Page 2 of Don’t Look Down

My mother peeks out the window of my small apartment and snaps her finger at me. “The car is here. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

I grab a small clutch that matches my pink shoes and shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Are you planning on staying here until I get back?” She has a key to my flat, same with my father. The one rule they have since they’re the ones who pay my rent.

If I was allowed to have a job, that wouldn’t be a problem.

She grabs her own purse and follows me toward the door. “No, but you can call when you return. I know your father and I will be waiting to hear how it went.”

Waiting to hear how their matchmaking efforts are kicking off, more like it. Or that I didn’t screw up anything in front of Lockwood or the media.

She gives me a quick kiss on each cheek. “Talk soon. Make us proud.” With a sweep of her rose perfume as her hair whips around, she takes off down the street. My parents live only about a five minute walk away.

Sometimes it’s a blessing.

Sometimes not so much.

Walking toward the sleek black car idling at the curb, I’m careful of minding the cobblestone cracks with the slim heel of my shoes. As I approach, the driver’s side door opens and a woman unfolds her tall, lithe body from inside the tinted interior.

“Miss Penner, lovely to meet you,” she says in greeting. Her voice is bright, like the sun beaming above, and when I accept her handshake, I’m surprised by the strength. “My name is Annabeth. I’ll be taking care of your transport today.”

I return her smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well, thank you.” I have to crane my neck a bit to maintain eye contact with her, despite my heels. Her shoulders are broad beneath the straight line of her black jacket, but her face is rounded with softness. Small lines stretch from the corners of her eyes as she squints against the sun.

“Shall we?” She steps back to open the backseat door and gestures inside.

I slip in. The tan interior is cool against the warm day, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the air conditioning blows across my face. The last thing I want to do is show up to the mass of cameras I’m sure to deal with today with my makeup streaked with sweat.

Annabeth takes her spot behind the wheel and glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Are you comfortable, miss?”

I nod and click my seat belt into place. “Thank you.”

We pull away from the curb, and I turn my attention out the window. I feel bad for not wanting to make small talk on the drive, but all the nerves that I’ve been trying to quiet all morning fester and grow in the pit of my stomach. Either she notices or is used to clients not wanting to chat, because Annabeth doesn’t try to engage further. My fingers twist in my lap, and only when a sharp pain registers in the pointer finger of my right hand do I look down and realize I’ve been picking at my nail beds. Again.

A muttered curse slips out before I can stop it. If my mother notices that I’ve whittled them down to nothing again, I’ll be in for another lecture on the importance of maintaining well-manicured nails. “A queen is polished from head to toe, Briar. Not a hair out of place, not a nail broken or chipped, and not a frown to be found.”

I thumb away the small spot of blood that pools near the pearly white of my nail polish and hope that no one, nor the cameras, will notice.

We weave through town, old buildings of stone and brick mixed in with patches of farmland and fields. A perfect blend of buzzing life and simpler times. Small shops, like the ones I frequent for clothes, food, and the occasional art supplies, spill customers onto the busy sidewalks. It’s early yet for a Saturday morning, but the sun’s promise of a roasting day has people out and about early to beat the heat. Many of the farmers in the area have set up their stalls, causing traffic to move slow. Ripe tomatoes, berries, melons, bottles of milk, and freshly creamed butter are piled into the backs of trucks for people to browse as they meander through.

Most weekends, I find myself down here grabbing fresh fruit for breakfast. While my dad inherited his family farm, we didn’t live on it growing up. But we still reaped the rewards of fresh produce, and to this day, I’ll also choose that over anything I can get at the store.

As the edge of town nears, off in the distance the ocean glistens in view. There are likely just as many people out in the water, dotting the lines of the small beaches, as there are in town. Maybe tonight, once I’ve fulfilled my duties, I’ll take a book and go sit at the water’s edge, listening to the soft lapping of the waves and enjoying the cool water on my toes.

Doriella is a beautiful country. Small as it is, and gossipy as it can feel, the expanse of the water surrounding the entirety of it, with the lush farmland filling it, simply cannot be beat. I’d never wish to live anywhere else. We may be just a small country off the coast of the United Kingdom, but it feels like a piece of pure treasure.

I truly do love my country. If I didn’t, I can’t imagine how the pressure that comes from my parents would feel settled on my shoulders. The idea of helping my people, being a voice for them, fills me with a sort of pride that makes me push my chin back a bit, and a sense of belonging clicks into place. I may not have been born royalty, but the deep-rooted desire to care for the people surrounding me runs as thick as my blood.

I know I can be what I’m meant to be.

The knot entangles itself tighter as the university comes into view. But right alongside the nerves is a bundle of excitement. This work, helping to raise money for children who wouldn’t be given the chance to attend university or participate in the activities they want to due to funding, is important. And I’m so proud that my father didn’t just take his luck at befriending the most wealthy person in our country and forget about the life he knew. He wanted to reach a helping hand back to someone else, and now I get to do the same.

Yes, it’s good for my public image, as my mother reminds me, but that’s not why I’m looking forward to the next few months. The chance to help people, to make a difference, well isn’t that what being a part of the royal family is about? I think I’d rather like that part of my life if I were to one day be queen.

Not if, but when.

I also must admit I’m excited to see Lockwood. It’s been almost a year since we last crossed paths ever so briefly at his parents’ anniversary dinner. It was a small affair by royal standards, but with a guest list of close to two-hundred people, it was hard to get more than a moment of his attention.

Despite my mother constantly shooing me in his direction.

I’ve had to settle for glimpses of him on television and in the press. His most recent trip to one of our military bases on the eastern coast was covered morning and night on the news. He looked sharp in his uniform, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one watching who appreciated the sight. Lockwood is classically handsome, with a regal and strong elegance to the way he moves and a smile that puts people at ease the moment it’s directed toward them.