did I realize that I had brought the wrong book, and so I unenthusiastically headed back to my apartment.
Just as I grabbed the correct book from my nightstand, I heard sirens. I looked out the window and saw an ambulance and a fleet of police and security cars screaming to a stop in front of our building. Racing onto the balcony, I leaned over as far as I could. Royal guards fanned out and blocked the street in either direction while police set up barricades. I started breathing really fast, and everything looked all wobbly. Ever since my mom died, sirens had triggered panic attacks. And when I saw a stretcher being rushed into the lobby, I had to hold the railing really hard because I was terrified they were coming for my father. With hundreds of people working in the castle, it was pretty unlikely, but I was so scared of losing him, too, that I had to make sure it wasn’t him.
Moments later, a stretcher raced past. I couldn’t make out who it was under the oxygen mask and buckled sheet, but once Gertrude shrieked out after it, I froze. I knew it was the king. I shouldn’t have been relieved, but for a second I was, because it meant my dad was okay. And then I realized it was a man I loved almost as much as my dad. My chin began to tremble, and I clutched the railing, watching with horror as the stretcher was pushed into the ambulance.
They moved so fast that Gertrude didn’t even have time to hoist herself into the back of the ambulance. One of the royal guards grabbed her by the arm and, at a near run, guided her into a black town car with tinted windows. The cavalcade sped off toward the hospital.
“Papa Don’t Preach” blared from my phone. I usually found the ringtone funny, but not just then. My father, usually a man of many words, simply instructed, “Stay in our apartment. Do not leave until you hear from me again. And do not call Hamlet.” He hung up before I had time to argue or question.
I pressed my lips together and told myself to breathe. The king would be okay. He had to be. He was young and healthy. But what could have—
A new set of engines rumbled outside, and heavy sliding doors opened and closed. I was all too familiar with the sounds of various news vans pulling up in front of the castle for special events and scandals alike. I flipped on the TV and moved back to the balcony feeling as if I were walking through molasses. I leaned over the railing and then decided to sit. Then I jumped back up and ran inside. There was nothing new on TV, so I went back out and leaned over the balcony again, and then dropped onto a patio chair. I started shivering and chewed on my nails while I wondered if Hamlet knew what was happening, wondering if his father was going to be all right, wondering what we would all do if he wasn’t. I wanted to be with Hamlet. To reassure him. To have him reassure me.
I was about to defy my father and call Hamlet when the soap opera that had been on was interrupted by a Special Bulletin logo and thumping music. I raced back inside as a camera zoomed in to a chiseled blond who began to speak, her voice shaky. Something about her expression made my breath short and kept me from focusing on her words. Unexpectedly, she broke down and cried, so the camera cut to an equally chiseled man. His face crinkled as he said, “This just in. Our king… is dead.”
I breathed out slowly and sank onto the couch without realizing it. Tears filled my eyes, but my arms could not move to wipe them as they slid down my cheeks. It couldn’t be. The man who had made me laugh at my fifth birthday party by pretending he’d stolen my nose could not be dead. The man who had told me not to worry when I was starting a new middle school could not be dead. The man who had put his arm around my shoulder and led me gently to my mother’s graveside could not be dead. It could not be that man. It could not be Hamlet’s father they were talking about. No. Not Hamlet’s father. Hamlet.
Oh God, I thought. I stood back