Theo puts a hand on my cheek, then pulls back and looks at his palm. “Why are you so hot?”
“Are you hitting on me? Does this mean you forgive me?”
He nudges the torn fabric of my shirtsleeve to the side and curses. “Bloody hell. Your stitches are infected. Do you feel okay?” His eyes search my face, and his voice sounds like it’s a million miles away. “You’re not really looking at me.”
I don’t feel okay, actually. I need some of Gwyneth’s healing Goop powers. Theo’s face blurs in my vision.
“Wren?” His voice is sharp. “Look at me. Wren?”
He stands and pulls me up. I stumble over my own feet, struggling to stay upright. He sweeps his arms underneath my legs and lifts me in one fluid motion. I’m floating again, and once again, it feels awful.
“Apologies in advance if I puke on you,” I mumble. My head falls to Theo’s chest, and it’s the most comfortable I’ve been in days. He’s so warm.
“She needs help,” Theo shouts as he runs. He sounds so scared it makes me wonder if I should be scared.
“We’ve got eyes on the King. His Majesty is alive,” a voice says. Half a dozen people rush toward us, forcing Theo to set me down as they inspect the King for injuries.
“I’m fine! Wren needs help.” He tries to shake them off, but they don’t listen.
“Theo, I…” My vision tunnels.
He tears off the oxygen mask they’ve just placed on him as I collapse in his arms.
“WREN!”
His scream echoes in my head as everything goes dark.
PARTIII
CHAPTER30
DAYS UNTIL THE CORONATION:FOUR
It’s 2:00A.M., and the hospital library is dead silent. Yes, a hospitallibrary.I was confused too. Patients can also do Pilates in the basement gym or take a dip in the heated hydrotherapy pool. (Wellness junk!) Not me, though. I’ve been advised against strenuous exercise or swimming until my new stitches heal. And since I don’t want to risk asecondcase of sepsis, I’m in the library, where my chances of contracting another infection are sufficiently low.
Like a lot of the building, this room looks nothing like a hospital. It has an empty fireplace, carpeted floors, and velvety red furniture covered in throw pillows. I’m lying on one of the sofas now, my eyes glued to a gold chandelier above me, wondering how many of Theo’s ancestors have died in this institution.
It’s morbid, but I need to focus onsomethingto drown out the restless, anxious “do something” energy that has me wandering the halls in the middle of the night. When my nursesfind out I’m missing again, they’re going to be pissed. (American version.)
I thought the endless waiting would be over once we were rescued, but it turns out this hospital is just a different kind of limbo. I’ve been here for two days, and although I was mostly unconscious for the first several hours, it feels like I’ve been here for a month: waiting to be discharged, waiting to find out if I’m the accidental queen consort, waiting for Theo or Graves or the Firm to remember that I exist. But maybe Theo is still mad at me, and Graves is too busy fighting back against the news stories claiming Theo is unprepared for the throne, and the Firm is knee-deep in arrangements for the coronation.
I wonder how much of royal life is waiting for instructions fromthe Firm.Honestly, that doesn’t sound so awful right now. If someone official showed up and gave me a list of royal duties and instructions, at least the limbo would be over. Not knowing what comes next is a special kind of hell.
A cold draft of air blows through my thin hospital gown. I rub the goose bumps on my arms and walk to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes. Despite the hour, there are paparazzi camped out on the street. Naomi was thrilled to report that they got pics of her and Brooke on their way to the hotel where they’re now staying with my mom, and then equally devastated when the blurry shots were banished to a small corner on page 3 of theLondon Echo.
Mom, Brooke, and Naomi all have tickets to fly home in a couple of days, and it’d be nice to know if I’ll be allowed to go with them. No one has told me anything, though. I still don’t even know if Theo and I are married.
The door to the small room opens.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t sleep and I was hungry and looking forfood!” I blurt, wincing in preparation to face the mean nurse who yells at me when I get out of bed.
Instead, a head of dark, curly hair peeks in, and my heart spikes.
“Henry?” I’m shocked but surprisingly happy to see him, and I don’t stop myself from throwing my arms around him.
“Oof!” He wraps his arms easily around me and lifts me off the floor in a big hug, and then I’m crying. I was starting to feel like the last week was a fever dream, and like the royal family and I had never crossed paths.
“Did someone say hungry?” Henry sets me down and displays a greasy take-out bag with a flourish. “I thought you might be getting sick of hospital food.”
