Majesty (American Royals, #2)(64)
When she noticed the light creeping from beneath the door to the monarch’s study, she came to an uncertain halt. Beatrice must be in there, working late.
Sam realized, suddenly, that she was tired of being angry with her sister.
For so long she’d held tight to that anger, lifted it before her like a shield, and now she was exhausted. She wanted to lay down her weapons and actually talk to Beatrice, for once.
“Bee?” Sam gave a soft knock. When no one answered, she pushed the door cautiously open, but the office was empty.
And it had changed. Sam could still see traces of her father—in the antique globe, the heavy stone bookends carved like giant chess pieces—yet this was unmistakably Beatrice’s space now.
She walked slowly around the desk, running her hands over its polished wooden surface, then plopped down in Beatrice’s chair, bracing her sneakers on the floor and wheeling herself idly forward and back. So, she thought, with something that might have been jealousy or might have been loneliness, this is what it feels like to be queen.
Curious, she pulled out the top drawer of the desk, revealing Beatrice’s personal stationery and a neat row of pens. The next few drawers contained stacks of manila folders, a package of dog treats, a series of notes from Robert.
When she was younger, Sam was always sneaking into Beatrice’s room: rifling through her drawers, trying on her dresses, rubbing her arms with Beatrice’s scented lotion. At the time, Sam hadn’t understood that impulse. But she knew now that when she was sifting through Beatrice’s things, she’d been trying to understand her sister, and all the differences between them.
Sam leaned farther down, remembering the hidden drawer built into the bottom of the desk. She wondered if Beatrice kept it full of lemon candies, the way their dad had. She found the latch and pressed it, releasing the drawer—only to frown in confusion.
Inside lay a heavy ecru envelope, printed with the swirling handwriting of the palace calligrapher. It was addressed to Mr. Connor Dean Markham and marked with a scrolling WP on the top right corner, where a stamp would normally go. One of the privileges of being the monarch, of course, was that you were exempt from paying postal fees.
Connor Markham—wasn’t he Beatrice’s former Guard, the one who’d been with her at Harvard? Why hadn’t his invitation gone out with the rest of them?
There was something else in the drawer, Sam realized: a thin box secured with an ivory ribbon. It looked like an engagement present.
She couldn’t help untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.
Inside lay an ink drawing, of snow-covered mountains seen through the frame of a window. On the far edge of the sketch was a fireplace, and next to it, a small figure that could only be Sam’s sister.
They’re in love, Sam realized, stunned.
Beatrice was fully clothed in the sketch; there was nothing erotic or overtly sexual about it. But Connor’s feelings for her were visible in every sweeping line of ink. There was an indefinable bloom to her, as if she had some private secret you could only guess at.
Sam studied the image a little longer, her eyes lingering on the sparks popping from the fire, on the jagged line of the mountains, veiled by a luscious blanket of snow. It struck her that this wasn’t an imagined scene. This had really happened. It was a sketch of that night in December, right before New Year’s, when Beatrice and her Guard had been stranded on their way to Telluride.
It all made sense now, the various pieces of the puzzle crashing together. Sam’s mind flashed back to the night Beatrice had told her she was calling off the engagement. You’re seeing someone else, Sam had guessed.
Beatrice had admitted that she loved a commoner, and that he was there that night, at the engagement party. Sam had always assumed she was talking about one of the guests, but Beatrice had clearly meant her Revere Guard.
She scoured her memory, trying to recall when Connor had resigned. It was right after they’d come back from Sulgrave—when Beatrice and Teddy had set a wedding date.
Loving Beatrice like this, Connor must have decided he would rather quit than watch her marry someone else.
Sam’s hands tightened around the paper. She wanted to run to her sister, grab her by the shoulders, and shake some sense into her. You don’t have to go through with this! she would scream. You don’t have to marry someone you don’t love, just because Dad said you should.
But Sam knew she’d forfeited any right to give Beatrice romantic advice.
This gulf between them was her fault. Every time Beatrice had tried to apologize, Sam had turned her away. And for what, Teddy? Her own obstinate pride? None of it was worth losing a sister over.
Sam put the sketch back in the box and retied the ribbon, much sloppier than it had been before. Yet, for some reason, she didn’t let go of the invitation. She kept staring at it, tracing the loops of Connor’s name with her fingertips.
Before she’d fully acknowledged her decision to herself, Sam had turned out into the hallway and dropped the invitation into a gleaming brass receptacle marked OUTGOING MAIL.
Nina sank onto the picnic blanket, which was spread out on the grass before the open-air stage. The amphitheater at the center of John Jay Park was completely packed, the ground covered in a multicolor quilt of beach towels and blankets. Conversations bubbled up around them, laughter rising lazily into the air like smoke.
“I’m so impressed you got Shakespeare in the Park tickets. What time did you have to get in line?” she asked.