Glancing up, I see Miles has taken a seat across the table from me, and as he spreads a napkin in his lap, I think about him and Flora again. I haven’t asked him about any of that—that’s a thing real girlfriends get to do, not fake ones—but I have to admit, I’m still . . . okay, maybe curious is a strong word, but I’d genuinely like to know what went on there.
Instead, I ask about the pudding.
“Do I even want to know what’s in it?”
“You really don’t,” he replies, and I sigh, pushing it all the way to the edge of my plate.
“Aw, come on, Monters,” Gilly says, cutting into his own black pudding. “Don’t scare her off the stuff. It’s good for you.” He winks. “Puts hair on your chest.”
“Exactly what I’ve always wanted,” I answer, and Gilly laughs. He’s sitting beside Sherbet. Spiffy and Dons haven’t appeared yet, and Alex and Ellie are sitting at the head of the table, heads close together as they talk and ignore the rest of us.
“So,” Gilly says once he’s cleared his plate of black pudding. “Flora.”
Across the table, Miles suddenly gets very interested in his toast. “Flora,” Sherbet confirms.
“Should liven things up at least,” Gilly says. “She usually does.”
Sherbet snorts. “The last time Flora livened up a gathering, a suit of armor ended up in the fountain.”
Gilly heaves a sigh, his gaze far away. “That was one of my ancestors’. Thought Mum and Dad were going to cry.”
Miles is still very industriously eating his breakfast, and I tear a bit of crust off my toast, looking at him.
“So the ball,” I say, and he sighs, not looking up from his mushrooms. Honestly, mushrooms for breakfast—who does that?
“The ball,” he confirms, and I look over at Gilly and Sherbet, who are still chatting to each other. I wonder if they know about me and Miles, that it’s not real, or if we’re even supposed to pretend for them.
Playing it safe, I ask, “Are you going to wear a kilt?”
Miles finally looks up then, putting his fork down. “I am, yeah.”
I nod, chewing my bit of toast. “Can I make fun of you for that?”
“Could I stop you?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound pissed off or irritated. He’s just . . . relaxed. Normal. Then he clears his throat, putting his fork down and linking his fingers together on the tablecloth.
“I had the chance to speak to your parents for a little while when they came in last night,” he starts, and my shoulders go up a little bit, all the vague sort of camaraderie I’d been feeling disappearing.
Mom and Dad had gotten in late yesterday, just in time for the ball, but I was already in my room when they’d arrived. They’d both come in to say hi, of course, but I hadn’t known they’d spent any time with Miles.
“They’re . . . really lovely,” Miles goes on, and now he’s looking at his plate again, fidgeting in his chair. “And funny,” he adds. “And . . .”
“Not people who would call the paparazzi on their daughter?” I finish for him, and finally he looks up.
“Not at all,” Miles confirms, which sort of surprises me. I thought for sure he’d give me some long-winded defense, making sure to point out how tacky we all are. So what was a landed gentleman such as himself supposed to think?
Instead, he just looks into my eyes and says, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. Colossally wrong, really.”
I blink at him, feeling like I did that night in the club when I was suddenly confronted with Hot Miles. This is Contrite Miles, which is every bit as discombobulating, and it takes me a second before I shake my head and mutter, “It’s okay.”
Sighing, Miles picks up his fork and resumes pushing eggs around his plate. “It’s not, really. It was one of Seb’s valets, a bloke who’s worked at the palace for years. They sacked him, obviously.
“Anyway, truly, I’m sorry,” Miles says again. “I was an unmitigated ass about the entire thing, especially when the call was coming from inside the house, as it were.”
“To be fair, you’re an unmitigated ass about a lot of things,” I say, and Miles smiles at that, acknowledging it with a tilt of his head, which makes me laugh.
Aaaaand then I look up to see Ellie watching me, her brows drawn together, her big-sister sensors clearly on high alert, and I get up from the table, tucking my head so my hair swings over my face. And when she calls my name, quietly but urgently, I feign a sudden case of deafness.
* * *
• • •
I spend the rest of the day mostly holed up in my room, trying not to think too much about the night to come. The queen’s coming in this afternoon, and I was definitely trying to stay out of her way after our last meeting. I’d done what she’d asked, sure, but it seemed smartest to keep my head down.
The rain clears up by that afternoon, and when Glynnis comes in to help me get ready, I’m staring out the window, liking the way the light moves over the hills, how it is never the same from minute to minute, wishing I was good at painting or even photography so I could catch it somehow. Maybe that’s something I could try out next? The pictures on my phone aren’t doing it justice, so I finally decide to enjoy the view for what it is.
“Wool-gathering?” Glynnis asks, smiling at me as she hangs the garment bag on the door of my wardrobe.
“In the figurative or literal sense?” I ask, and when she frowns at me, I wave a hand.
“Sheep joke. I get it. What’s that?”
Glynnis smiles at me, those shiny teeth practically winking in the sunlight. “Your dress for tonight! Just arrived from the city.”
I assume the city means Edinburgh, and when Glynnis unzips the bag, I see that gorgeous tartan gown I’d drooled over in the catalog Glynnis had showed us, back when I was getting my new-and-improved Daisy look.
El remembered.
It feels silly to get choked up over a dress, but this is a really, really great dress, and also, it means that El still listens to me a little. Still sees me.
“It’s perfect,” I tell Glynnis.
* * *
• • •
A few hours later, I’m rethinking that statement. Yes, the dress is pretty. Yes, that riot of deep green and purple and black looks pretty with my hair and makes my skin glow. Yes, I feel a little bit like a princess, and okay, maybe, after I’ve first put it on, there is some twirling.
Just a little twirling.