Can someone please explain why we have to pay for this shite?
“Goddamn it.”
I close the phone and slip it back into my clutch, fighting down the urge to open the car door and vomit all over the streets. The roar of the crowd drifts into the car before I can see them. Hundreds of people held back by temporary white fences wave their Liam and Daisy paper fans, screaming at the passing car. Some of them have pulled Liam and Daisy t-shirts over their formal clothes. Children totter along sidewalks, plucking blue-and-pink tufts from the giant cotton candy cones. There are white-gloved waiters from the palace serving deviled eggs and what looks suspiciously like champagne flutes to the spectators. It’s an event for them.
The car pulls up to a large square flooded with people in front of a gothic church. A wild-eyed man momentarily breaks free from the security to smash against my window. “Princess!”
His cheek bulges across the glass until a member of security gets him into a chokehold and yanks him from the car.
It occurred to me when I was wallowing in self-pity that I could actually use this princess thing to do something good for the people here. It’s a beautiful country, but its people are oppressed. Sure, they’re allowed to print whatever the hell they want, but they can’t even leave the country without a notarized document. Forget about voting—there is none except for the “polls” which only serve to gauge public opinion. I won’t get the Pulitzer Prize for exposing oppression in Anglefell, but I can still feel like I’m doing something.
The people scream when the door opens and I’m helped out.
“It’s the princess!”
“Princess Daisy!”
I look around, beaming at the spectators. Their mouths round as they look at me, all of them caught in the dream of fairy tales with real-life princesses.
Head high.
Shoulders back.
The train of my wedding dress catches on the jagged stone road.
Well, fuck. What am I supposed to do now? It’s caught.
I reach back, still smiling as a million lights burn my eyeballs, and I give the dress a quick yank—and split the train of my dress. Several long inches of the fabric tear. I hold my dress up in disbelief as I stare at the ruined lace.
“Fuck.”
The crowd collectively gasps.
Not supposed to swear. Shit. Fuck!
Switching back into princess gear, I hold my hand up, parallel to my face, and I do the little side wave they taught me. Some of them look appeased.
My royal aides help me up the steps to the church, where Liam is already waiting for me. No doubt they’ve already interviewed him. I imagine it going something like this:
“What’s the first thing you plan on doing with your wife?”
“Besides fucking her senseless? I haven’t really thought of it.”
This is it.
That small voice almost shatters the image of determined calm.
It’s this or prison. This or prison.
The doors to the church open, and the wedding march is already playing. In shock, I stare at the wedding attendees, who all look like descendants of Lady Gaga. They’re like peacocks. Loud, garish clothing with absurd accessories: hats with weird leather attachments, hats made out of spun metal, hats that look like a giant teapot.
The strangeness of it all makes it even harder to calmly approach where Liam is standing. He’s decked out in a dark blue military jacket and a golden sash. Black gloves, golden buttons, and black, loose-fitting pants with golden stripes. I almost snigger at the sight of a dozen different medals attached to his left breast. Oh, the irony of a prince wearing medals from wars he’s never been to. What are they for? Gold star for attendance? Is this an extension of the helicopter parent generation—let’s give our prince medals for being absolutely adequate?
I don’t know what to do with my hands. There’s no bouquet, and the freak show of the attendees is starting to creep me out. It’s juxtaposed oddly with this magnificent church. The organ music echoes through the high ceilings. Everywhere I look there are stone busts against the walls, names and dates carved in faded black paint. The floor’s marble is covered with large rectangular slabs of metal, engraved with portraits of Anglefell royalty. There are renaissance paintings everywhere, and I think again of the work of art Liam defaced in his bedroom. My lips curve into a smile that I don’t really feel. The image of Liam standing next to