CHAPTER 4

LENORA

Palace of Wessco, 1956

IT BEGAN SLOWLY, subtly, the way terrible things often do. A flinch, a pause, a grimace of pain—my father hid it well, but I noticed. And I wasn’t the only one—rumors and whispers filled the palace like a moldy stench.

Within months it graduated to the occasional postponed meeting, then missed functions that I attended in his place, delayed starts to his schedule and finally, whole bedridden days.

And here is where it ends.

In the royal apartments, the antechamber of the King’s bedroom. My uncle is here—my father’s youngest brother, the Duke of Warwitch.

They’ve never been especially close, but he’s on the Advising Council, so he’s here. A few of the men in this room have genuine affection for my father, and they chat easily with the ones who don’t. The ones waiting like vultures, ready to swoop in and claim their chunk of the carcass.

Because that’s how this works.

“The King is dying.”

Those words were delivered to me two days ago by Alexander

Bumblewood, the Prime Minister, who was the only man the King’s doctors informed. Like a morbid version of the telephone game.

That’s the way it goes. Secrecy is paramount. Because governments don’t do change well, and monarchies . . . despite all our rules and laws and traditions . . . we’re bloody awful at it. Historically, change brought power struggles—it used to be all false imprisonments, murders, full-out wars and royal heads rolling.

We’re better now.

More . . . outwardly civilized. But the hidden, hushed motivations— ambition, fear, greed—those will remain for as long as humans are humaning.

Miriam and Alfie step out from my father’s bedroom. Alfie’s nose is red and he wipes at his watery eyes with a handkerchief. He tries to give me a

smile, but he can’t quite manage it.

And that cracks something inside me—a small fissure in the veneer I’ve lacquered to perfection.

Miriam shudders with great, gasping sobs—openly and unashamed. My sister’s always been emotional, wearing her heart on her sleeve for all to

see. A young blond footman guides her from the room with his arm around her. If I had it in me, I’d make it clear he’s being too familiar—but I’m too drained.

“The King is asking for you, Your Highness,” The Prime Minister says. I look to Thomas beside me and his kind green eyes offer me comfort.

I’ve got you, they say. I’m with you.

And none of it feels real. It’s like a foggy dream. A day I knew would come but didn’t really believe ever would.

The inner room is as well-equipped as any hospital’s. Beeping monitor wires and pain-relieving tubes stick out from beneath Father’s papery skin. His doctor, the King’s Physician, is here; he bows to me before stepping back to a respectful distance.

If a praying mantis and a human had a baby, the result would be Oscar Pennygrove. He’s a tall, emaciated man with strangely long fingers that give the impression of two spiders attached to the ends of his arms. He’s the Home Secretary—an official witness to assure the country and Crown that there is no trickery or foul play at the births and deaths of any royal in the

line of succession. He was in the room when I was born, and he was at Miriam’s birth too. He was present at the births and deaths of the siblings

before me, and he stands silent in the corner now, like one of those portraits whose eerie eyes move when you do.

I put my hand on top of Father’s. “It’s Lenora, Father. I’m here.”

Slowly, his eyes open and a moist rattling sound comes from his chest.

His lips are blue-tinged and chapped, but they smile at me.

“Lenora.” His voice is reedy, so thin I lean forward to hear him. “I love you, my dear girl.”

You do?

It’s the first thought that springs into my head, and though I don’t say the words out loud, he reads them on my face and his fragile smile falters.

“You didn’t know. I should have done better by you. There was so much to teach you . . . but I should have done better.”

I take his hand in both of mine, holding it gently and close. Because I see it now—I understand. This man may have not given me everything I wanted—tickles and cuddles, laughter and pushes on the swing—but he spent his life giving me everything I will need.

And I won’t let him die thinking he failed me.

“No, Father. No . . .” My throat constricts. “You did wonderfully by me, I promise. I’ll make you proud. I’ll serve Wessco with dignity and honor,

and I’ll make you so proud of me.” He squeezes my hand back.

And though his breathing is ragged, he tells me, “I have always been proud of you. Do not serve . . . Lenora. Reign. With an iron grip . . . and a velvet touch. Trust . . . only . . . yourself. And reign.”

