the
following morning, my mother was the only one present.
I was tired and depressed. It had been three days since Jack
and I had had sex, and emotionally I felt farther from him than ever. The faint
hope that had flickered in the back of my mind for the last month—wondering if
there was some way to make a relationship work—had almost completely died now.
I hadn’t slept, and a headache was pulsing just under my right eyebrow.
My mother looked as lovely and polished as ever. Her hair
was the same pale gold as Victoria’s, and her eyes were silver gray like mine.
There were traces of silver in her hair now, which was pulled back in a perfect
bun, and her face was immaculately made up—as perfect as her pale green morning
dress.
I’d never seen her less than perfect. Not in my whole life.
Standing there, exhausted and on the verge of tears for no
reason, I wondered if there had been any moment in my life when I’d almost been
who she’d wanted me to be.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a piece of furniture,”
she said, arching her eyebrows at me. “Get yourself some breakfast.”
I turned toward the sideboard and took a plate, placing a
croissant and some fruit on it. As always, a full breakfast had been laid out,
but at the moment the sight of the eggs, bacon, and ham made me feel rather
queasy.
“Sit down,” my mother said, after I’d poured myself some
juice and coffee. “We need to talk.”
“No, we really don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.” My
voice wasn’t tart or defiant in any way. It was mostly just tired.
“Of course there is. This Jack Watson is not just a friend.
You can’t possibly think I believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe.”
“Pardon me?”
“Whatever happens between us is between me and him.” My
voice was scratchy, aching.
“Relationships are always larger than just two people. You
know that. You think your family and your country don’t matter at all?”
“Of course they matter. But he matters too, you know.”
“Naturally, he does. I never said he doesn’t. But there’s a
very real question about whether or not he belongs here. You’re the one who
brought him with you. What did you think would happen?”
“This,” I admitted, staring blearily down at my plate. “This
is what I knew would happen.”
“Then why would you have brought him here, if you knew he
wouldn’t belong? Are you trying to punish me?”
I almost choked. “Punish you? You think I’m trying to punish you ?” I turned away from her for a minute, fighting to keep my composure.
Then I said very softly, “Maybe I was still holding onto ridiculous daydreams
that what I want might actually matter to you.”
My mother didn’t respond. She just stared at me for a long
time. I had no idea what she was thinking.
Finally, she said, “You’re a princess of Villemont, Amalie
Rothman. It isn’t a truth you can just toss away.”
“I know that.”
“But you want to?”
“No,” I replied on a raspy sound. “I just wish my life was
big enough to hold everything I want.”
“Our lives are never that large.” Her voice was softer now,
almost gentle. “No one can have everything they want. Sacrifices are always
made.”
I nodded, still staring down at my untouched plate. “I
know.”
Before my mother could say anything else, voices sounded
down the hall. I looked up to see Jack come in with Lisette behind him, and
then a young man I didn’t immediately recognize.
It took me a moment to realize it was Alexander Georgeson,
the son of Francis Georgeson, the family administrator. The last I’d seen Alex,
he’d been in college and had looked like a boy.
He didn’t look like a boy now, with his strong, lean body
and square-cut jaw. He was working with his father now, I vaguely remembered,
so he was on staff at the palace.
The voices I’d heard were him and Lisette arguing about politics.
“Not at the breakfast table, children,” my mother
following morning, my mother was the only one present.
I was tired and depressed. It had been three days since Jack
and I had had sex, and emotionally I felt farther from him than ever. The faint
hope that had flickered in the back of my mind for the last month—wondering if
there was some way to make a relationship work—had almost completely died now.
I hadn’t slept, and a headache was pulsing just under my right eyebrow.
My mother looked as lovely and polished as ever. Her hair
was the same pale gold as Victoria’s, and her eyes were silver gray like mine.
There were traces of silver in her hair now, which was pulled back in a perfect
bun, and her face was immaculately made up—as perfect as her pale green morning
dress.
I’d never seen her less than perfect. Not in my whole life.
Standing there, exhausted and on the verge of tears for no
reason, I wondered if there had been any moment in my life when I’d almost been
who she’d wanted me to be.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a piece of furniture,”
she said, arching her eyebrows at me. “Get yourself some breakfast.”
I turned toward the sideboard and took a plate, placing a
croissant and some fruit on it. As always, a full breakfast had been laid out,
but at the moment the sight of the eggs, bacon, and ham made me feel rather
queasy.
“Sit down,” my mother said, after I’d poured myself some
juice and coffee. “We need to talk.”
“No, we really don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.” My
voice wasn’t tart or defiant in any way. It was mostly just tired.
“Of course there is. This Jack Watson is not just a friend.
You can’t possibly think I believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe.”
“Pardon me?”
“Whatever happens between us is between me and him.” My
voice was scratchy, aching.
“Relationships are always larger than just two people. You
know that. You think your family and your country don’t matter at all?”
“Of course they matter. But he matters too, you know.”
“Naturally, he does. I never said he doesn’t. But there’s a
very real question about whether or not he belongs here. You’re the one who
brought him with you. What did you think would happen?”
“This,” I admitted, staring blearily down at my plate. “This
is what I knew would happen.”
“Then why would you have brought him here, if you knew he
wouldn’t belong? Are you trying to punish me?”
I almost choked. “Punish you? You think I’m trying to punish you ?” I turned away from her for a minute, fighting to keep my composure.
Then I said very softly, “Maybe I was still holding onto ridiculous daydreams
that what I want might actually matter to you.”
My mother didn’t respond. She just stared at me for a long
time. I had no idea what she was thinking.
Finally, she said, “You’re a princess of Villemont, Amalie
Rothman. It isn’t a truth you can just toss away.”
“I know that.”
“But you want to?”
“No,” I replied on a raspy sound. “I just wish my life was
big enough to hold everything I want.”
“Our lives are never that large.” Her voice was softer now,
almost gentle. “No one can have everything they want. Sacrifices are always
made.”
I nodded, still staring down at my untouched plate. “I
know.”
Before my mother could say anything else, voices sounded
down the hall. I looked up to see Jack come in with Lisette behind him, and
then a young man I didn’t immediately recognize.
It took me a moment to realize it was Alexander Georgeson,
the son of Francis Georgeson, the family administrator. The last I’d seen Alex,
he’d been in college and had looked like a boy.
He didn’t look like a boy now, with his strong, lean body
and square-cut jaw. He was working with his father now, I vaguely remembered,
so he was on staff at the palace.
The voices I’d heard were him and Lisette arguing about politics.
“Not at the breakfast table, children,” my mother
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