But no, she’s smiling there in her room, sitting on the floor by her bed. I can see the edge of her sheets, bright pink with little yellow flowers all over them. She bought them in the kids’ section at Target because “everything for adults is so boring.”
“Where else would I be?” she asks, bringing up a can of Diet Coke to take a sip.
“I don’t know. Away from all things royal? I know the trip wasn’t exactly what you’d thought it would be.”
She sighs, pushing her heavy dark hair back from her face. “Like, I thought it would be really fun and exciting, but instead it was just kind of a pain? The guards and the photographers, and obviously Sebastian.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah, I picked up on that one.”
Shrugging, Isa leans back against the side of her bed. “He was weird. I felt like he was acting like the person he thought he was supposed to be, not who he actually was, you know?”
I do. Ellie has started doing the same thing sometimes. I remember how she talked to people at the race, the fake-bright smile, the way she would tilt her head down whenever she was listening to someone, making this intense face I’d seen Alex do a bunch.
So I nod to Isa and say, “They’re all weird.”
“Even Miles?” she replies, a dimple appearing in one cheek as she smirks at me.
“Of course you saw that stuff,” I say on a sigh, and she reaches out and actually flicks the computer screen, like she’s hitting me in the head.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me!” she says, and for a moment, I hesitate. Do I tell Isa it’s not real? That it’s actually because of everything that happened the night she went to Seb’s club with him?
I’d like to say it, but I don’t want Isabel to worry, and the truth is, I’m a little embarrassed. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I’m already faking a relationship in order to please “the palace.” That’s . . . not a great look.
I shrug. “It’s nothing major, just a summer thing.” And then, because I need a change of subject stat, I ask, “Anything with Ben?”
“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about him,” she groans, and while we’re definitely going to have to get more into all that at some point, for now, there’s another reason I called her.
“Okay, so if you’re not averse to looking at those royal blogs, do you think you could maybe do me a favor?”
“Oooh, reconnaissance?” Isabel asks, dark eyes going wide. “Into it.”
I lower my voice. “Princess Flora is here,” I tell her, “and she’s . . . not exactly mine or Ellie’s biggest fan. I don’t want to be busted searching for anything on her, so could you—”
“Find out what she’s like and report back via secure emails?” Isabel finishes, and I laugh.
“Settle down, Jason Bourne,” I reply. “Just . . . see what you can find out, and email it to me. I want your take on it, not just a bunch of links.”
Isa gives me a little salute. “On it,” she announces. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be more than prepared for her visit.”
I laugh, and we sign off, letting me go back to unpacking. And sure enough, within half an hour, Isa has sent me a rundown of all things Flora.
Really, it’s not that different from what I’d expected. Like Seb, she can be a bit wild, but unlike Seb, her foibles have ended up in the tabloids. She also just got kicked out of school, so maybe that explains the attitude. There’s also a pretty hefty list of former boyfriends.
Then I get to the last line of Isa’s reconnaissance:
And just so you know, Dais, one of those exes? Miles.
She’s harder to track down than her famous brothers, but Princess Flora of Scotland, currently attending an elite all-girls school on the Isle of Skye, is no less talked about. According to sources, Flora is the real wild child of the family, a title she laughs off when I sit down with her in a coffee shop not far from the flat she keeps in Edinburgh. She’s home for a break before heading back to her (unnamed at the request of the palace) school and looking forward to a summer spent “with friends, probably. Somewhere quiet.” She tells me she’s gotten very used to the solitude there on Skye and that “it’s definitely been a tonic for the soul.”
Yes, the girl we’re used to seeing in front rows in Milan, New York, and Paris (and clubs in Monaco, Marrakesh, and Zurich) is becoming something of a homebody. “I’ve even taken up knitting!” she laughs, rolling those extraordinary light brown—dare we say gilded?—eyes she inherited from her famous grandfather.
One subject Flora is not keen to speak on, however, is the engagement of her eldest brother, Alexander, to Miss Eleanor Winters of Florida.
“There’s just not much to say,” she tells me when pressed. “I’ve only met Eleanor a handful of times. I’m sure she’ll be a beautiful bride.”
Kind words, but it makes one wonder if the rumours that Flora is less than pleased with her brother’s American (and commoner) bride-to-be are true.
In any case, it’s a kinder, gentler Princess Flora who departs from the café, bodyguards in tow, a gentle summer drizzle raining down on her—what else?—Baird family tartan brolly.
*Editor’s Note—Two weeks after this interview was conducted, Princess Flora abruptly withdrew from her boarding school on Skye at the insistence of school officials. Neither the school nor the palace have commented, save that this is a “private matter” and that gossip involving the princess, the headmaster’s son, and a fire at a local whiskey distillery is “scurrilous and baseless.”
(Prattle, “Princess Flora: An Intimate Chat,” May Issue)
Chapter 26
The morning of the ball is the first truly gross day we’ve had, weather-wise, since I arrived in Scotland. The sky churns with clouds, rain sheets down the windows, and it seems like there’s a rumble of thunder about every three seconds.
Honestly, it seems kind of portentous.
We’re all sitting in the dining room, having breakfast, and while Ellie said this is the smaller, informal dining room, it’s still massive, and the table seats at least fifty people. It’s heavy oak, scarred in places, and I can imagine Highland chiefs sitting here, stabbing their knives into the table to make a point. Dead stags stare down at us with glass eyes, and the eggs on my plate seem kind of unappealing.
Maybe because they’re next to a lump of what appears to be coal.
I poke at it, trying not to wrinkle my nose.
“Black pudding.”