Page 50 of Fallen Crown

The kitchen is at the front but off to the side of the palace. Nick and Jules used to sneak down to the wine cellar as teenagers, and then once they were no longer friends, Nick and I did it. There’s one window with a view of the front entrance where everyone important is received, which means the kitchen is often a hive of gossip.

This late at night, it’ll be deserted. In the morning, Joyce will arrive at the crack of dawn to get breakfast started. Once we’ve slipped into the space, I only turn on one dim light to avoid suspicion or investigation by security. Then I release Tucker’s hand to peer into the cupboards.

“Are you going to cook me something?” Tucker asks.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” I close the cupboard door and frown. “Unless you want me to? I make a mean Mr. Noodle.”

“Likely going to pass on that.” She lets out a soft laugh. “I haven’t had that since college. You really don’t need to feed me. I’ll be fine until I get home.”

Except I don’t want her to go home. The thought of her leaving makes desperation spider across my chest. “There must be something edible.” I yank open the freezer, and there, as glorious as the sunrise, is a frozen package of Rory’s scones. How they’ve slipped by unnoticed, I have no idea, but I’m not going to question this gift.

“Scones,” I say, holding up the package, triumphant. “I bet there’s jam and cream in the fridge too.” I tuck the frozen treats under my arm, and I rummage around in the industrial-sized fridge until I find the toppings. “We can defrost these in my room.”

“Oh,” Tucker says, and she bites her lip. “I should probably get home. Maybe?”

“Eat some scones with me,” I say. “Can’t send you home hungry. Would make me a terrible host.” The words—my father would never forgive me—die on my lips. I stare at the jam and cream in my hands, at a loss.

Tucker’s fingertips skim the edges of my hair, and when I glance up, she’s staring at me with such tenderness. “You gonna let me have some this time?”

“One,” I say. “Two if you’re lucky.”

“Sounds like a deal.” And then she takes the jam and cream from my hands, and she leads us back to my room as though she’s been doing it for years.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Maren

If there is one thing that I absolutely cannot resist, it’s a wounded Brice. God, my heart. Every time he glances in my direction, and it’s clear he’s thinking about his father, my heart cracks open like a Cadbury Creme Egg. An ooey gooey mess of feeling to match his.

Until my accident, I wasn’t like this. Before, I used to think bad things happened and people just got on with their life, as though there could never possibly be long-term consequences or feelings that lingered long after the physical wounds healed. Now that I know better, watching Brice struggle causes every nurturing fiber I have in me to swell in response. I want to wrap him in a big blanket of my affection and never let him go.

We’ve defrosted the scones in his microwave, and he’s slathered cream and jam on them. When we were camping, we didn’t have the spreads, and I have to admit, it makes the scones next-level amazing.

While I eat them, I occasionally catch a sheen of tears across his eyes, and he’ll pinch the bridge of his nose. He ate one and now seems to be done, which isn’t like him. I’m not sure if I should lay into his grief or avoid it, as he clearly wants. At some point, talking about his feelings will be important for him to process them, but it took me months and medication to get there. Hard to criticize anyone’s process with my history.

In my frazzled emotional state today, I didn’t eat very much, and I reach for my third scone on the coffee table between the armchairs.

“Will you come to the funeral?” Brice’s elbows are on his knees, and he’s staring at the carpet between his feet.

My chest tightens at the request. Yes comes to my lips almost immediately, but I need to be sure what’s he’s asking and the implications.

“As your official guest?” I know enough about royal life to understand the complications with that.

“Yes—or, I don’t know. Maybe no.” He glances up at me. “Obviously the message we’d be sending the public wouldn’t be good.”

“What if you invited the whole team? Would that—could you do that?”

He runs his hands down his cheeks and slouches in his chair. “Suppose I could get away with whatever I wanted at this point. They called you, so they’re obviously worried about me.”

“Alex called me.”

“I’d bet on Rory being the driver behind that.”

“Nick suggested me.”

“Ah, yes.” A hint of a smile tugs at the edges of Brice’s mouth. “Truthfully, it’s nice to know they considered me.”

“Brice, it’s clear they all love you. Why would you think that?”