Royals (Royals #1)(39)

I turn to look at Seb.

And maybe if there had only been a couple of girls standing there instead of about thirty, they wouldn’t have put it together, but one lone voice cries, “Is that him?”

I don’t even think, really. I just react, shaking my head and backing away. “Nope, just two friends from the US. Anyway, just came in to look at books, and”—I make a show of turning my head this way and that—“there . . . seem to be lots in here, so good job with that, bookstore!”

Giving the world’s most awkward thumbs-up, I turn to go, nearly dragging Isabel and Seb behind me, the bell over the door clanging cheerfully as we spill out onto the street.

Underneath his helmet, Seb is laughing, and to my surprise, even Isabel is smiling.

“So I was going to be the problem, was I?” Seb asks, and Isa puts an arm around my shoulders.

“How come you didn’t mention you got famous over here?” she asks, and I shake my head, still confused by what just happened. It’s not like I don’t know that people are interested in me, but they’ve always been interested because of Ellie, not, like, in actual me as a person. But those girls felt like . . . fans. Of mine. Which is bizarre since I haven’t done anything worthy of fandom.

“I just never thought . . .” I start, and then trail off, not sure where to go with the rest of that sentence.

Then I look up at Isabel, frowning. “We can go back in. Or you can. I’m sorry, I just freaked out, I guess, and—”

Clapping a hand over my mouth, Isabel shakes her head, dark eyes shining. “I can see Ash Bentley speak some other time,” she says. “Seeing the day my best friend became famous? That was worth the trip.” Then her gaze moves over my shoulder to Seb. “And the day’s had other perks.”

Eurgh.

So instead of seeing our favorite author sign books, we spend the rest of the afternoon wandering, Seb still in his costume, which, oddly, doesn’t attract nearly as many looks as you’d think. We go up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle, then make our way back down again, toward Holyroodhouse. It’s summer, which means touristy season, so the streets are crowded, bagpipes competing with each other, and more guys dressed as Braveheart than should be allowed.

Maybe I’ll talk to Alex about that.

By the time we get back to the palace, it’s evening, although sunset is still pretty far away, and I’m hoping I can talk Isabel into some takeout food and bad British television tonight, although the way she looks at Seb when he steps into the main hallway of the family entrance and takes off his helmet is . . . not promising.

“I need to find Glynnis, tell her the day didn’t exactly go as planned,” I say, watching Seb smile at my best friend while she smiles back.

“I’ll keep Isabel company,” Seb offers, and I grimace, but what can I say? So against my better judgment, I leave them there in the foyer, heading up the narrow stairs to the back hallway where Glynnis’s office is.

She’s not in there, though, and while I check a couple of other places—a sitting room, the small private kitchen—I don’t want to leave Isa and Seb on their own for too long.

But when I get to the foyer, I see that I’m already too late. Seb’s helmet and robe are hanging up on the hat stand by the door, and Seb and Isabel?

Are nowhere in sight.





Chapter 20


I try Isabel’s phone, but there’s no answer. And then I pull up my Facebook app and start messaging her.

Still nothing.

In fact, I almost think she’s purposely ignoring me, which is very much not okay and a sacred violation of our friendship, which I plan on informing her of as soon as I freaking find her.

Which, I realize, means finding Seb.

The palace is a confusing warren of halls and rooms, smaller than Sherbourne Castle, plus there’s the added issue of parts of it being open to tourists and other parts private and for family only.

I know I’m technically “family” now, but I still feel funny creeping the halls of the palace, ducking in rooms, looking for Seb and my best friend. My best friend, whose rights to that title might be stripped if she doesn’t turn up soon.

It’s actually kind of a relief when I run into Spiffy—or Dons (I still have trouble telling them apart)—on one of the staircases.

“Hey . . . you!” I say, trying to seem normal and not at all freaked out. Spiffy-or-Dons stops, grinning at me, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed like a banker in his forties—polo shirt, khakis, shiny shoes—rather than a teenage boy, and I wonder if Miles is the only one of them who ever manages to look semi-normal.

“Lady Daze,” Spiffy-or-Dons says, and, great, apparently I have a nickname, too. How does anyone know who people are talking about around here? “Getting the lay of the land?”

“Kind of,” I reply, resting my hand on the banister. “You haven’t seen Seb, have you? Possibly with a girl?”

It’s the strangest thing, but I can actually see Spiffy-or-Dons shut down. Like a door closing in his face or something.

“Can’t say I have,” he replies, and I know he’s lying.

I press harder. “It’s just my friend Isabel might be with him, and we had plans for tonight. With her parents.”

That part is a lie—Isa’s parents are still in London, coming up tomorrow afternoon—but I’m hoping that invoking parental authority will rattle him a bit.