And then his chute inflates, revealing a puffball of white with the words, “Welcome Elizabeth” scrawled across the top in Gallantian blue, and a strange tightness grips my chest.
Lizzy would hate watching Andrew jump out of this helicopter even more than I do, but she might like this gesture.
She might like it a lot.
It’s cheesy but kind, and despite my hatred for Andrew and arranged marriages, I find myself reaching for my cell to snap a quick picture to send to my sister later.
Not only did Andrew take time out of his busy about-to-be-king schedule to collect his fiancée, but he also planned a surprise for her. And yes, the surprise is terrifying and risky and dumb, but it’s also…sweet.
Could Prince Andrew be sweet?
Could I have him all wrong?
My mind rejects the thought outright, but as the man in black closes the sliding door and relative peace returns to the cabin, I can’t stop thinking about myself at age nine. I wasn’t an unholy terror, and I never picked on other children, but I was wild.
On clear summer days, I would get up early, shimmy down the crumbling lattice outside my childhood bedroom, and run away into the woods before Minnesota Nanny could fetch me for lessons. I’d spend the day climbing trees and wading in chilly mountain streams and making fairy castles out of rocks while my sisters learned to knit and compose poetry and other things that Minnesota knew I had no interest in or aptitude for.
Sometimes, I’d come home after sundown, heedless of the drama my absence had caused my family. Once I saw how scared Minnesota and Lizzy were, I’d feel bad, but not bad enough to return earlier the next time I ran off.
Now, of course, I would never dream of frightening the people I love like that, and I know better than to think the woods are as safe as I believed them to be as a child. Nature is glorious, but it can also be merciless, and as vulnerable humans, we would do well to remember that before we wander into the wilderness without water, a pocketknife, and a compass.
I’ve grown up since those long-ago days.
Apparently, so has Andrew. He’s still ridiculous and far too proud of his ass-ets, but he might also be a decent human being.
What’s more, he might be a decent human being who’s trying to make the best of this arranged marriage. It might not be love, but it could end up being a kind and thoughtful relationship. And maybe someday, with effort on both their parts, Lizzy and Andrew could end up being good friends.
Or maybe even something more.
There’s no denying that Andrew’s far too attractive for anyone’s good, and Lizzy isn’t immune to the charms of the scruffier sex. She’s only had one serious boyfriend, but she and Rafe were completely gone on each other.
For three years, they were as inseparable as two seventeen to twenty-year-old kids who both lived at home and had to hide their relationship from their parents could be. Rafe’s mother was our cook for twenty-two years before she retired. She knew Lizzy was betrothed to a prince, and my parents would have lost their minds if they thought their eldest daughter was spending every afternoon in the greenhouse with the cook’s son.
“Normal” boys are okay for Zan and me, but not for my parents’ firstborn, the child upon whom they’ve pinned all their hopes of royal redemption.
Luckily, everyone was too busy or, in my parents’ case, checked out to realize that Lizzy and Rafe were in love. No one noticed anything until Rafe proposed, Lizzy was too shocked to respond, and Rafe took that as a sign it was time to join the Navy and move on with his life before Lizzy broke what remained of his heart.
My sister cried for a month.
I told our parents it was because she was deficient in vitamin B and made a big show of taking her to get injections at the local clinic once a week.
Instead, we’d go to the lake in the village and throw stones into the water until our arms hurt. Afterward, we’d get hot chocolate and watch whatever was on at the one-screen revival theater even though Lizzy isn’t much of a movie fan. But it was good to sit alone together in the dark and let someone else’s story take over for a couple of hours.
We saw Sleepless in Seattle dubbed in German four times.
Lizzy cried every time.
But eventually, she stopped tearing up several times a day, did a deep dive to improve her sewing and patterning skills, and landed her dream job with Princess Intimates, becoming the first actual princess to work for the company. She’s been locked away in her tower ever since, crafting sexy, achingly beautiful things she refuses to wear.
No amount of cajoling on my part has convinced her to rejoin the romantic world. She has stubbornly refused every blind date, walked away from every ambush setup, and insisted I keep the tales from my winter of boys strictly PG. It’s as if she flicked a switch inside of her and turned off those feelings, that kind of need.
But maybe Andrew can turn her back on again.
It’s a hopeful thought, but I don’t feel hopeful.
I feel confused.
A little sad.
Realizing Andrew might not be so bad for Lizzy isn't the relief I would have expected. Instead, it clears the way for grief over losing my sister to settle deeper in my heart.
Which stinks.
Anger is so much easier than grief. Being horrified by Prince Mostly Grossly conveniently kept me too pissed off to internalize the fact that my life is about to change forever. I will never again live under the same roof as my sister, my best friend, my ride-or-die. It will just be me and my parents and Chamomile, our final nanny from Australia, who settled into the guest cottage when Lizzy and I got too old to need constant supervision and then never moved out.
Chamomile is very cool, a good friend to my crazy mother, and I’m glad she’s still around, but she’s obsessed with the insect farm she’s been running out of the castle greenhouse for the past several years. It’s a fascinating thing she’s doing, but why humans are better off eating bugs than meat isn’t a topic I can discuss more than once a week. Chamomile also has a boyfriend—Claude, her scraggly-bearded beau with a peg leg, who swears he was once a real pirate and who makes such vigorous love to Chammy that the sound carries all the way to Lizzy’s tower, which is why she now sleeps with a sound machine next to her head.
I know I should be happy for Lizzy rather than sad for myself.
And I’ll get there. But first, I give myself the rest of the ride down to the helipad to wallow in selfish misery.
Oh, Lizzy, how I’m going to miss you. If only we could have stayed young and free and together forever.
But as soon as Mr. Black Suit opens the sliding door, I pull my windswept hair into a classy, Lizzy-style low ponytail and prepare to do everything in my power to pave the road to my sister’s future happiness.
I will make Andrew see how wonderful Lizzy is.
I will make him want to be her friend, and then I will tell Lizzy charming stories of her future husband until she’s so excited to meet him that she won’t be nervous at all.
To make sure I begin as I intend to continue, I tug my phone from my purse and shoot the picture of the parachute to Lizzy along with the message—Maybe Prince Butt Munch isn’t so bad after all.
And maybe he isn’t.
Only time, I suppose, will tell.
Chapter Seven
Andrew