“Guarded. Cautious, perhaps. Okay, a little horrible,” Kelsey conceded. She elbowed her in the side with a small smile. “But I gave as good as I got.”
“I’m protective of the monarchy. This family. Our people. Christian is too busy doing all the things to look at the bigger picture. That’s become my role.” With her flawlessly French-manicured index fingers, Genevieve tapped at the sides of her eyes. “Watching it all. Watching out for us. Seeing how we’re reflected in the eyes of our subjects. The eyes of the world.”
It had been naïve of Kelsey to only see her sister as a pampered princess. To not look hard enough to see that all the princess perks she’d dismissed came with a vast responsibility and ingrained duty. Now? She thought Genevieve earned all those perks, and then some.
She’d never shortchange her in estimation again. “That’s too much pressure for you. The weight must be crushing.”
“We have centuries of history to live up to. We simply do not have the luxury of screwing up.”
Kelsey marveled at how accepting Genevieve was. How calmly she spoke of a life that she’d had no choice in determining. Or was it easier when you didn’t get to choose?
She sat and patted the cushion next to her until Genevieve sank down, too. “No wonder you didn’t want some strange foreigner who didn’t even speak the language tromping all over your life.”
“I didn’t want to risk trusting you. I’ve learned”—she grimaced, and Kelsey knew there was a bigger story there to be unearthed over the Moncriano version of margaritas and nachos—“the hard way not to trust anyone outside of the family.”
It hurt her heart that her sister lived so closed a life, emotionally. In Kelsey’s little Michigan town, she trusted everyone. How could Genevieve exist in that huge palace full of people and only fully trust a handful of them?
“That’s sad. So limiting. So unfair.”
“It’s a reality of the title, but I overlooked the basic fact—you are family. I need to be protective of you, too. We are so very lucky to have you back with us.”
“Don’t make me start crying again,” Kelsey said, pushing the words past a suddenly thick throat.
“Would some coffee help?”
“Yes. Always.” As Genevieve unpacked the thermos and pulled out actual china mugs from a wall cabinet—VIP room for the win!—Kelsey realized how much better she felt with company for this vigil until Mallory woke up. So she asked a question that would’ve been unimaginable even a few days ago. “How long can you stay?”
“As long as you need. I’m in lockdown whether I stay here or at the palace. The opinion is that the shooter was working alone, but until they finish searching his house, questioning his friends and family, and going over his computer byte by byte, our schedules are officially on hold.”
Kelsey was desperate to hear the details she’d been unable to glean from the television mounted near the ceiling. She’d turned it off hours ago after seeing the raw footage of the attack.
She never wanted to see it again.
No doubt she’d see it over and over in her nightmares, though.
And the newscast not being in English just amped up her frustration. Beyond the basic curiosity of trying to make sense of a total stranger wanting to kill her, there was an even bigger question that wouldn’t stop ratcheting around in her brain.
It was one she couldn’t ask Marko or Christian or even the nurses. Kelsey didn’t trust any of them to tell her the truth.
Genevieve, though? Even with the massive olive branch they’d just shared, her sister no doubt still had enough snark in her soul with Kelsey’s name on it to give it to her straight.
She pulled over the gym bag. Unzipped it and riffled through at least three sets of comfy clothes. “Before I go change, will you tell me something?”
“Like a party game to pass the time? Have I ever petted a kangaroo, or can I knit?”
Kelsey almost giggled at the seeming randomness that probably hid a very funny story about an official royal visit to Australia.
“That could be fun, later.” Her thoughts were all over the place. Genevieve being so nice had popped the top of the raw emotions she’d tamped down while by herself. “But what I want, no need to know is”—she bit her bottom lip, so chapped from worrying at it the whole time Mallory had been in surgery—“are people mad at me? For putting all of you in danger?”
“Who? Papa? The Prime Minister?”
“Yes.” Elias, too. He’d come within a hair of being shot himself, because of her. Was he mad? “And everyone else. The whole country.”
“Our people? Our subjects? They love you. This didn’t diminish the thrill of your return at all. And Mallory’s now a national hero.” Genevieve passed her a mug. “I thought we covered how this wasn’t your fault?”
“It was, though,” she insisted. Not in a “Go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200” way. Ethically. Morally. “The responsibility of firing the gun lies with that man. But he did it because of who I am.”
“Half American?”
“Or half-European royalty? If it were true, it’d be easier to straddle. But no, I’m fully both.” Kelsey held her hands out, palms up. “How can I expect our people to accept it when I’ve struggled with it for weeks?”
“You simply accept it, like grass being green or Belgian chocolate being superior to all others. It is who you are.” Genevieve shrugged with the nonchalance of all French women in the classic black-and-white movies she and Mallory binged on every summer. An easy insouciance. Something else intrinsically princess-y.
Kelsey knew that. She didn’t know how to pull that off.
She flopped her hands into her lap. Well, flopped one, and carefully set down the one in the cast. “I don’t know who I am anymore. For so long, I saw myself through very specific lenses. The girl who wanted to move to New York. A graphic designer. Someone who hid behind a computer but loved watching everything unfold. Devoted daughter and sister.”
“And?”
The simplicity of the question startled her. “None of those things are true anymore.”
“Nonsense. You fulfilled your dream of moving to New York. You accomplished that goal. It didn’t last, but you still hit the milestone. The same with your career. You made it.” Genevieve curled her legs underneath her and settled back with her coffee.
“I made a mess of it all.” Had she jumped over the border from venting to whining? Probably. Kelsey blamed it on the residual painkillers in her system. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve tried so hard for two weeks, I promise. Moncriano is a wonderful country. But I don’t know how I’d fill every day, what my new career would entail.”