26. Rory Preston

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THEY DIDN'T GET THE CHANCE TO GO SKINNY DIPPING.

Once there was news of Rory's arrival, the palace staff bombarded her. They ordered her a new wardrobe, specializing the seamstress. And once they saw Rory had a guest, they had to tailor Paris a set of new clothes, too.

Ophelia, the royal secretary, gave Rory a hug to welcome her home.

"I'm so glad you're back!" she said with a saccharine smile.

Rory and Ophelia had always had a rocky relationship.

It was a long history that had something to do with firecrackers, a fifteen-layer cake and the wedding of the century.

But Rory gave her a smile, too—she was glad to be back.

She both loved and hated Valeria.

Rory loved this country because it was hers. This was her family's land, and it was beautiful. The people were kind, caring, and they deserved a good ruler.

But Rory hated Valeria, too. Because it had always been the chains that bound her to this palace, tethering her to power she didn't want, a life she swore she would never live.

And it wasn't just that Rory didn't want it.

Sometimes she felt like she didn't deserve it.

If Declan hadn't died, this land would have never belonged to her. So maybe her wildness, her carelessness, was in part a reaction to this knowledge. Rory was never supposed to be queen. How could she possibly deserve it?

Declan had spent his whole life preparing and Rory . . .

And Rory wasn't ready.

But she knew now that she could be.

That she did have it in her to be better.

So she let the seamstresses and the staff take her measurements. She let them wash her clean and scrub her to the bone and cut her hair and wax her skin.

And even though it was torture, Rory knew Paris was enduring the same thing, and it made her laugh.

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AFTER A FULL DAY OF THIS, RORY FELT LIKE SHE HAD BEEN plucked clean.

"There's nothing left of me!" Rory complained.

"Just a little more," cooed one of her attendants.

"Do you want to ruin the surprise?" said another.

Rory scowled. "What surprise?"

"The girl you brought looks marvelous. Your heart is going to stop when you see her."

"When can I see her?"

The attendant hummed. "Tomorrow night."

"Just before the Charity Gala," the other added.

Rory crossed her arms. "This is ridiculous! It's like you're trying to keep us away from each other."

Neither of the attendants said a thing.

It made Rory seethe. Her father.

Was her father trying to keep them apart?

Well, Rory wasn't going to tolerate it.

✫✫✫

THAT NIGHT, DRESSED IN NOTHING BUT A SILKY BATHROBE, Rory crept out of her room and into the quiet marble corridor.

Earlier, Alec had slipped a note under her door, like he was some kind of old-fashioned messenger.

I'm in the Sunflower room.

—P

Lucky for Paris, Rory knew exactly where that was. All of the guestrooms in the palace were named after a flower. The yellow flowers were the east wing, facing the pond in the back.

With her bathrobe tucked tight against herself, armed with nothing but a single rose between her teeth, Rory sneaked through the palace.

It was a miracle she didn't get caught—she wasn't as sly as she had been.

The outside air was soft and summery.

A lovely breeze danced through Rory's hair.

As she padded over the grass, dew tickled the bottom of her slippers.

This was it—the east wing. The Sunflower Room.

Rory was standing just below the balcony. Vines coated the stone walls, snaking up to the glass windows.

Paris had probably expected Rory to knock on her door.

But this, in Rory's opinion, was definitely more fun.

"Oh, Paris," Rory called out through the rose between her teeth. "Wherefore art thou, Paris?"

She dug her fingers into the snarled green vines, tossing aside her crutches, and she began to climb. Each step, each placement of her foot, brought her closer towards the stone balcony.

It required upper body strength—but Rory had done gymnastics since she was little. She could do this. It was just like—like climbing the stairs. Except using only her arms.

And finally, finally, Rory heard the sound of the glass doors open.

Hidden by the shadow beneath the balcony, for a moment all Rory could do was pause.

Watching Paris with something like wonder.

When Rory was younger, she had once heard her father call her mother the most beautiful woman in the world.

And Paris had known her mother was beautiful, of course.

But the most beautiful woman in the world? There was no way.

Rory had never understood it, not really. Until that English class when she had first noticed Paris, raising her hand to play the part of Juliet.

And Rory had never once in her life participated in English class.

But that day she had scraped her chair back and said, I'll be Romeo.

That was the first time she had seen the most beautiful girl in the world.

Rory had understood what her father meant.

And now, as she finally dragged herself up onto the balcony, holding herself over the edge, Paris startled.

"Rory!" she gasped, clasping Rory's hands from her side of the balcony.

"I think you mean Romeo."

Paris bit her bottom lip. Rory almost fell off the balcony.

"Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" Paris said.

"I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to say that," Rory said. "Wherefore art thou, Juliet?"

Paris narrowed her eyes. "No, that's Juliet's line."

"I'm supposed to go, Juliet, you are like the sun. You make the moon weep because of how grey and ugly it is. You're so fucking beautiful the stars are jealous."

Paris frowned. "I don't think that's how it goes."

"What do you mean? I was quoting Shakespeare."

"I don't remember ever hearing Shakespeare say, 'You're so fucking beautiful the stars are jealous.'"

"Really?" Rory said, arching a brow. "Then you must not have been paying attention in English class."

"I got the highest mark in that class."

"No, don't worry, I don't blame you—how could you pay attention when I was just three rows behind, breathing the same air? Really, I'm sure even Shakespeare would have stuttered if I'd been in his English class, too."

"You are so full of yourself."

"I'm sure you'll be full of me soon, too."

"Rory!" Paris whispered furiously, letting go of Rory's hands momentarily.

For a moment, Rory lost balance—almost toppling backwards off the balcony.

This time, Paris grabbed the collar of Rory's bathrobe. Holding her by the lapels of the silken fabric.

"You are out of your mind," Paris hissed. "You couldn't have just knocked on the door?"

"O sweet Juliet. Wherefore art thou, Juliet?"

"That's still my line!"

"I'm sure Shakespeare would understand," Rory whispered. "After all, he wrote the romance of the century."

"I don't think Shakespeare would have approved of romance between two girls," Paris said.

Rory leaned closer. The taste of Paris's cinnamon and sugar lips was temptation and wicked, intoxicating sin.

"I think we should give Shakespeare credit," Rory said breathlessly. "He did teach me one line from that play that I can't forget."

Paris was searching her eyes, as though waiting to see if Rory would crack another vulgar joke. But Rory was looking into her eyes, and all she could think of was the rest of her life.

"'I defy you, stars,'"  Rory murmured.

Paris's fingers tightened on the collar of Rory's silk bathrobe. With a searing look, she brought her mouth to Rory's.

And Rory forgot about the stars and the sun and the moon entirely.

Romeo and Juliet, right before their tragic ending.

✫✫✫

Why is everyone going on strike?

From the moon and back,

Sarai