Chapter 18 — Lisabet

Someone knocks on my door a little after supper time. It’s been a long day of rehearsals and writing down music onto sheet paper in preparation for recording, and I haven’t had time today to really see Miles. It’s for the reason that I practically skip over to open the door, wondering if it’s him.

It’s not.

Instead, I’m greeted by the bushy sight of Tobias’s moustache. Everything about him is rigid. From his posture to his carefully ironed clothes to his stiff, unnatural smile.

“Miss Thompson,” he says. “Your presence has been requested by King Albert and Queen Isabella. They’re hoping for some light music this evening out in the gardens.”

My heart skips a beat. I know it’s my job, but it’s nevertheless daunting when summoned like this.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell him. “Let me just grab my cello and fix my hair.”

“Just the cello will do,” Tobias replies hastily. “Come along. They’re not to be kept waiting.”

I have no choice but to snatch my things and go.

The gardens are as lovely as ever, especially so at night. The silver glow of the moon highlighting the edges of leaves, along with the gentle breeze whistling past flower petals makes for a truly otherworldly experience. The smell of the warm earth and the air after this morning’s rain fills my head, leaves me feeling light and bubbly.

The King and Queen are seated in a little patio section, drinking tea and nibbling on buttery biscuits. Queen Isabella gives me a sweet smile when she sees me.

The King doesn’t bother to look up from his stack of paperwork.

“Thank you for coming, Lisabet,” Queen Isabella says. “I know it must seem a little last minute.”

I shake my head and smile. “It’s my pleasure, Your Majesty. Did you have any requests this evening?”

“Play whatever,” the King says curtly. “Nothing too loud.”

The Queen offers me an apologetic glance. I do my best to think nothing of it, taking a seat in the chair provided and beginning to play a simple classical tune. My repertoire is expansive, so I have an endless number of composers to choose from. I focus on the melody, hitting ever note with just the right pitch and volume.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone, dear,” Queen Isabella says to her husband, concern tinging her brow. “Why not take a break? That’s the whole reason we’re out here.”

“A few more minutes,” he says between gritted teeth.

“Can’t you just admit that our son was right?”

My ears perk up. I know I shouldn’t be listening in on their conversation. It’s totally out of line for me. But it’s kind of hard not to pay attention where Miles is concerned.

“He brought up some very good points,” Queen Isabella continues. “He’ll make a fine leader one day.”

“A fine leader is not a great leader.”

“Albert.”

“Isabella.”

The King lets out the heaviest sigh I’ve ever heard in my life. It overtakes my cello, drowning out whatever string of notes I happen to be playing. I push through it, not wanting to disrupt them.

“What’s this really about?” the Queen asks. “I know you don’t involve me in domestic affairs, but I’m getting the feeling it’s more than that.”

“We’re not getting any younger,” the King replies. “It’s about time Miles gets serious and finds himself a wife.”

My bow almost slips out of my hand. The music comes to abrupt halt. The King and Queen both glance at me, startled and confused.

“Sorry,” I say, laughing anxiously. “I guess my fingers are a little stiff out in the cold.”

“No worries, dear,” the Queen says kindly. “Please, as you were.”

I pick up where I stopped, but now I feel uneven and jittery and it shows.

Come on, Lisabet. Get it together.

“He’s not taking things seriously,” the King continues gruffly. “I won’t rest peacefully until an heir is secured.”

“Miles is still young. He’ll find someone. You shouldn’t force marriage and children on him so soon.”

“But the throne—”

“The throne doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“I don’t want my son to…” She trails off, pain lingering on every word. “I don’t want my son to be married for the sake of marriage. It’s not fair. It’s…loveless.”

I stop playing and clear my throat. “I, uh…I should leave.”

“No,” King Albert says, snapping his fingers at me. “You stay. We’re done having this discussion.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. My nerves are a burning bundle of frayed ends.

The Queen looks downright indignant. “You can’t just shrug me off when it’s inconvenient, Albert. This is important.”

“Miles is going to marry a good woman from an established royal family and that’s that. No more of this sneaking off to Paris shit.”

The King looks directly at me.

“What are you talking about, Albert?” Queen Isabella demands. “What’s going on?”

I clutch my cello—my gift—to my chest like a shield. “You…you know about that?”

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, young lady. You’d be a fool to think I don’t. I had Tobias tail you. I’ve seen the pictures.”

Shock hits me first. It settles into my bones, leaves me feeling numb all over.

And then the anger floods through my veins, boiling me from the inside out.

Miles was right to feel so paranoid.

“You had us followed?” I gasp, furious and stunned and not entirely sure what to say or do.

Queen Isabella seems just as appalled. “Why would you do such a thing, Albert? Miles is a grown man. He can go wherever he wants with whomever he wants.”

“Not when that someone is a divorcee swimming in debt,” the King snaps. He rises out of his chair and steps forward. It’s probably one of the most intimidating things I’ve ever witnessed, a tall, brooding.

