I blame the spinning for the fact that I don’t see the shadow by the door until it’s rushing past me, trailing a whiff of the forest through the burning carpet smell.
The shadow grunts, and the flames abruptly go out.
“Get the lights,” it orders in a deep voice.
2
Elizabeth
I gulp, my eyes going wide as I clutch the top of my nightgown. For a moment, I consider making a break for my room—the man might not have gotten a good look at my face yet; I might still escape without getting caught—but then he adds in a gentler voice, “It’s all right, Elizabeth. I’m not angry. Just get the lights so we can see the extent of the damage.”
Rats!
I’m caught! Caught!
And by a member of the royal family.
None of the servants would dare call me Elizabeth. From the moment I arrived, they’ve called me “your highness” or “princess,” another thing that’s made this visit surreal. Yes, technically, I am a princess, but in name only. Rinderland abolished the monarchy and funding for the royal family years ago, leaving my parents struggling to adjust to their new place in the world. They’ve managed by ignoring our crumbling estate, disastrously managed finances, and the fact that their three children are being raised by an odd assortment of poorly-paid, mostly American nannies who taught us English in an accent not nearly as posh-sounding as the Von Bergen boys, with their pricey British tutors.
There’s nothing posh about our threadbare life back home.
That’s why my mother, in particular, is so desperate for me to marry Prince Andrew. Once I do, I’ll be a real princess, with the power and money to restore all the pride and status she’s lost.
Of course, I know I’m never going to marry Andrew, but I have to stay on the Von Bergen royal family’s good side. I need to appear sweet and compliant until the moment Fate steps in to ensure the right Rochat marries the future king of Gallantia.
But then, if my twin sister is destined to marry Andrew, I suppose it will happen no matter what I do.
Destiny is destiny, no matter who sets fire to the library.
Still, I’m trembling with nerves by the time I reach the switch by the door.
Taking a deep breath, I flick on the lights and blink in the sudden illumination, waiting for my eyes to adjust before I turn to see which royal has caught me out of my room. I’m praying it isn’t the king, Andrew’s grandfather—he’s nice, but he makes me desperately nervous. And then I lock eyes with the bare-chested boy frowning up at me from the floor, where he’s thrown his shirt over the flames, and I wish it had been the king after all.
The king is scary, but this prince is even scarier.
It’s Jeffrey, Andrew’s second-to-youngest brother. He’s even taller than Andrew, built like an American football player or some other hulking creature—an ancient Viking or a caveman who fights dinosaurs with his bare hands—and as far as I can tell, he’s always grouchy.
Always.
Always scowling and brooding and avoiding eye contact with anyone in my family as if he’s afraid our decline in status is catching.
I have no idea what he’s going to say or do, but it’s going to be bad.
“I’m s-so s-sorry,” I stammer, the stutter cropping up the way it always does with unfamiliar or intimidating people. “I w-was l-looking for something t-to—”
“It’s all right,” he cuts me off gently. He’s still scowling, but he doesn’t sound angry, a contrast that’s so confusing that I stand frozen by the door, my fingers twitching at my sides, with no clue what might happen next. “We’ll rearrange the furniture to hide it. And if we can’t, I’ll tell Grandfather it was my fault.”
My jaw drops, and my already undependable words fail me.
He’s going to take the blame? For me?
Jeffrey’s frown deepens, and a muscle in his clenched jaw tightens into a knot. “You don’t have to be frightened, Elizabeth. I promise. And you don’t have to apologize. We’re the ones who should be sorry. Our entire stupid family.”
My jaw remains slack, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are bulging out of my head.
I hear myself breathe in a stutter-free voice, “Why would you be sorry?”
“You’re a child,” Jeffrey says, still crouched on the floor by his singed shirt. “It’s not right. What our parents did. You shouldn’t be at a ball, dancing with your fiancé. You should be at home playing with your dolls or…whatever.”
“I don’t like dolls,” I whisper. “I like sewing dresses for them, but not playing with them. I’m not that young.”
“Still too young,” he says, his troubled gaze holding mine.
I look into his eyes, past the anger, to the compassion and concern that’s inspired it, and my chest goes warm and melty, like cheese seeping out of a sandwich left on the grill too long.