I nod, and though my eyes are full, I don’t let any tears fall. I hold them back, for him. To prove that even now, especially now . . . I can be strong.

His eyes close, and for many minutes the only sounds in the room are the beeping machine and Father’s frail breaths.

Alexander Bumblewood steps up beside me. “Would you like to return to the antechamber to wait, Princess Lenora? They’re having tea.”

Of course they are. Because tea fixes everything. “No. I’ll stay with him.”

Kings are men . . . they die like any other man.

And this one will not die alone.

I get to my feet, lean over and kiss Father’s rough, leathery cheek. For the very first time, and the last. Then I sit back down, hold his hand, and in my head . . . I talk to him—telling him all the things I can’t say in front of the doctor and Prime Minister and Pennygrove.

I tell him about Thomas and the trouble we’ve gotten up to through the years. I tell him about my hopes and dreams for Wessco—ideas I didn’t

share before, because I wasn’t sure if he’d approve. I tell him about me—a side he’s never seen that can be silly and wild. I tell him how desperately hard it is sometimes to be me—how awfully lonely—and then how stupid I feel for feeling that way, because I know I’m the most fortunate girl in the whole world. I say how grateful I am for all he’s given me—his support and attention and guidance.

I say . . . goodbye.

And still, none of it feels real. It doesn’t seem like he’s gone.

Not when the monitor stops beeping, or when the doctor checks for breathing and a pulse, and finds neither. Not when the time is announced or the sheet is drawn up or when the Home Secretary tells the Prime Minister to formally certify that His Most Royal King Reginald William Constantine II has passed from this life.

“Your Majesty . . .”

I don’t look up; I don’t move.

“Your Majesty . . .” Oscar Pennygrove says again.

And it’s only then that I realize he’s speaking to me. There can be

several royal highnesses in a bloodline, but there is only ever one ruling majesty at a time.

Pennygrove offers me his bony hand. I take it as I stand and the bedroom door is opened, and I step into the room full of waiting, watching aristocrats—their eyes fixed on me.

Pennygrove’s proclamation is crisp and definitive. “The King is dead. Long live the Queen.”

Like their ancestors before them, the lords reply in one resounding voice.

“Long live Queen Lenora!”

And that’s the moment. The moment the fog clears and the

circumstances of who I am—what I am—becomes as real as real can be.

Queen Lenora.

Ready or not . . . here comes the crown.

Two months later

St. George’s Cathedral

The day of my coronation is bitterly cold—long, shining icicles hang from every corner of the palace and breaths come in exhales of puffy white bursts. My gown is a masterpiece of ivory satin, long in the back, cinched at the waist, with the Rose of Wessco intricately embroidered in silver filigree across the skirt. My lips are ruby red, my lashes sooty black. Glistening diamonds—my mother’s—dangle from my earlobes and the coronation robe rests on my shoulders, stretching out behind me in yards of pristine

white fur.

It makes me feel like a mythical arctic huntress . . . a Winter Queen. A ruler of snow and ice.

When I emerge from the carriage—the same one my father rode in, and his father before him—in the shadow of St. George’s Cathedral, the camera flashes go off like fireworks and the endless crowd gathered along the

streets roars. I hear them, but I don’t look their way. With my head held high, I ascend the stone steps, focused on the sacred ceremony before me. There will be massive celebrations—a coronation is a joyous event—but they will come later.

I stand in the atrium, alone, surrounded by only the vivid prisms of

color shining from the stained-glass windows. The double doors open, and the members of the packed congregation rise to their feet, as the drums begin to pound out a deep imperial rhythm.

It’s the same beat that was played when royals were marched to the chopping block.

My ancestors enjoyed irony.

While I stand in the doorway, I experience a moment of terror, when it feels like my knees have disappeared. The faces of the lords and ladies all bedazzled in their best formal-wear seem to morph into some dark goblin nightmare—their eyes demon-black and their teeth-baring grins sharp and menacing.

I close my eyes.

And my mother’s lilting voice whispers in my head.

Breathe, my darling. Just breathe.

My father’s voice joins hers—an echo of his final command.

Reign.

And my knees return, solid and sure. Because I was raised for this. Born for this.

I take my first step down the aisle, shoulders back, spine straight. In my periphery, I spot Thomas and Alfie and Miriam—and I know they are there for me, that they have my back. But it’s only now that I realize no one will ever be there to guard my front again. To shield me, to step before me.

