“Maybe I’ll change my mind and sign it someday,” Sam assured her. “But for now, I’m going to do my own thing.”
A new feeling was building in her chest, sending currents of excitement through her. She was Samantha, plain ordinary Samantha, and the whole world lay before her. It felt wild and unrestrained and utterly exhilarating—the taste of freedom.
BEATRICE
Beatrice stood before the double doors to the throne room, her ears still ringing with the shouts she’d heard from inside the carriage. It had taken most of the morning for her carriage to crawl the five miles from the old Alexandria lighthouse to the palace: a route that had been planned to mimic King George I’s procession to his own coronation, though his march had been far longer and at the head of an army. She still couldn’t believe all the thousands of people who had come to see her, screaming her name and waving flags, turning the city into a riot of noise and color.
Of course, not everyone was celebrating today. Some Americans still felt uncomfortable with the thought of a female head of state; they claimed that Beatrice had been deceptive and misleading, concealing the extent of her neurological damage after the accident, and what else could she be hiding? But her approval ratings among regular Americans had soared to eighty percent, higher than almost any monarch in the nation’s history.
Beatrice knew her flash of vulnerability was the cause. All her life, she had cleaved her personal life from her public one, had maintained a pristine facade before the media. Now she’d given the world a glimpse of something real, and instead of turning on her, America had embraced her for it.
Samantha was right; they should have humanized the monarchy long ago.
The choir launched into a rendition of “Vivat Regina,” and Beatrice startled. This was her cue. The pair of footmen grabbed the doors in a perfectly synchronized motion and swung them open.
It felt like her wedding all over again, and yet entirely different, because this commitment was far weightier and more severe than the promises she’d made to Teddy. That was a matter of the heart; this was a matter of history.
Even in her white satin dress, she didn’t look like a bride; her gown was weighted down with too much gold embroidery, and was half covered by the ermine-trimmed robe of state, which Beatrice held folded over an arm. She let it drop, a bit dramatically, and the two footmen reached beneath it with gilded scepters to spread the cloak out behind her.
As she stepped forward, everyone in the throne room craned their necks. Beatrice felt the impact of all those gazes hitting her; felt her duty settling over her body, far heavier than the cloak around her shoulders.
She reached the front of the throne room amid a fanfare of trumpets. Slowly, she sank into four distinct curtsies, one in each of the cardinal directions—to represent the wide range of subjects she swore to govern, from north to south and east to west.
The Speaker of the House of Tribunes stepped forward. “Americans here assembled: I present to you now Beatrice, your undoubted queen. Do you all swear to do her homage and service today and every day hereafter?”
A chorus of “God Save the Queen” rumbled through the room, echoed by the millions of people watching on television. The thought of all those voices raised at once sent shivers over Beatrice’s skin.
When it came time for her to swear her oaths, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court held out a Bible. Beatrice placed her hand over its leather cover, her heart picking up speed.
Then she felt a pair of steady blue eyes watching her from the front row of seats, and her nervousness calmed.
“Your Majesty. Do you solemnly swear to govern the United States of America according to its laws and principles?”
“I do,” she replied.
“Do you swear to rely on law and justice, on mercy and care, in all your judgments?”
“I do.”
“And will you protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, with your life itself, if need be?”
The with your life itself part of this oath had always struck Beatrice as a bit melodramatic. But caught up in the emotional crescendo of today’s ceremony, she understood that her forefathers had done exactly that—and had expected her to do the same. She had always known that the Crown would ask her for everything, even her life.
Beatrice felt something like a hand on her shoulder, as if her father were here, telling her how proud he was. The sensation was gone as quickly as it had come, but Beatrice tipped her head up with new conviction.
“I will.”
When the Imperial State Crown was held before her on a velvet cushion, she reached out with shaking hands and lifted it onto her head—the way all eleven kings had done since King George I, because this was America, and no one, not even the Church, ranked higher than the monarch. She’d rehearsed this movement so many times, yet none of her practice sessions had captured what it would feel like in the moment. Terrifying and thrilling and sacred.
For an instant the crown seemed unstable, but she settled it with a slight movement and then it was done; church bells throughout the city were ringing and the artillery fired a twenty-one-gun salute. Even from inside the throne room Beatrice could hear the roar from outside, which felt shatteringly loud after the respectful stillness of her oath.
Jeff stood and came to kneel before her throne, bowing his head like an Arthurian knight. As the most senior peer in the realm, he was the first to pay her homage. Once upon a time that had been Beatrice’s job—at her father’s coronation, when she was eleven, she had been the first to approach the throne and lead the obeisance. She still remembered the girlish satin bow on her dress, which had been in the way when she knelt down. Beatrice had tugged at it futilely, then met her father’s gaze, and he’d winked at her—just once, but the wink was unmistakable.
Somehow, that single gesture had calmed her enough to lower her head and recite the Oath of Vassal Homage, as Jeff was about to do.
“Your Majesty. I, Jefferson, Prince of America, solemnly swear that I am your liege man. I will honor and serve you in faith and in loyalty, from this day forward, and for all the days of my life. So help me God.”
When Jeff looked up, Beatrice met his eyes, and understanding passed between them—as monarch and heir, yes, but also as brother and sister.
A part of Beatrice still wished that Sam were the one kneeling before her. She adored her brother, but she and Sam had been in this together from the beginning.
She couldn’t blame Sam for chasing her own dreams, instead of coming back to work for the Crown again. The royal establishment would call it selfish, but Beatrice didn’t see it that way. Staying out in the world, without the cover of a title to protect you from the elements? It might be a little foolhardy, but it was also brave.