CHAPTER 1

LENORA

Averdeen, 1945

“YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN HER, Alfie. She was so damn impressive. More dignified than any of those bawbags in Parliament could dream of being.”

My father, Reginald William Constantine Pembrook, the King of

Wessco, often talks about me like I’m not in the room. My mother calls it a sorry habit. But I don’t mind, especially when he’s proud of me.

“And my advisors,” he says, spitting out the word like a curse. “They don’t understand the people at’all. Damn fools, the lot of them.”

Father’s advisors talk about me like I’m not in the room too.

“Eight years old is too young,” they’d said. “She will humiliate herself,” they’d warned. “The Crown Princess is just a girl after all.”

When the war finally ended last month, we had a parade through the

city. There was music and sweets, banners and balloons, and golden confetti floating everywhere you looked. The crowds waved and cheered and

welcomed the men home as they marched down the street in their handsome uniforms.

This morning, the rest of the lads came home, but no one was cheering.

The bagpipes played and a sea of sad faces—crying mums and dads and little brothers and sisters—watched as the flag-draped caskets were loaded off planes in a parade that seemed to go on and on and on.

I wanted to cry too. My heart felt like a lead ball, and my stomach pinched from the awfulness of it all.

But I didn’t let it show. I kept my eyes dry and my face solemn. I nodded my head and told them we would never, ever, forget their brave boys. And I think my being there, my words, made it better . . . a little less awful for them.

Just like Father had told me it would.

“I’m glad it worked out how you wanted, Reggie,” Alfie Barrister replies from the leather chair by the fireplace.

Alfie is Father’s best friend. I like him very much. He’s large and round and happy—like a redheaded Father Christmas.

“There’s a call for you, Your Majesty,” a servant says from behind me. “I’ll take it in the study.”

I hear the library door close behind Father as he leaves the room, but I

continue to look out the window. Across the carpet of green grass to the rear of the sun-streaked yard, where a rope swing hangs from a thick black branch of a tree that’s as big as a monster.

The cheery kind of monster.

It’s my favorite part of visits to Alfie’s. Because while our palace has hundreds of rooms and endless hallways, and fountains and gardens with flowers of every color you can imagine . . . there’s not a single swing hanging from one branch of any tree in the whole damn place.

I’m not supposed to say damn out loud, but it feels good to say it in my head sometimes.

Alfie steps up next to me and looks out the window too. “Would you like to go swing, Chicken?”

I grin all the way up at him, and nod.

A hop, skip and a jump later, Alfie’s pushing me on the swing and it feels like I’m flying—like I’m a bird who can go anywhere—with the sun

on my face and the wind in my hair. My navy-blue dress is tucked under my legs to keep it from flailing.

“Did you hang this swing for yourself, Alfie?” I ask. The wooden plank that makes the seat would fit him.

He chuckles. “No. It’s for my children.”

I twist around in the seat to gape at him. “You have children?” “That’s right. Two boys and a little girl.”

I turn back in the swing and contemplate this unexpected development. “I don’t think I like children. They seem confusing and badly behaved.”

I don’t actually know any children—not officially. Miriam goes to school while I’m tutored at the palace.

“But I’m sure I would like yours, Alfie.” I look up, scanning the yard. “Are they here? Why haven’t I met them when we visit?”

“They live in Scotland with their mother,” Alfie explains.

“Why does their mother live in Scotland and not here with you?”

Alfie thinks a moment and then he sighs. “Well . . . I wasn’t a very good husband. Married to the store and all that.”

Alfie’s store, Barrister’s, is the biggest in Wessco—it has toys and

clothes and all sorts of amazing things. I heard him tell Father he’s opening another one in London soon, and after he’s finished taking over the world, he’ll be nice and let Father keep Wessco.

“Do you miss them?” I ask.

“Yes.” Alfie nods. “But my wife is happier in Scotland with her family.

And children belong with their mums.”

My mother is beautiful, with a soft voice and long dark brown hair like mine, and eyes that are the exact color of the sky on a sunny day.

“I’m hardly ever with Mum,” I say quietly.

