“Ms. Hamilton,” another voice spoke up. “Alistair Davies,Pine Times.Your mother passed when you were a teenager, and your father could not be reached for comment. Do you think your rocky family life would hinder your ability to help run the country?”
My stomach sank as my head whipped around to spot the lanky, pimple-faced man who had asked the question. She had also lost her mom as a teenager? Of all the things for us to have in common, being in the Dead Parent Club together was not what I would have wanted.
“Um…” Birdie cleared her throat, a mixture of surprise and panic on her face. “I, um…” she stammered, fingers toying nervously with her bracelet.
I briefly considered going back there to give Alistair Davies a piece of my mind. How dare he bring up something that was clearly so traumatic in this way? Before I could react, Oliver stepped in. “I think that’s enough questions for now.” A flurry of protest came from the reporters. “You can thank Mr. Astor and Mr. Davies for ending this press conference with their inappropriate inquiries. We will not be moving forward with any further questions.” He stood, then paused.
“One last thing you should all note,” he said slowly, looking around the room to each reporter. “This country could use a fresh perspective. We could all use a shake up from the old traditions. So, whether my future partner is an American,” he gestured to Birdie, “or a schoolteacher,” he nodded to Adelaide, “or a baker,” he motioned toward the round-faced blonde on his right, “or one of the other beautiful women here who have spent their whole lives around the court, therewillbe changes. I suggest you prepare accordingly.”
I wanted to give him a standing ovation.There’s my best friend.This was the next king the country needed, not some palatable kiss-ass. I looked at Evelyn to find pride radiating from her every pore.
“That’s my boy,” she whispered.
“That will be all. You are dismissed,” Oliver said, striding from the room.
I followed Adelaide through the doors of the glassblowing studio back out into the center of the artisans’ square. The large courtyard was bordered by buildings housing workshops for many of Wexstone’s artists and makers. Each shop sported a picture window that held an array of finished art pieces, giving passersby a glimpse into the artists’ minds and spaces. Twinkle lights were strung between the copper signs above each door, and lampposts decorated with holly and pine cones led to a fountain in the center of the square.
The afternoon had been spent with Prince Oliver and the rest of the suitors, visiting a potter specializing in delicate porcelains followed by the country’s first all-female-run glassblowing studio. At each workshop, Prince Oliver had introduced the artists, giving them an opportunity to share their work with us.
I was in heaven, although I tried to behave myself and not ask too many questions; I didn’t think that hogging the artists’ attention would make a great impression on anyone.
I had been in a daze as we filed out of the press conference and proceeded to a line of sleek black sedans. That last question from the gangly man fromPine Times—what was his name, Davies?—had likely been intended to throw me off my game and had struck its mark.
They know about Mom. And they tried reaching out to Dad? Fuck.I wasn’t even sure where my dad was living—definitely the last thing I needed anyone to know.
I was lost in thought, mulling over Prince Oliver’s defense of me back at the press conference, when Adelaide grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the backseat of one of the cars.
“Best to be in this together,” she whispered as we settled into the spacious bench seat.
The morning’s press conference and the afternoon outing had been an interesting chance to observe and feel out my fellow contestants. As we walked to our final stop, the woodcarving workshop, I lagged behind, watching the rest of the women.
Adelaide, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, chatted with Mellie, a short, lithe woman who wore her black hair in a pixie cut that accentuated her exquisite cheekbones and pale skin. She had approached me at the potter’s studio to thank me for speaking up for her at the press conference.
“Truthfully, I would have assumed that the rest of you would be glad to let me flounder there,” she admitted. “You know, with this being a competition and all.”
“We may be courting the same guy,” I answered, giving her a conspiratorial smile, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let some dickhole reporter get away with asking wildly inappropriate shit.”
Adelaide piped up from my other side. “Mellie, I’ve known this girl for less than twenty-four hours, but I can already tellshe’s someone you want on your side.” She elbowed me playfully in the ribs.
“I can see that, and I’m glad to have some allies here. And please, call me Mel.”
“Allies indeed, Mel,” I had said, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Maybe we can all survive this circus unscathed together.”
Now, as my two new friends walked the pebbled pathway to the woodcarving shop, a blonde woman wearing a high-necked blouse and an ill-fitting skirt that fell past her knees bobbed along behind them. She had introduced herself as Cora and was one of the bakers at the café and patisserie in town. In the few minutes I had chatted with her, she seemed kind, if perhaps a bit starry-eyed. I was afraid this competition would chew her up and spit her out.
In front of them strode Sabine, who Adelaide had told me was one of the country’s greatest environmental activists. Apparently, she was also one of the country’s most talented floral designers and consulted on sustainable floristry around Europe. The way she carried herself in her pencil dress, blazer, and mustard-yellow wedges, head of tight black curls held high, told me that she was used to navigating uncomfortable spaces. I wasn’t sure if she was someone I would find an ally in, but I certainly knew I preferred to stay on her good side.
Renata strutted at the front of the group, flanked by her cronies Gemma and Ginny. According to Adelaide, they were cousins but acted more like twins.
“Renata fancies herself a businesswoman. She founded a makeup company, although it’s really one of those multi-level-marketing schemes. She did it all with her daddy’s money, of course,” Adelaide had explained in the car, rolling her eyes. I snorted. “Gemma and Ginny are a part of it. They’re at the top of the pyramid, just under Renata, and do pretty muchanything she tells them to. I’ve always wondered who they’d have become if they hadn’t been caught in her thrall when we were children.”
I caught back up with Adelaide and Mel as we approached the woodcarving shop. The building appeared humble at first glance, but closer inspection revealed intricate carvings of vines decorating the porch posts and railings. The sign, which read “Lewellen Woodworkers,” was adorned with hand-carved berries and pine cones, while the front door featured windows edged in reliefs of pine trees and woodland creatures.
We filed through the front door into a room filled with spacious tables. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with paints of every color, every size of paintbrush imaginable, aprons, palettes, palette knives, and drying racks with art of every kind. Opposite where we stood, a large door led to the back of the building.
We gathered in a semicircle around Prince Oliver, who now stood next to a gray-haired man in his sixties. Knox, Vince, Cordell—the palace’s press secretary—–and a single black-clad security guard lingered near the door. The rest of the security team was stationed outside, remaining somehow both present and inconspicuous.
“Ladies, allow me to introduce you to Darren Lewellen, owner of Lewellen Woodcarvers.” We applauded as Mr. Lewellen nodded to Prince Oliver and stepped forward.
