It’s a perfect verdant spring day after a gray English winter. Yellow daffodils dot the roadside. The gardens of society’s finest homes have only just sprung to life. Riots of pink explode in window boxes, and waterfalls of purple hyacinth drip from the eaves of the estates we pass.
We join a line of carriages at the entrance to the palace, and a veritable army of footmen stream out the doors, ready to greet us.
Today, all the debutantes wear white, as tradition for the Pact Parade demands: white to mirror the white gown Queen Mor wore when she first appeared on King Edward IV’s burning battlefield.
I spot all my old friends among the crowd, as well as their mothers and chaperones. They shift slightly as we approach, putting their backs to us.
Lady Marion Thorne takes a small gasp as I walk by her, and she whispers to her mother, “I didn’t think she’d be invited.”
It’s a fair enough remark. I didn’t think I’d be invited either.
But next to me, my mother stiffens, and the familiar pangs of pity return. She belonged to this world long before I was even alive, and they’ve gone and thrown her out, like they weren’t all girls together, once huddled and giggling in gowns on these very steps. “Ivy, fix your face,” she hisses, and I realize I’m glowering.
We linger in an awkward semblance of a line outside, ready for the palace doors to open. It is tradition that each girl enters the queen’s throne room alone. But instead, at the appointed time, the footmenopen the double doors to the main hall of the palace and gesture with gloved hands for us all to step inside as a group.
Kensington Palace is the main residence of the royal family, but they keep larger palaces like Buckingham and Eltham for official events. It’s intimate to be invited here, into the queen’s home. I’ve never been inside, only to the gates a few times a year as a child to deliver my baby teeth. But everyone knows you leave those with the guards; she never comes outside to collect them herself.
My boots click over the polished black-and-white checkered marble floor as we enter the main hall. There are rumblings of confusion around me, but I’m too busy taking in the splendor of the palace to truly care. The ceiling soars four stories tall, and in the middle of the great entryway is an oak tree, hundreds of years old, its roots intertwined with the very foundation of this palace. Its branches soar above us, spring green leaves brushing against the honeycomb glass of the ceiling. The walls are covered in lush murals of emerald and gold, scenes of the Otherworld where Queen Mor grew up, a place where no human has ever set foot.
As if we are sheep being herded, we follow the lead footman up the stairs to the throne room. I trail my gloved fingers along the brass railing, which is fashioned to look like vines twisting their way up and up.
The footmen swing open the doors to the throne room and gesture for us all to enter as a pack. My mother throws me a questioning glance as another murmur of concern ripples through the crowd. We should be entering one by one, not all together like this.
The expansive throne room spans the length of a city block. My boots sink into the midnight-blue carpet threaded through with gold stitched into the shapes of constellations. The ceiling ispainted in a mural of sunset pinks and blush lilacs. The walls are gilded in ornate gold molding, surrounded by yet more paintings of goddesses hunting in lush forests, their bare feet crushing flowers in their wake.
And at the end of the room isher. We’ve all learned the stories in school, how Queen Mor saved all of England, how she ushered in the longest period of peace for any nation in earth’s history, how she’s kept our little island safe and prosperous for over four centuries.
Seeing her in the flesh is profoundly surreal. No portrait could do her justice. She’s lounging casually on her throne, which is a piece of art in and of itself: a massive bouquet of orchids shaped, impossibly, into a chair rendered in gold and a rainbow of gemstones.
Her dark hair is wound into a coronet of braids, and atop that sits a crown of diamonds and turquoise stones as big as chicken eggs.
Her gown is the same blue as the jewels, radiant silk that falls wide at her wrists. But it’s her face I can’t stop staring at.
It’s said that she hasn’t aged a day since she first appeared on King Edward’s battlefield, that she exists outside the bounds of time itself. Her immortal skin is unmarked by freckles or lines. She could be a debutante herself, if not for her sharp, ancient eyes.
I think of my sister at home in her bed, of my father’s misfortunes, of my mother’s missing finger. White-hot hate pools in my belly at the sight of her.
“Welcome.” She greets us. Her voice is cool, but easily fills the cavernous space. I can feel the nerves radiating from the girls who stand beside me as we all curtsy the way we’ve practiced our entire lives.
I cross my left leg behind my right and bend my knees nearly ninety degrees. I keep my eyes focused on a point a few feet in frontof me, a golden star embroidered into the carpet, to keep from wobbling, just as Mama taught me to.
There’s a commotion from the left side of the room. A gasp. A thud. Then Opal Fitzherbert rushes out of the room, limping slightly, her mother at her heels.
Poor thing must have stumbled during her curtsy. People thought she’d do well this season, snag a baron or better, but news of a public humiliation like this will spread quickly. Now she’ll be lucky to get a second son.
The air is thick with tension. Queen Mor watches on, bored by all of us, I suspect. How could she not be after four hundred years?
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why this break in protocol,” she begins. “I assure you we will commence with the Pact Parade shortly, but first I must beg you to allow me this indulgence.”
After an agonizing moment of silence, a hidden door, one painted to blend in with the lush murals, swings open next to the throne.
The entire room takes a small gasp as Prince Bram strides in and steps onto the podium to stand at his mother’s side. He enters the room like he’s straight from a brisk walk in the forest.
Like his mother, he is inhumanly beautiful. Broad shoulders, a wide smile, a mop of wavy brown hair run through with rays of gold bleached by sunlight. His gray eyes glint like steel, but there’s something about him that feels more tangible than his mother, like he’s of this world and not floating above it. Maybe it’s the dip of the dimple under his left cheek, and the way he doesn’t have a matching one on the right.
He greets us all with a welcoming smile. “Seems I’m right on time.”
Beside me, Olive Lisonbee’s mother catches her by the elbow asOlive swoons at the sight of him and her knees give out.