When I’m not with my tutors, I’m with Father. Sometimes, when they think I can’t hear them, the staff call me HRS—His Royal Shadow.

“Yes, I know,” Alfie says, sounding a bit sad for me. “But you’re special, Chicken.”

I’m special because one day I’m going be queen. Father said so.

There were two babies before me—and one was a boy. But they came too soon, were born too small, and didn’t survive. After my younger sister, Miriam, was born, Mother was very sick and the doctors told Father there would be no more babies.

And that means I’ll be the first Queen Regnant Wessco has ever had. It’s important that I’m good at it.

“Why do you call me Chicken, Alfie?” I wonder on the upswing.

“Because I saw you the night you were born at Ludlow Castle. I was there the first time your father held you—and that’s just what you looked like. A pale, squawking chicken with no feathers.”

The description is disturbing. I frown.

“I hope I don’t look like a chicken anymore.”

Alfie steps to the front of the swing, watching me. Then he rocks his head from side to side, his blue eyes sparkling. “Eh . . . depends on the day.”

My mouth drops open. “Alll-fie!”

And his belly shakes in time with his deep chuckle. “It’s a pet name,

Lenora. An endearment. Every child should have one.” He gives me another push from the side of the swing. “And believe it or not, Your Highness, you are, in fact, a child.”

Alfie turns toward the main house, shaking his head. I hear him say softly, “God knows someone has to treat you like one.”

Guthrie House, Palace of Wessco, 1953

The color of clothing is important. It’s the first thing people notice about you. Black is gloomy, white is sanctimonious, fuchsia too garish, pastels too girlish. Patterns are important too. Polka dots are too frivolous, florals too

shallow, stripes and plaids can do nicely—but you mustn’t overdo them.

And for everyday-wear . . . gray.

According to my personal secretary, Miss Crabblesnitch, dove gray is the perfect color. Not too drab, not too bold, it’s soft but not weak, attractive but not superficial.

I’m probably going to die in a gray dress. And that will be my ghost outfit.

Forever.

“That one today, Megan.” Miss Crabblesnitch points to the ensemble in the maid’s left hand—a tweed short-sleeved circle-dress with attached bouffant petticoats and matching jacket.

In gray. Of course.

After I’m dressed, I sit at the vanity table and Megan begins to arrange my long hair in its typical bun, leaving my bangs swept to the side and a few strands loose to soften the look.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” Mother sweeps into the room, elegant and smiling, wearing a willowy dark blue silk dress with a dainty white floral pattern. Miriam trails in behind her in pale green with a matching band in her curly, light brown hair.

“Thank you, Megan. I’ll finish up here,” Mother says, taking the maid’s place behind me. Miss Crabblesnitch and Megan curtsy and leave the room.

“Never cut you hair, Lenora,” Mother says as she pins it. “It’s so beautiful.”

Mother is the only one who calls me beautiful and sweet and a hundred other words that make me feel delightful inside. That make me feel . . . normal. Or what I imagine “normal” must be.

She finishes my hair and catches my eyes in the mirror, wrinkling her nose. “Miss Crabblesnitch chose gray again?”

I sigh dramatically. “Gray like the dreary Wessco sky . . . and my soul.” “Cheeky girl.” Mother laughs. Then she turns and gazes at the sparkly,

poofy gown hanging just outside my dressing room. “At least you’ll be able to mix it up tonight at your birthday ball.”

I stand up beside her. “Yes, because silver is so very different from gray.”

Mother presses her soft hand to my cheek. “It complements your eyes.

You will be a vision.”

“I want to have a black-and-white ball for my birthday,” Miriam says. “And everyone will wear black and white—except I’ll be in electric blue.

And I’ll meet the love of my life and we’ll dance and dance and dance. And no one will look at Lenora.”

My fourteen-year-old sister sticks her tongue out at me.

Charming.

“You can have all the looks,” I tell her. “If no one ever turned my way again, I’d be perfectly happy.”

Mother checks her watch. “Come along, darlings. Your father is downstairs and you know he hates to be kept waiting.”