Dangerous.

My first instinct is to back down, but I don’t.

I won’t.

I stand and meet him. “What’s wrong with being a divorcee?” I ask. “And plenty of people are in debt. Most people do.”

“I expect my son to marry a woman from a reputable family.”

“That’s awfully classist of you.”

“I don’t know what he’s told you, but whatever’s going on between the two of you won’t last.”

“How on Earth would you know?”

“Because I know Miles. Once you’ve lost your shine, he’ll get bored and move on.”

I shake my head. “No, he won’t. He—”

“And even if he does keep you around, you’re never going to be accepted by our people. By the media. But most importantly, by me.”

“Albert!” the Queen shouts. “Enough of this. What did the poor girl ever do to you?”

I don’t stick around long enough to listen to the King’s response.

There’s no point.

The thundering sound of my heart pounding in my ear would have drowned out the sound either way.

I run back inside after hurriedly packing up my cello. It’s an impossible task to run with such a bulky case, but I make do, desperate to get as far away as quickly as possible. I don’t exactly know where I’m running off to. All I know is that I can’t stay in the courtyard, the King breathing down my neck and telling me all of those terrible things.

One part of me is terrified. Terrified that I dared to talk back to someone of such authority. It doesn’t help that he’s literally the highest authority of the entire kingdom. I’m probably going to lose my job after this. I’m probably going to have to kiss my cushy job and privileges and the convenience of being so close to Miles goodbye.

Another part of me feels sick. The King knows about me and Miles. What I really want to know is for how long. Why hasn’t he said anything until now? Why is the King so opposed to the idea of me being with Miles? I get the man’s a traditionalist, but what he’s doing is going way too far.

It’s not true.

Everything he’s said, it’s not true.

Don’t believe him, Lisabet.

But the King’s words rattle around in my brain, etch themselves to the inside of my skull. I can’t get rid of his voice. It haunts me, crawls around and burrows into places that it doesn’t belong.

I wouldn’t describe what I’m feeling as being sick.

It’s stronger than that.

It’s worse than that.

My skin’s on fire, but I can’t stop shivering. My stomach won’t stop doing flips, my guts are in tight knots, at there’s a painful bubble of air stuck in my chest and throat that just won’t go away. I have a terrible headache, an awful piercing sensation behind my eyes. The ground beneath my feet is simultaneously heavy and non-existent, every step a gamble as to whether I eat dirt here and now.

I don’t know where I’m going, but my legs seem to have a destination in mind.

I end up in front of Miles’s door, vision blurry with heated tears.

I don’t remember knocking. I don’t remember him answering. I don’t remember him pulling me into his room so that we can have some semblance of privacy, which I’m beginning to truly realize doesn’t actually exist with these palace walls. I feel nothing but pity for Miles.

He’s grown up under constant supervision, constant scrutiny.

How he’s managed to be so well-adjusted, I’ll never really know.

Miles cups my face, tries to hold my gaze despite my need to look down and away. There’s nothing but worry in his eyes, mixed with a bit of anger and confusion and hurt.

“Lisabet, what happened?”

“Your father, he—”

“What did he do?” he asks gravely. “Lisabet, tell me what he did. So help me God, I’ll—”

“He knows.”

“What?”

“He knows. About us. He…” I wipe at my nose with the back of my hand, face burning like the heat of a thousand suns. “He doesn’t approve. He says I’ll never be accepted. Not by Oxland, not by him. I’m not good enough for you, Miles.”

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

“But it’s true. I’m just some random nobody. You deserve to be with a princess or a duchess or someone who at least fits into this world of yours.”

“I don’t want a princess. I want you.”

I choke on a sob. The tears stinging my eyes make it impossible to see. The only thing I’m aware of is the warmth of Miles’s embrace, strong arms wrapped around me as he presses my face to his chest. I hide away from the world against the collar of his shirt, happy to have this one, singular moment of reprieve.

“I don’t care what my father thinks,” Miles says firmly in my ear. “I refuse to respect a man who’d speak so poorly of someone I hold so dear. You’re worth more to me than you know, Lisabet. More than I’ll ever be capable of showing.”

“Miles—”

“I love you.”

I pull away and blink, stunned. “What?”

He smiles at me, tender and true. “I love you, Lisabet. I really, truly love you. And nothing my father says or does is ever going to change that.” He clasps my hands in his own and leans forward, less than a centimeter of space between our lips. “I’ll gladly leave all of this behind if it means I can be with you.”

I stare deeply into his eyes, flabbergasted. “You really mean it?”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

My heart soars, elation sweeping through me to replace angry tears with happy ones.

I can’t believe it. I briefly wonder if I’m dreaming. If I am, I don’t want to wake up.

He responds by capturing my lips with his.

I’m more than happy to get lost in them.