She had moved out of the hospital yesterday. Dr. Jacobs and his staff were still monitoring her with round-the-clock care, but at least she was home.
Except that the palace didn’t feel like home, not in the way it used to. It was suffocating and at the same time eerily empty. Beatrice’s eyes kept darting to the things that had changed—new curtains hanging in one of the rooms, familiar faces gone from the security team. Especially the one face she was longing to see.
How was she supposed to pick up the pieces of her life when it felt like someone else had been living that life for the past year?
According to Dr. Jacobs, Beatrice’s injuries had caused retrograde amnesia, a loss of short-term memory (though she found it hard to believe that almost an entire year counted as “short-term”). She remembered her first twenty-two years of life—her family members, her college roommates, her favorite books and her multiplication tables and who was the current Secretary of State. Her general knowledge was just fine. It was her personal memory of the past year that seemed to have vanished.
She wished she could talk about this with someone. It didn’t feel fair to put anything more on Jeff’s shoulders when he’d already carried so much lately. There was her mom, of course, but Beatrice didn’t want to unload this on her, either.
So Beatrice did what she always did: she folded her emotions away and buried them down deep. If she could pretend hard enough that everything was fine, maybe it would be.
The makeup artist gently tapped the corner of Beatrice’s eyelid with a brush, and Beatrice closed her eyes. At least Lilian and her silent signals hadn’t changed in the past year.
“Your Majesty, are you sure you’re ready for this?” Anju ventured. “I can postpone until next week—or at least make it an exclusive with Dave Dunleavy instead of an open conversation with every reporter in town.”
“I’ll be fine,” Beatrice replied, eyes still closed.
To her surprise, Teddy spoke out in agreement. “Of course you will. You’re an old pro at these; you could do a press briefing in your sleep.”
Beatrice was startled into looking up at him. His blue eyes were fixed on hers with resolute purpose. It calmed the frantic beating of her pulse, as if his certainty was contagious.
In truth, she’d never liked addressing the media like this. She felt more at ease in one-on-one meetings, when she could look people in the eye and have something resembling a conversation. Big press conferences made her feel like a performer thrust onto a vast stage, alone, without really knowing her lines.
But she knew this was the right call. Doing an exclusive interview with Dave Dunleavy, as Anju had suggested, was the easy way out—and Beatrice’s father had trained her to face challenges head-on.
Jefferson took a step forward. “Do you want me to go up there with you? We could make it a joint press conference, field the questions together.”
“Thanks, but I should do this on my own,” Beatrice assured him.
She was so proud of what Jeff had accomplished in her absence, especially given that his role within the monarchy had, until now, consisted of social interactions and “fluff” photo ops. Jeff was the Washington sibling sent out to play pool on a royal tour or sample peaches at a farmer’s roadside stand; even in elementary school he’d been tasked with escorting the children of visiting diplomats to miniature golf or water parks. Actual governance was something new to him.
Beatrice hadn’t been all that surprised when Jeff told her that he and Daphne were getting married in less than two months. “Do you want to slow things down?” she’d offered, but he’d just shaken his head and said the date was already set. They didn’t speak of it again, and didn’t need to. Beatrice understood why Jeff and Daphne had agreed to rush their wedding—to give the media something to salivate over while their queen was in a coma—just as she knew the reasons that they needed to move forward with the date they had set, even after Beatrice had woken up.
Americans may have accepted one canceled royal wedding, but they wouldn’t be so forgiving a second time.
The makeup artist dusted powder over Beatrice’s nose, then stepped back to survey her work. Anju gave a satisfied nod and began pulling the tissues from Beatrice’s collar.
“If you’re ready, Your Majesty, it’s time.”
All too soon, Beatrice was walking onto the stage in the Media Briefing Hall, with its intimidating wooden podium. She forced herself to keep her head high despite the blinding camera flashes, because, as her grandmother always used to say, only celebrities embroiled in a sex scandal looked down.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she began, but the microphone screeched with angry feedback. She winced apologetically.
“I’m so glad to be back and addressing you all again.” A sea of unfamiliar faces stared up at her from the folding chairs below. Were all the reporters on the royal beat strangers now, or was her memory failing her? The lights were just overbright, Beatrice decided, squinting down at their blurred features.
She delivered her prepared speech, explaining how grateful she was for the care she’d received at St. Stephen’s Hospital and for the prayers of millions of Americans, how she was recovered from her injuries and ready to resume her duties, and how excited she was for her brother and Daphne—because if they were going to get engaged as a human smoke screen, then she might as well play that to her advantage. Finally she cleared her throat and attempted a smile.
“Are there any questions?”
Every single reporter shot a hand into the air.
Fear snaked down Beatrice’s spine. She was expected to call upon each reporter by name, to turn the press conference into a witty repartee of question-and-answer. Her father had always been so good at that. She swallowed against her rising panic and scanned the crowd for a friendly face, exhaling when she saw Dave Dunleavy in the front row.
“Mr. Dunleavy,” she said into the microphone.
He stood and bowed. “Your Majesty, we were all thrilled to hear that the Queen’s Ball would take place in the new year. Can you give us any hints of who might receive a title?” His smile let her know that the question was meant as a friendly softball. “Perhaps Miss Deighton, or Mr. Eaton?”
“Teddy?” Beatrice blurted out, startled. But he was already titled; he would inherit the Duchy of Boston someday. Unless…
Unless he’d renounced his rights out of loyalty to her.
He would have to do such a thing as king consort, but had Teddy gone ahead and relinquished the dukedom before they were married?
She realized that the silence had stretched out to an uncomfortable point and gave a nervous laugh: the one she used when someone had caught her off guard, which wasn’t often. “Mr. Dunleavy, you know better than to ask me about matters that are best kept secret. I can’t reveal the list of Queen’s Ball honorees until it is published.” She looked back out over the crowd. “Next?”