Father stands at the bottom of the steps, spine straight, hands folded behind his back. He’s many years older than Mother, with lines on his face and more white in his hair than brown. But together they’re an attractive

couple, and as he gazes up at her, his gray-blue eyes are bright, like those of a much younger man.

We don’t wait for compliments from the King, and he gives us none. It’s never been his way. But he offers Mother his arm, and the four of us walk

across the grand marble foyer toward the car that will take us to the Parliament luncheon to celebrate my birthday.

“Remember, Lenora—no dancing tonight,” my father says without turning around.

“Oh, Reggie. It’s her sixteenth birthday,” Mother complains.

“Precisely. I won’t have rumors spreading about her with this or that randy son of a lord because she was seen dancing too closely.”

Rumors are like a dent from a sledgehammer—you can repair it, but it will never be as it was before. The Archbishop of Dingleberry . . . don’t

even get me started on his name . . . told Father that once. He has a puckered, bitter face like a piece of fruit that’s gone bad, and you can just tell his mother never let him have sweets as a child.

Mother tries again. “For goodness sakes, it’s not the eighteen hundreds.”

And my father says one of the truest things I’ll ever hear: “Within these walls, it still is.”

The Parliament luncheon progresses just as I would expect from a room full of old men whose favorite sound in the world is their own droning voices. I look up to the ornate, mural-painted ceiling and pray for an act of God to

save me from my boredom. Nothing flashy like an earthquake or a volcano,

but perhaps a little plague? Frogs would be good. I’d settle for locusts at this point.

But God has forsaken me—because the afternoon drags on uninterrupted.

“Warts.”

It’s funny how just when you think things can’t get any worse, they always do.

“Pardon?”

The Marquis of Munster’s beard is so overgrown, I can barely make out his mouth. But I can see the leftovers from his lunch—bits of ham and

cheese dangle from the gray, wiry hair like horrific Christmas tree ornaments.

I don’t gag. Or grimace. My self-control is outstanding. I should give myself a medal.

“I used to be the best rider in Parliament,” he grumbles, “but I’ve had to cut back because of the warts on my feet. Springing up like weeds. There’s one on my large toe that’s as big as a juicy grape.”

And my gag reflex is put to the test.

“Would you like to see, Your Highness?”

“See?” I repeat, because . . . he didn’t really just say that, did he? “It’s quite magnificent actually—medically speaking.”

And he reaches for his left boot. “Uh, I—”

“Good afternoon, Lord Munster!”

Miriam, my favorite sister in the whole wide world, skips up beside me, threading her arm through mine. “I’m afraid I have to steal my sister.

Woman talk. You understand.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Munster bows. “A very happy birthday to you, Princess Lenora.”

“Thank you.”

Arms linked, Miriam and I slide away.

“You owe me,” she whispers. “I want to wear your sapphire necklace at the ball tonight.”

“You can have the necklace and the earrings too. You’ve earned them.” “Was he trying to show you his magnificent wart?”

“How did you know?”

“He tried the same thing with Elizabeth Montgomery at her uncle’s knighting ceremony last month! I think it’s a bizarre mating-ritual kind of thing.”

“What does that even mean?” I snort.

“Well, first he shows you his toe, but that’s just the start. The next thing you know it’s ‘Come along now, dearie, and let me show you all my other parts that have warts!’” She wiggles her eyebrows and I cover my mouth, and we dissolve into a fizzy giggle fit.

Sometimes, when I let myself think about it, I almost can’t believe how incredibly strange this life is. And I look out at the city from the palace

window and I wonder if it’s strange for everyone—maybe not in the same way it is for me, but odd, just the same.

A young man walks into the room then, and I’m sure I haven’t seen him before. He’s pale, with thick, dark, neatly trimmed hair and boyish features behind square, black-rimmed glasses. He moves through the room like an

enthusiastic puppy in a new yard—all wide-eyed eagerness. “Miriam, who is that boy?”

Gossip is petty, but in the world of politics it’s also essential. I try to keep up, but Miriam’s knowledge puts mine to shame. Hell, she’d put an MI6 spy’s to shame.

“He’s the new Duke of Anthorp,” she whispers back.

