Beatrice felt queasy at the thought of how terribly the media had treated Nina and Marshall. “Those are good ideas. You could run them by Marshall when you see him at the photo shoot.”
Her sister flopped onto the love seat next to her, letting her head fall into her hands. “I’m not ready to see Marshall. Can I call in sick?” she pleaded. “You can Photoshop me in later!”
Beatrice leaned forward. “Sam, you can do this. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Sam groaned. “Fine, okay? But for the record, I hate when you use that…that look!”
“What?”
“It’s the same way Dad used to look at me, when he said he was proud of me, or that he believed in me.”
Beatrice felt heartsore and happy all at once. There was so much of her father that she consciously tried to imitate; it was nice to think that she’d picked up other things without even realizing.
“I am proud of you, and I do believe in you,” she said softly.
They both looked up at the sound of a knock.
“Béatrice?” Louise peeked around the edge of the doorway, then flung it all the way open when she saw them. “Oh good, Samantha, I’m glad you’re back. I have news!”
Beatrice noted Louise’s black jeans and studded leather jacket with amusement. “You don’t look like you’re dressed for…” She checked the schedule on the side table for tonight’s guest lecturer. “How the Mind-Body Connection Is Rewiring International Relations.”
“That’s because I’m not going to that thing.” When Louise was excited, her French accent became even more pronounced: zhat sing. “I’m going to a party on the tsar’s yacht, and I hope you’ll come with me.”
“No,” Beatrice said, at the same time Sam exclaimed, “Oh, yes!”
Beatrice shot her sister a look. “Honestly, Sam, a little guided meditation might be good for you right now.”
“I disagree wholeheartedly,” Louise cut in. “After a breakup, Samantha doesn’t need some person spraying incense and telling her to visualize a perfect circle. She needs music and champagne out on the water.”
Beatrice shifted her weight uncomfortably. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see the tsar, after he’d roundly rejected her attempts to garner his support for her climate accord. Not to mention that as the host monarch, she should probably make an appearance at the evening’s official event. But Sam was looking at her with such a hopeful puppy-dog expression that Beatrice gave up.
“All right, fine. We can go.”
Louise nodded fervently. “Excellent. But of course, you cannot show up at a Romanov party looking so…”
“Boring,” Sam offered.
“Buttoned up,” Louise corrected.
“Frumpy!” Sam chimed in, and Beatrice tossed one of the couch’s silk cushions at her.
“I am not frumpy!”
Sam acted like she hadn’t heard. “Meet downstairs in ten? I know what to wear; you don’t need to worry about me,” Sam added to Louise, who smiled broadly.
“I never do.”
They exchanged a complicit, knowing look, like two parents making eye contact over their toddler’s head. It made Beatrice laugh in defeat. “Fine, I can fight one of you, but not both. Just tell me what to wear.”
Louise beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She disappeared into Beatrice’s closet, emerging a few minutes later with a slinky black dress—which Beatrice had only ever worn with tights—and over-the-knee boots. Once Beatrice had changed, Louise put her hands on her shoulders and led her to the vanity.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded. Beatrice felt an eyeliner pencil, then a dusting of shadow along her upper lid. “Now open them,” Louise told her. Beatrice stared up at the ceiling as Louise brushed wet mascara over her lashes.
“Look at us. We’re two of a kind.”
Beatrice glanced to where their faces hovered in the mirror. Despite their obvious differences—Louise’s hair a pale blonde, Beatrice’s dark brown—they looked startlingly similar. They had the same dark-rimmed eyes and smoky lashes, the same red lips.
Beatrice looked nothing like her usual demure self. She looked like a new Beatrice, powerful and a little bit dangerous.
The tsar’s yacht was at anchor in the bay, its lights dancing over the water. When they reached the dock, they all lowered themselves into a motorboat, and the driver sped off.
Beatrice glanced back at Bellevue. She so rarely saw it from this vantage point. On one side its beaches curled into the ocean; on the other, cliffs fell in a sheer drop to the crashing surf. The turrets of the main house rose up in stone splendor, lights glowing like fireflies behind the windows.
When a crew member helped them onto the Xenia, Beatrice nearly gasped. The doors to the great room were open, revealing an indulgently opulent space, its surfaces covered in gold leaf and baroque tracery. Chandeliers cast glittering light over dark wood furniture and silk couches. It could have been a room lifted straight from a palace, except for the enormous windows that overlooked the water. The sun was setting, orange whorls of flame descending into the ocean and turning the water a molten yellow-gold.
There must not be anyone at tonight’s official programming, since this yacht was packed with people.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses. Welcome.” Tsar Dmitri stepped forward to greet them. He was a bear of a man, tall and imposing, wearing the Romanovs’ signature dark red.
Louise and Sam each gave a slow curtsy. Beatrice knew it bothered Louise, but since she was technically still a princess, she was required to give way before monarchs.
Beatrice, of course, did not curtsy. She inclined her head to the tsar, her nod just low enough to be polite but not so low that it would be mistaken for submission.
Dmitri waved at a footman, who came over bearing a tray of crystal flutes. Beatrice accepted one and took a sip, then nearly choked. It wasn’t champagne, but vodka.
The party was clearly in full swing. Kings and queens were spilling onto the promenades that encircled the boat, exchanging rapid stories in a variety of languages. The queens of Mexico and Morocco perched on the edge of the hot tub, feet in the water, loudly instructing one of the staff about how to prepare some frozen cocktail that involved bananas and cream. “Just bring the blender up here and I’ll make it myself,” Queen Monica exclaimed, at which Queen Leila squealed, “It’ll be like old times!” Farther down the deck, the kings of Spain and Nigeria were bent over a phone, tugging it back and forth as they fought over the playlist. No one else seemed to care that the music was switching frenetically from one song to another. Princess Maria of Italy was carrying around a large shopping bag, tossing out glow bracelets and ring pops that she’d apparently purchased at a dollar store. And here was Prince James, walking around with the top half of his shirt unbuttoned.