I will always be first and on my own—for the rest of my life.

I reach the altar, where the Archbishop waits. I step up to the throne, turn to face the congregation, and the ceremony begins. The Archbishop

anoints me with oil and says all the magic Latin words. I recite my oath, my solemn vow. The Lord Chamberlain invests me with the golden scepter and jeweled orb, and the Lord Chancellor slides the ring on my right hand.

And then I take my place upon the throne.

Saint Michael’s Crown—the jeweled and velvet glory of the Crown Jewels of Wessco—is brought forward by the Dean of Ansaline. The

Archbishop prays, then slowly, reverently, he places the crown on my head.

And I wait for the transformation from Princess to Queen. The surging inner shifting that I’m sure must occur as one rises to the level of most royal sovereign.

I wait and wait some more.

Then, after a few moments, I blink.

Because it doesn’t happen. Nothing happens.

I don’t feel different. I still feel like me, only . . . me with a big crown on my head.

How anticlimactic.

Stealthily, I glance at the bishops and the crowd filling the cathedral pews. No one else seems to notice.

So, I carry on.

Regally, I walk back down the aisle, and every head bows before me.

Outside the cathedral there are more flashes and cheers as I wave, then descend the steps and return to the carriage that carries me back through the palace gates. For the next hour, I’m greeted and congratulated by all government officiants and visiting dignitaries. I smile and nod and say the right things—but still it feels all so disappointingly make-believe.

Like pageantry. Like I’m a little girl, wearing her daddy’s crown, which is too big for her head.

And then it’s time to step out onto the balcony—the press loves this bit.

As I proceed alone, a frigid breeze wafts over me, tickling my skin with icy fingers. I rest my hands on the stone balustrade . . . and look down.

There’s an ocean of faces, men and woman and children—and they’re all smiling, cheering, waving and clapping. Tens of thousands of them— maybe millions. Some have tears running down their faces, but all have a look of complete adoration.

For me.

They’re here for me.

I’ve seen crowds before, my whole life. I’ve met the public—but not like this, never like this.

These are my people. And for the first time, I understand what that means.

Because I don’t just see them—I feel them. Their energy envelops me in its warm embrace. Their joy, their trust, their love . . . their acceptance. I feel it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My soul sings with it.

This is what it must be like to fall in love for the first time—this flying, breathless sensation. Or, how it must be to hold your own child and know instantly you will love him or her forever. You’ll do anything to keep your children safe, to do right by them, to give them the best life they can possibly have.

Slowly, glittering fluffy snowflakes drift down from the sky.

Everywhere and all around.

It’s magical. Like a blessing.

I wave to the people. “Thank you! Yes, hello! Thank you!”

They can’t hear me, but I want them to know that I hear them. I see them. I care for them as they care for me . . . and I will never, ever let them down.

It’s only when my vision goes blurry that I realize I’m crying. Crying with joy and relief, overwhelmed by so much feeling. And still I wave. I wave until my arm aches—but it’s not enough.

With my heart galloping, I walk back inside.

“I want to go down. I want to speak to them, shake their hands, be among them.”

A dozen ancient disapproving faces look back at me. The Lord Chamberlain steps forward, clearing his throat. “Your Majesty . . . it’s not done.”

A government is a machine with many moving parts. The Crown is the key—but Parliament, the Advising Council, the Lords and Secretaries of State, they’re the gears. It’s a balancing act, a constant grinding tug-of-war

—because the one who controls the key controls everything.

“You mean, it hasn’t been done before, not that it can’t be.” “It’s not safe,” he insists.

I scan the room, and I spot my very own dark-haired guardian angel. “Winston,” I call, using my commanding voice. “I wish to go down to

see the people. Can you help me do that?”

He dips his chin and gives the Lord Chamberlain a piss-off sort of look. “If that is what Your Majesty wishes, then that is what will be done. My

men and I will keep you safe.”

I turn to the Lord Chamberlain and smile sweetly. “See now, it’s no problem at’all.”

I walk through them, and Winston and his men close in around me, as I go down the stairs and out of the palace gates to let the people meet their new Queen.

And this crown feels like it fits just right after all.