The Duke of Anthorp is the title of the Rourke family—a name that’s as old and prestigious in Wessco as Pembrook.

“He’s so young.”

“Just a year older than you.” She nods. “Father had to give him a special dispensation so he could take his family’s seat in the House of Lords. Didn’t he tell you?”

I shake my head.

And Miriam tells all. “Oh, it’s the juiciest bit! The new Duke is actually the second Rourke son. His brother—older by eight years—had a falling- out with the old Duke when he joined up for the war against his father’s

wishes. When the war ended, the older son came back home and the Duke offered to reinstate him. But he wanted nothing to do with it! He left!”

“Left?” I can’t imagine it—walking away from your home, your family

. . . your duty. It’s as inconceivable to me as walking down the middle of the street without your clothes on.

“Where did he go?”

“Anywhere he wanted.” Miriam sighs. “They say he’s traveled all over the world climbing mountains, exploring jungles, and holds a record for deep-sea diving. He finds treasure.”

“Treasure? The Rourkes have as much money as we do.”

“But that’s why it’s so dreamy! He doesn’t find the treasure because he needs to—he does it just because he can. He gives it to charities—they say he once gave a rare diamond to an orphan boy begging on the street.

Changed his life.”

Oh . . . that is rather dreamy.

“The old Duke kicked it a few months ago.” Miriam snaps her fingers. “They say the older one didn’t come home for the service, but the two brothers are supposedly very close. And now the younger brother is the

Duke of Anthorp.”

I watch the boy for a moment as he smiles and chats with the old men crowding around him—like they’re trying to siphon off his youth through proximity. There’s an openness in his expression, an unguardedness in his stance that’s rare around here. He seems . . . kind. And genuine.

Parliament is going to eat him alive. “What’s his name?” I ask.

“Thomas.”

My birthday ball is turning out to be a huge improvement from the luncheon. I feel luminous in my silver gown with my hair piled in shiny curls on my head, encircled by a flawless diamond tiara. And I haven’t heard the word warts once.

It’s an extravagant affair—long tables laden with caviar and sparkling Champagne in crystal flutes. The gilded mirrors on the ballroom walls

reflect the rainbow blur of dancing gowns, glittery jewels, top hats and tails, and the lilting music of a twenty-piece orchestra is in fine form. The guests include a former American president, royals from every country in Europe and all the noble families of Wessco.

I stand to the side, along the wall, beside a marble column—my feet tapping in time to the music I won’t be dancing to.

Occasionally a well-wisher stops to chat—like Mr. Elvin Busey, a middle-aged, well-connected entrepreneur who wanted to tell me all about his new upholstery business, in case I wanted to invest. Once in a while, an upper-class boy passes by—the son of a Duke or an Earl or one of the

several foreign Princes—each with expressions of greedy lust or squirrelly unease on their faces when they glance my way.

“That dress is the tops, Lenora!” My cousin Calliope gives me two thumbs up as she whisks past with her entourage.

Calliope’s hobby is writing detailed horror stories about the grisly death of every member of the royal family who stands between her and the throne. Including me.

These interactions aren’t genuine. They’re not real or sincere.

The rest of the guests tend to watch me from across the room, while trying to look like they’re not. But attention is tangible and weighted— something you can feel. As if by reflex, I stand stiffer, straighter, and my features slip into that unreadable mask of indifference.

“Are you having a good time, darling?” my mother asks.

She looks like a jewel tonight. Her gown is red velvet and there are winking rubies pinned all through her dark hair.

“Yes, I’m enjoying myself.”

The same way a Fabergé egg must enjoy itself while it’s admired, in its guarded museum glass case.

Laughter and chatter come from the group of young nobles behind us.

Mother hears it too.

She wraps her arm around my lower back, squeezing with a gentle strength. “Your time will come, Lenora.”

“I know.” I shrug.

“I don’t mean when you become queen. I mean your time for laughter . .

. for love. Joy and excitement—that will come for you too. I’m sure of it.” “How can you be sure?”

There are old, shushed stories about my mother’s great-aunt Portia. They say she was a strange bird who sometimes had dreams that had a funny way of coming true.

