Page 36 of American Royals II: Majesty
As the door shut behind him, Nina fell back onto her bed and closed her eyes, wondering what the hell had justhappened.
When Sam saw that the ballroom was still dark, she heaved a dramatic sigh. She had meant to show up late to this stupid wedding rehearsal, but it would seem that Robert had outsmarted her, and sent her a schedule with a false start time.
She wondered if he’d done the same to Marshall. Last week, when she’d informed Robert that Marshall was her wedding date, the chamberlain had sniffed in disapproval. “He’ll need to attend rehearsals. Please make sure he shows up,” Robert had said ominously.
“Fine,” Sam had snapped, though she wasn’t sure she couldmakeMarshall do anything. He was like her in that regard.
She sank onto a velvet-upholstered bench and stared at the painting on the opposite wall: a full-length oil portrait oftheir entire family, the type of formal, choreographed picture that was intended for the pages of future textbooks.
In the portrait, Queen Adelaide was seated with four-year-old Jeff in her lap. Light danced over the latticed diamonds of her tiara. The king stood behind them, one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on Beatrice’s shoulder. Sam’s breath caught a little at the sight of her dad. It felt like she was looking through a spyglass that sent her back in time, to before she’d lost him.
She glanced to the opposite side of the painting, where she stood, detached from the rest of her family. It almost seemed like the rest of them had posed without her, and then the artist had painted her in at the last minute.
“Do you remember sitting for that?”
Sam glanced up sharply. Beatrice hesitated, then sat next to Sam: warily, as if unsure whether she might bite. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress that buttoned at the wrists, which looked especially elegant next to Sam’s frayed jeans.
“Sort of.” Sam remembered the hypnotic sound of the artist’s pencil, remembered being so impatient to see herself—to witness this transformation of blank canvas into an image ofher—that she kept trying to wriggle from her mom’s lap. When Adelaide had snapped at her, the artist had suggested that Sam and Jeff trade places.Don’t worry if she won’t stand still; I’ll fix it in the painting,he’d assured the queen.That’s the benefit of oil portraits: they’re more forgiving than photography.
She remembered seeing reprints of that portrait in the palace gift shop, and realizing that complete strangers were paying money for images of her family. That was the first time that Sam truly understood the surreal nature of their position.
“I miss him,” Beatrice murmured. “So much.”
Sam looked over at her sister. Right now she didn’t seem particularly majestic. She was just…Beatrice.
“I miss him, too.”
Beatrice’s eyes were still locked on the painted figure of their dad. “This doesn’t evenlooklike him.”
“I know. He’s way too kingly.”
The George who stared back at them from the portrait was grave and resolute and stern, the Imperial State Crown poised on his brow. No one could doubt that he was a monarch.
But Sam didn’t miss her monarch; she missed her dad.
“He always made that face when he put the crown on. Like the weight of it forced him to be more serious,” Beatrice mused.
“So do you. You have a constipated crown face,” Sam deadpanned. At her sister’s expression, she huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “I’mkidding!”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Beatrice replied, though she ventured a smile.
Sam realized that this was the most they’d spoken in weeks. Ever since the Royal Potomac Races, she’d gone back to avoiding her sister, the way she had for so many years. Beatrice had made a few attempts at reconciliation—had knocked at the door to Sam’s room, texted asking if she could get lunch—but Sam had answered them all with silence.
She glanced over at Beatrice, suddenly hesitant. “Nice pitch at the Generals game, by the way.”
“You saw that?”
The surprise in her sister’s voice melted Sam’s animosity a little further. “Of course I saw. Didn’t you know it’s a meme now? It’s pretty badass.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said. “I…I had some help.”
Sam started to answer, only to fall silent as Teddy turned the corner.
And just like that, the fragile moment of truce between the Washington sisters was shattered. Everything Sam wanted to say would have to remain unspoken. The way it always did in their family.
There was a moment of chagrin, or maybe regret, on Teddy’s face, but it quickly vanished. “Hey, Samantha,” he greeted her, as easily as if she had never been anything to him but his fiancée’s little sister.
Sam braced herself for a wave of longing and resentment, but all she felt was a dull sort of weariness.
