy mattress, I decide that if I’m not going to go downstairs tonight, at least I can get prepared for tomorrow.
I page through the folder, and despite the fact that I’m about to die from frostbite, I can’t help but grin and shake my head. No wonder El likes this Glynnis lady so much. This packet of material with its fancy font and little clip art of crowns is definitely Ellie’s style. No one has ever excelled at organization quite like my sister.
Glynnis has broken her guide down into sections, and while I’m tempted to skip to the part marked “Royal Residences,” I figure the bit I need most is “Aristocracy: Titles and Honorifics.”
Sherbet—sorry, Sherbourne—is the son of a duke, the first son, which means that if I’m talking to him, I need to say, “Lord Sherbourne” or “my lord,” but if I was writing to him, I’d say, “My Lord Marquess.” Also, I learn that a marquess is pretty high up on the list of fancy people, and that dukes are the fanciest people besides actual royalty, although some dukes are also royalty, like how Alexander is Prince of the Scots while also being the Duke of Rothesay, which, if you ask me, is a little greedy. No need to go snatching up all the—
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up, startled. Then I remember about the heating and wonder if someone heard me banging on the radiator. Or even better, maybe someone is bringing me food.
Scrambling off the bed, I don’t even bother throwing anything on over my pajamas since I’m wearing two layers and have a scarf wrapped around my head.
I fling open the door, hoping it’ll be Ellie with a tray, being all sisterly and good-hearted.
It is very much not Ellie.
Standing in my doorway, dressed in dark pants and a white button-down, jacket thrown over his shoulder like he’s about to walk down a runway, is Prince Sebastian.
Seb.
And he’s smiling at me.
Chapter 10
“Knock, knock,” he says with a smile, rapping his knuckles on my door, and I stand there, frozen.
I thought I’d gotten used to how good-looking he was early this afternoon, but apparently this kind of handsome just smacks you in the face every time you see it.
And then I remember I am currently standing in my doorway staring at him wearing pretty much everything in my suitcase.
“Hi,” I say too loudly, stepping back and trying to gesture for him to come in while also yanking at the scarf around my head, hopefully not looking like I’m strangling myself. I kind of want to strangle myself, but that’s not the point.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk. Thought I’d come say hello, apologize for that mess earlier, see how your first night here in the madhouse was going,” Seb says lightly, his hands in his pockets as he ambles into my room. The way he walks . . . look, I know this sounds stupid, but I have never in my life seen a boy move like that. Most of the guys at my school slouch forward like they’re carrying invisible turtle shells on their backs. But here’s Seb, with his shoulders back, all this easy grace, smooth motions, and when he leans against the high footboard of my bed to grin at me, I think I might actually swoon.
“This place doesn’t seem that bad,” I say. “It’s a little cold,” I acknowledge, gesturing at my layers, and Seb chuckles.
“Let’s see what I can do,” he murmurs, walking over to the radiator.
“I tried that,” I tell him as he crouches down and my face flames red even though I’m still freezing. I have never ogled a guy, but Seb is oddly ogle-able, and in that position, his pants are really tight across—
Okay, no, no, this is not happening, and I am getting ahold of myself starting now.
I half expect Seb to do some macho dude thing like slam a fist on the radiator, after which it will magically work, having been subdued by the force of his overwhelming masculinity.
Instead, he fiddles with some knobs at the bottom, and then there’s a soft hissing sound that I guess is heat actually coming back into the room.
“Sorted,” Seb says, standing up and turning back around.
His eyes slide down to the monkey socks I’m wearing, then make a leisurely journey back up to my face.
“You don’t look much like your sister,” he finally says, and I have no idea if that’s meant to be a criticism or a compliment. His handsome face isn’t giving anything away, and I fight the urge to fidget. Being around Seb this afternoon had been one thing; there were lots of other people around, plus pipers, plus the incomprehensible farmer and the kilts and the champagne and the swords . . . even a very hot prince couldn’t compete with all that excitement. But now he’s here in my room, and it’s nighttime, and the soft golden light from the lamp makes everything cozy and romantic, and I feel roughly 9,000 leagues out of my depth.
“You don’t look much like your brother,” I finally manage, and Seb winks at me.
“Thank god for small favors, eh?”
Then he turns and walks to the fancy desk in the corner of the room, the one with the cabinet over the top, and slides the cabinet open. “Ah, there you are, my beauty,” he says, his Scottish accent rolling.
I curl my toes into the thick carpet, holding on to the bedpost as he cradles a bottle of amber liquid. “You hid booze in your friend’s house?”
Seb yanks out the cork in the top of the bottle, lifting it to me in a little salute. “I did not actually hide this bottle, I’ll have you know,” he says. “That was Sherbet’s father’s doing.”
“So instead of hiding booze, you’re stealing it,” I say.
He walks closer, then stops to lean against the opposite bedpost as he lifts the bottle to his li
ps, taking a truly massive gulp of whatever is in there. My stomach rolls in sympathy.
“I cannot steal,” Seb informs me, “because, technically, anything in this house belongs to me, as I am a prince of the land.”
I’m just about to roll my eyes when that boyish grin flashes again. “Kidding, of course,” he assures me. “I am indeed stealing Sherbet’s father’s fine whiskey.”
I give a kind of breathless laugh that doesn’t sound anything like me, and honestly, I kind of want to punch myself in the face for how ridiculous I’m being, but this is some next-level swoony material happening here.
Then Seb tilts the bottle up, taking another one of those massive gulps, and I shudder. Drinking straight alcohol like that would probably result in me projectile vomiting. Is he . . . used to this kind of thing? Earlier today, he’d been all charm and decorum while his friends were the ones totally out of their minds. Well, most of his friends. The tall guy had seemed sober enough.
“So you’re to be my new sister-in-law,” Seb says once he’s done damaging his liver. “What do you think of the family so far?”
I can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just making small talk, but in either case, I kind of wish he’d leave already. I’m getting tired again, and I feel like talking with Seb might require more brainpower than I can currently access. There’s a light blanket on the end of the bed, and I pick it up, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“It’s great,” I say. “Alex is . . . great.”
Seb sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “Great,” he echoes. “He is indeed that.”
Silence falls between us then, and it is most definitely the awkward kind, but only on my end, I think. Seb appears to mostly be studying the patterns in the carpet.
Then up goes the bottle again, and I have the strangest urge to call Isabel, or at least take a quick phone video of Seb for her. This guy is not nearly as dreamy as you thought, I’d tell her, but then I look again at Seb, and okay, so he’s getting drunk and maybe not quite as polished as I’d imagined he’d be, but I’m not sure the visual would get that across. He actually looks pretty good right now with his loose collar and perfect pants.