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‘So why do it?’
My laugh is scoffing. ‘What choice do I have? I have no siblings, no cousins. There is no one to take up the mantle I wear. I cannot abdicate—that choice is not for me. And, even if it were, that’s not the way it’s done. Not in my family, and not by me. My parents raised me to understand my responsibilities and I would never shame them, disappoint them, by turning my back on this. I am the Crown Princess of Marlsdoven and in less than a year I will become her Queen.’
‘And then you will marry the man your parents chose for you,’ he says quietly, and I wonder at that same sense of pain sliding through my abdomen.
‘Yes.’ I tilt my chin in defiant acceptance. ‘These are all the things I do because I’ve been born to this position. So do not talk to me about privilege when your life is not hemmed in at every turn by expectations and obligations.’
It is as though a small electrical storm is raging between us, arcs of lightning threatening to incinerate me. I suck in air, but it burns in my mouth, the acrid taste of electricity palpable all the way down.
‘You have been born to your position but you are the only one allowing those expectations to define you.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not your fault; how could you?’
His eyes narrow. ‘How could I? A nobody who was born in abject poverty, do you mean?’
‘Please don’t do that,’ I snap. ‘Don’t make me a snob because it suits your narrative.’
‘And what narrative is that?’
Our argument has clarified everything for me. I understand now the expression I see in his eyes sometimes, and why he arrived at the palace that day with a monumental chip on his shoulder. ‘The one where I somehow think I’m better than you and everyone else just because I was born a royal. I don’t. If I had my way, I’d abolish the whole damned idea of royalty. But to my people, it matters. The institution matters.
‘It’s dehumanising and grotesque. I am not a person to anyone in my life, Santiago, I am a figurehead. Can you even imagine? My face is on tea towels and mugs and postcards, sold at corner stores and airports for tourists to snap up. My parents’ faces are emblazo
ned across those same postcards and tacky souvenir pencils. We are not people to anyone; we are property of the Marlsdoven people. That is as it is. It has always been this way, but at one point there was more actual power and far less intrusion. Now the role involves smiling at commemorative events and never putting a foot out of line lest I am accused of being ungrateful and a freeloader. That is my life. That is my so-called privilege.’
Sympathy stirs in his expression but his response is tougher than nails. ‘So fight it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What would happen if you started to live your life as you wish? If you dated and wore jeans and spoke out about the things that matter to you? Would you be fired?’
‘I can’t be fired.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s constitutionally impossible.’
‘Then you would be criticised,’ he says. ‘And you hate the idea of that.’
I jerk my gaze away in agreement.
‘But that is your choice. Risk and reward. You do not take the risk and so cannot enjoy the rewards.’
‘I’m not at liberty—’
‘You are a human being with inherent rights and the ability to choose how to live your life.’
‘You just don’t get it.’
‘Don’t I?’
‘No. Until I can forget my parents, I can never forget what they expected of me.’
His eyes lance mine. ‘And that’s for you to be miserable?’
‘I’m not miserable,’ I deny, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.
‘It is for you to marry a man you’ve never met, who by your own admission you feel no desire for?’
‘Sex isn’t important.’
His laugh is sharp. ‘Careful, querida, or I will show you exactly how false that statement is.’
