“I don’t know.”
When she walked down that central aisle, Beatrice wouldn’t be appearing as herself. She would be standing on the world’s stage as the representative of America.
Sam reached for her hands. Even though they were both wearing gloves, Beatrice felt the warmth of her sister’s skin through the leather. “You’ve spent your whole life preparing for this moment, Bee. If Dad was here, he would remind you that you’re ready.”
The mention of their father strengthened Beatrice’s resolve. She nodded to the nearby footman, who sprang forward to open the doors.
Beatrice was decked out in the full honors and regalia of her position—dressed for battle, as their dad used to say. The bodice of her pale blue gown gleamed with so many medals that it resembled the breastplate of a medieval knight. Dozens of pins dug into her scalp, anchoring the heavy Imperial State Crown atop her updo.
A carved throne normally sat in this reception hall. There was a throne in each of the Washingtons’ residences, even the ski house, in case the monarch ever needed to hold an unexpected audience or conference. But today the throne had been conspicuously removed, the room filled with rows of gilt chairs where the foreign royals were now seated. There were never thrones at the League of Kings. The whole point of a multinational organization was that no single nation could sit in precedence over the others.
Beatrice felt Samantha walking behind her, holding the train of the ermine-trimmed cloak with both hands. After Sam, the six ladies-in-waiting would process in a line, followed by the lords attendant, who would each hold an artifact on a velvet pillow: the Rod of Gold, the Orb of State, King Benjamin’s sword. These were items normally on display in the Crown Jewels collection, which had been transported to Bellevue under armored guard.
At the front of the room, Beatrice turned, letting Samantha drop her cloak so that it curled dramatically around the hem of her gown. The ladies-in-waiting and lords attendant bowed and curtsied, one after the other in succession, then retreated.
“Your Majesties,” Beatrice began. “It is my honor to inaugurate this twenty-fourth meeting of the League of Kings. I welcome you here in the spirit of international cooperation, and I pray that the blessing of Almighty God may fall upon our counsels.”
From the back of the hall came the unmistakable clatter of horse’s hooves. And then: “Hear ye, hear ye! All rise for the standard of the League of Kings!”
Lord Ambrose Madison, newly returned from his ambassadorship to France, trotted into the hall astride a white horse. His daughter Gabriella had been one of the ladies-in-waiting. Ambrose held the League of Kings flag in one hand, its pole wedged firmly in his right stirrup. Beatrice would have offered this position to Teddy, if only because she’d have liked to see him ride a horse inside a palace, but as head of the Madison family, Lord Ambrose was hereditary Queen’s Champion. And protocol was protocol.
In this case, protocol was faintly ridiculous. Beatrice remembered how the horse at the last conference had left a trail of droppings in its wake. “Why do we present the flag on horseback?” she’d asked her father, who had laughed. “Beatrice, kings love pomp and circumstance. It’s how they convince themselves that they’re entitled to rule over mere mortals.” King George had placed his hands on her shoulders, suddenly serious. “Never forget that our family doesn’t rule because of these ceremonies. Our position is a privilege granted by the American people, and one that we must earn every day. When you start to believe all the myths about yourself…that’s when monarchs make mistakes.”
She watched as Lord Ambrose trotted to the front of the room, waving the League of Kings flag back and forth. At least he had a flair for showmanship.
The doors swung open once more, and a final figure made her way down the reception hall: Empress Mei Ling of China, who’d hosted the last League of Kings conference at her summer palace in Hainan. She was even more formidable than Beatrice remembered, her snow-white hair swept into a severe bun. In her hands she held a stone basin, about the size of a dinner plate.
This was the most sacred part of the entire ritual: the transfer of the Cauldron of Peace.
As the empress approached, Beatrice stared into the basin at the eternal flame. Its light curled and danced over the oil at the base of the cauldron. How humbling to think that this same fire had been burning for over a century, since her great-great-great-great-grandfather had been king.
The empress’s voice was thin but unwavering. “Your Majesty. With the passing of this cauldron, I hand you the care and keeping of our great assembly.”
“May the light of its eternal flame shine forth, as the light of our knowledge and goodwill lights the world,” Beatrice recited.
She’d rehearsed this moment for weeks, using a porcelain vase in place of the cauldron. Beatrice swallowed and held out her hands.
Then the empress was passing her the cauldron, and Beatrice was trying not to stagger beneath its weight. Oh god. Forget training with a vase; she should have used a kettlebell. Why had she agreed to wear four-inch heels? Her grip was slipping, the cauldron was about to shatter on the floor—
She managed to loop an arm beneath its base and nearly fainted from relief. Except, she realized, something was very wrong.
The light had blown out.
* * *
“They’re laughing at me.” Beatrice had changed out of the Imperial State Crown and into the Winslow tiara, so her head felt pleasantly light again, except that it was currently pounding with mortification.
“No one’s laughing at you,” Teddy assured her, just as Samantha said, “So what if they are?”
Teddy and Sam exchanged a glance that Beatrice would have found amusing under different circumstances.
“Look, Bee. Laughing at me is practically the national pastime,” Sam went on. “I can tell you from experience that people will lose interest and forget about it. There’s no use worrying.”
Beatrice wished it were that easy. She’d always envied Sam’s confidence in the face of defeat, her unapologetic boldness. But Beatrice just wasn’t wired that way.
She sighed and leaned over the railing. The three of them had stepped out onto the balcony, ostensibly to get some air, but everyone in the ballroom had seen it for what it was: a strategic retreat.
Moonlight danced over the surface of the water. The crash of the surf was as steady as the exhalations of a sleeping giant. Perhaps that was why Beatrice always found the ocean so calming: the waves stopped for nothing, not even her first great failure as queen.
“I can’t believe I did that. The eternal flame has been lit since the nineteenth century,” she moaned, and Teddy shook his head.
“No way. It was definitely blown out a few times over the years.”