Page 47 of Falling Princess

I grinned at that. Great golden goddesses, though, Scarlett was right. They’re exhausting. This whole year has been as drama-riddled as those American sitcoms Raina and Bashir like to watch when they’re high.

Scarlett:Look, there was alcohol, nobody was in their right mind, let’s just let it go? Please? Zosia, come back to campus. These things happen. It’ll be all right.

Bashir chimed in just then:Guys, princesses—please take me off this thread.

Scarlett:I’m not a princess.

Bashir:Honorary princess.

Scarlett:[kissy emoji]

Then, in a direct message to me, Bashir texted:Zosia, would you please come home? Lorcan was just doing his job. Now everyone is upset, especially Raina.

Yeah, definitely a crush there. What is the word for a five-way love triangle? A love pentagram? Sounds vaguely Satanic, and it certainly feels hellish.

Raina loves Lorcan. Bashir likes Raina. Kenton and I stand a decent chance of ending up married, and Lorcan and I are stuck together like conjoined twins even though we hate each other. What. A. Mess.

I text back to Bashir:When and if I’m ready.

It’s as noncommittal as I can be without alerting my friends to my plans to leave school. I put my phone on mute and used my laptop to see whether there was anything interesting to walk to in Cata’s neighborhood, since my phone’s map functionality is disabled.

Cata once told me that the more I saw of the outside world, the more protective of Auralia I would feel. But how is that ever supposed to happen if I neverseethe outside world?

Five months abroad and I’ve been into Edinburgh for lunches, or to visit Cata’s house. That’s it. I haven’t visited a single museum, been to a club, or seen a musical show. What kind of cultural experience is that?

And really—how dangerous could it possibly be to walk down the street of a major city in broad daylight?

Half an hour later, I was seated at The Black Sheep Cafe two blocks away from Cata’s house with my hands wrapped around a hot cocoa. The sense of freedom is far more intoxicating than that wretched rum-and-Coke mixture from Saturday. I’d had to raid her change jar to get enough money to pay for it, which I felt slightly bad about—but only slightly.

I spent a happy hour reading my botany textbook, regretting that my poor grades last term meant my father selected my courses for this one. Can I make it a condition of staying in school that I get to study subjects I actually like?

My father would never stand for it.

When my cocoa was gone and I couldn’t justify lingering any longer, I buttoned my coat and pulled my hat over my highly identifiable hair. I walked the long way home, taking a detour through the nearby park, packing snowballs and lobbing them at trees just because.

“Hey!”

“Oh!” I covered my mouth with gloved hands. “Sorry! I mistook you for a tree!”

The man I hit with a snowball brushed the powder off his shoulders. “Don’t you have—” He cuts off and does a double take “—eyes, woman?”

I glanced away, self-consciously. I want to engage with the world, but I have so little practice that I can’t readily identify friend from foe. Plus, the stakes are a bit higher for me than for most other people. I am a princess from a country that’s under threat of invasion, after all, no matter how much I would like to forget the fact.

Fucking people. Men, mostly. Truly, eighty-five percent of my problems in life stem from men. Lorcan and my father, in particular. The Skía, too.

The stranger approached me. “You have gorgeous eyes.” A nice enough compliment, in theory, but I didn’t like that he’s close enough to have noticed my looks.

“Yes, well, they appear to have failed me just now. Sorry.” I moved briskly onward. The man followed. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Forward for you to ask.” I tried to recall details of his face in case I needed to identify him again later, but they’re bland and indistinct and I can’t fix his features in my memory. He’s neither handsome nor plain. Unremarkable in every way. Black wool coat, black cap with a half-familiar symbol embroidered on the hem. Dark eyebrows, brown eyes. Taller than me, but his build is unexceptional in every dimension. The kind of man who blends in easily with a crowd. Or a stand of sycamores.

The only thing that stands out to me is the hint of malice in the way he moved toward me. A stiffness in his shoulders and a deliberate menace in his stride.

I’m imagining it. Nonetheless, I’m scared.

“Not going to tell me, huh?” he asked, following me.

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