Page 57 of Royals
“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 bemorethan 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, butunlikeSeb, 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.”
Glancing up, I see Miles has taken a seat across the table fromme, 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 thingrealgirlfriends 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.”