She cups my jaw in her hands. “Because you, dear girl, are

extraordinary in every way. It only makes sense that every part of your life will be extraordinary too.” She kisses my forehead. “I’m so proud of you . .

. so proud to be your mother.”

I don’t spend a lot of time with Mother, not as much as I’d like. But when I do, she’s always able to do this—chase away the melancholy as easily as a fairy waving her wand.

“Thanks, Mum.”

She looks over my shoulder and her smile drops like a bomb. “Oh hell .

. . the Marquis of Munster has the Queen Mother of Spain cornered. If he flashes that damn warty foot, we’ll end up in a bloody war.”

As my mother scurries away to prevent an international incident, I spot the young Duke of Anthorp again. He’s two columns down, leaning against the wall, his position almost a mirror image of my own. And because he can most likely feel me looking, his head turns my way—and he squints, like he still can’t see me well, despite the thick glasses on his face.

And then he’s strolling this way, hands folded behind his back. When he reaches me, he leans on the wall beside me, bowing his head, giving a start of a smile.

“Happy birthday, Princess Lenora.” “Thank you, Duke Anthorp.”

He flinches. “Please, call me Thomas. Or Rourke. Every time I hear the title I look around for my father. He was a miserable old bastard when he was alive and I don’t expect two months of being dead would’ve improved his disposition, so the thought of him being close by is . . . disturbing.”

A chuckle swirls up my throat. What an oddly honest thing to say! I nod. “How are you finding Parliament, Thomas?”

“Challenging. I’ve heard there are no friends in politics—only enemies and men you don’t yet know are your enemies. I’m beginning to see how

accurate that is.” He shakes his head. “I just have to figure it out. I’m the youngest member of Parliament—it’s important that I be good at it.”

“Yes, I know the feeling.”

A swell of sympathy rises inside me for him. Like spotting a doe in the woods, when you know the wolves are near.

“The trick is to guard your opinions,” I tell him. “To not let anyone know what you’re thinking. You should work on your poker face.” And

because he seems so young and alone, I offer, “I could help you with that. Show you the ropes, so to speak. Give you some pointers.”

And it’s as if I’ve offered him the world.

“You would do that for me? That’s very kind.” He looks off toward the dance floor and his voice drops lower. “I don’t have many friends—

especially not here in the city. I’m more of a lone wolf, you know? A rebel.” He shrugs then and gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Well . . . an oddball may be more accurate. A strange duck.”

I smile. “I know that feeling too.”

Thomas adjusts his glasses. “May I ask you something?” “Of course.”

“It’s your party—why aren’t you dancing?”

My eavesdropping sister pokes her head out from behind the column like a nosy squirrel popping out of a tree.

“She’s not allowed.”

“Why isn’t she allowed?” Thomas asks.

“Chewing gum,” Miriam explains—too happily. “Yes, of course.” Thomas nods. “I see.”

And then his nodding head turns to a shaking one.

“No, wait, I don’t see. What’s chewing gum have to do with it?” Yes, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds.

“A lady is like a lovely stick of chewing gum,” Miriam parrots. “Sweet and unblemished, but if you’re not careful, every lad around will take a taste.”

“But no decent man,” I continue, mimicking a crotchety old sod, “will want to put a used stick of gum in his mouth.”

Thomas seems to consider the idea seriously.

“That’s a load of bollocks, if I ever heard it. Who said that?”

“The Archbishop of Dingleberry,” I reply. “My father took it straight to heart.”

“Dingleberry, eh? The name sort of says it all, then, doesn’t it?” Thomas winks.

And I laugh out loud.

Miriam does too, then she grabs Thomas’s wrist. “Now, Lenora may not be allowed to dance, but I am. And this song is one of my favorites. Let’s dance, Duke.”

Thomas seems surprised. “Well, all right.”

And Miriam drags him off to the dance floor. Two dances later, they come back.

“We’ve concocted a plan!” my sister whisper-yells.

Oh no.

I’m already shaking my head. “The last time you had a plan, I ended up sitting next to Stinky Winky at dinner. No thank you, very much.”

Thomas looks back and forth between us. “Stinky Winky?”

“The Viscount of Winkerton,” Miriam explains. “The man smells like a pig’s arsehole,” I add.

Thomas chuckles.

“But this is totally different!” Miriam bounces on her toes. “This plan will actually work! I’ll create a distraction—I’m good at those. And you’ll get a chance to dance, Lenora.”

Thomas’s soft green eyes meet mine. “Everyone should get to dance on their birthday—chewing gum be damned.”

Excitement fizzes in my stomach and an unfamiliar wicked smile tugs at my lips.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Which is why it’s fun,” Thomas insists. “I don’t know . . .”

“Oh, come on!” my tempting serpent of a sister whines. “For God’s sake, live a little.”

I glance around the room, searching for the prying eyes that always follow me, then I take a quick breath and nod. “All right.”

“Brilliant!” Miriam claps her hands, then looks at Thomas. “Wait for the signal.”

She rushes off to my father, pulling the King out to the dance floor. The bulbs of the palace photographer’s cameras flash, and you can practically hear the whole room sigh with the preciousness of watching the King of Wessco dance with his youngest daughter.

Thomas stands beside me, staring straight ahead, his hand just inches from mine. “Wait for it . . . wait . . .”

“Oh no!” Miriam screeches, and if all eyes weren’t on her and my father before, they are now.

“Now!” Thomas whispers, grabbing my hand and rushing us through the door behind us, as Miriam carries on about losing her beloved sapphire earring that was a gift from the King of Bermuda.

The room Thomas and I dive into is the mauve and gold drawing room, which was used in the corset days for all the fainting ladies who dropped like flies. But tonight it’s empty.

Thomas peeks through the crack in the door, listening—and after a moment he smiles. “The coast is clear.”

For most people, this would be a small, silly thing. But I’m not most people.

I’ve never disobeyed my father—I’ve never disobeyed anyone. And I feel . . . alive. Maybe the most alive I’ve ever felt.

The beautiful music comes clearly through the walls—a fun, fast jig of a tune.

Thomas straightens his tuxedo jacket and his glasses. Then he bows, holding out his hand. “May I have the honor of this dance, Princess Lenora?”

And for the first time, to someone who is not my father or a direct relation, I reply, “I would be delighted.”

Thomas clasps our right hands together, squaring our arms, and rests his other hand on my waist. And beneath the dim, golden chandelier, we dance. We skip and spin, twirl and shuffle. We almost fall once, and Thomas steps on my toes . . . more than once.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

“Ow!”

“My fault—won’t happen again.”

By the time the song ends, my head feels light and my heart races. Not in a swoony, romantic kind of way, but sillier—sweeter—how it would feel to dance with a dear brother. “You’re not very good at dancing, Thomas.”

He grins, wheezing. “Yes, I probably should’ve warned you. But I figured bad dancing was better than no dancing.”

He reaches into his pocket and removes a small metal device that he puts in his mouth and breathes on deeply. I’ve read about them—a new way of administering inhalant medicine.

He lets out his breath slowly, then shrugs, explaining, “Asthma.”

I nod as he slides the device back in his pocket. And when a new song begins, Thomas lifts his eyebrows. “Want to go again?”

I nod and put my hand back in his.

But we’ve only taken a few steps when a sharp scream comes from the outer room. And the music cuts off. And a still, eerie silence covers us like a blanket.

Thomas and I look at each other, and then we run for the door.

The guests are clustered on the dance floor. I push my way to the center and there, on the floor, my father cradles Mother in his arms.

“Anna, Anna!”

She doesn’t answer.

Her eyes are closed and her face is still and a trickle of red-black blood seeps from her nose.

“Anna . . .”

Miriam is curling into me, hiding her face against my arm. There’s a rush in my ears, a whole ocean crashing against my brain. And it’s as though I’m leaning over the edge of a cliff, about to plunge into the jaws of the dark, bottomless sea.

But then, from the other side, there’s a hand on my shoulder—warm and strong.

I tear my eyes from my parents and Thomas’s soft green gaze catches me. He holds on tighter—tethering me, anchoring me, letting me know I’m not alone, that he’s there.

And he won’t let me fall.