"What?" I squeak.  My mother sent the stylist to drop the bombshell that there will likely be photographers at the children’s hospital and that – oh, by the way, no big deal – I’ll be attending by myself?

I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palm.  Damn it.

"Is there anything else, Miss Kensington?" the stylist asks.  She's already on the move, headed toward the door with her large tote bag over her shoulder.

I clear my throat.  "No.  Thank you."

I wait until she's gone to groan my frustration, as I grab my clutch purse, momentarily considering faking sick to get out of this afternoon.  But only for a split second – I’m going to a children’s hospital, after all.

I’ll be able to get through a little bit of media time, I mentally reassure myself.  The palace public relations team has read me the riot act, already preparing me for what to say and what not to say when it comes to the media.  If I can simply remember to breathe and smile and wave, everything will be okay.  I’ll just pretend not to hear any questions that reporters ask.

It’ll work, I tell myself.

Totally.

I feel like I’m going to vomit.

Outside, I walk with Simon to the car.  Simon seems to be made entirely of stone, his face expressionless.  He makes no attempt at chitchat or small talk as we walk, something that at least the other bodyguards try to do.

Being accompanied by Simon only makes my anxiety worse.

I’m filled with dread.  The only times I've been outside the palace or summerhouse have been accompanied, and now I'm walking into a potential media situation.

I tell myself not to panic as Simon opens the car door for me.

"Need a lift?"  Albie grins at me from inside the car.

"Are you following me?"  I try to inject some annoyance into my voice, but I can't.  I'm too relieved to see him.

Albie doesn't answer until the car starts moving.  "If you like, I can have them stop."

"No," I say, exhaling heavily.  "Where are you going?"

"To the children's hospital," he says.

"You're going with me?"

Albie shrugs.  "Noah mentioned you had this today and that your mother couldn’t attend," he says.  "Sick kids are the prince's purview too, you know."

"You do charity work?" I ask, looking at him.

"Occasionally," he says.  “I do have the capacity to think of someone besides myself.”

“I’d never have guessed,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Wait.  Did you come along because of me?"

"You mean, because I wanted the pleasure of your presence?" he asks.

I laugh.  "No.  Did you come with me because you thought I couldn't handle this myself?"

"I came with you because I couldn't think of anything better to do this afternoon," he says.

"Uh-huh."  I look out the window, watching the scenery whiz by along the countryside.  "Well, I'm glad you decided to come, anyway."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Albie

I haven't been inside a hospital since my mother was sick.  We had our own royal physicians, of course, and round-the-clock care for her from the best oncologists and physicians in Europe.

But once, toward the end, things got really bad, and she was brought to the military hospital in our capitol for treatment.  There are all of these protocols for something like that, an entire wing at the hospital cleared for a member of the royal family, windows covered in brown paper in the hallways as a precaution in case of assassination attempt.

During a moment of lucidity, my mother laughed at the irony of security trying to prevent her assassination, given her terminal illness.

That was the only time I’ve been in a hospital.

I can still remember how it smelled – antiseptic and stale, the rooms pumped full of so much air conditioning that it almost felt colder inside the hospital room than outside in the chilly winter air.

I can’t forget the intermittent beeping and whirring of the machines.

For a moment, standing just inside the pediatric oncology ward, I think that coming here with Belle was a mistake.

When I see the kids in various stages of cancer treatment, all I can think about is my mother's death.

Belle is beside me.  She meets my gaze and I think she knows what’s going through my head.

Then she squats down to talk to a little girl, who laughs as Belle reaches out and takes her hand and walks toward a group of kids.  And I'm jerked out of my self-pity by a little boy who wants to know if I really live in a palace, and whether or not I own any race cars.

We spend a couple of hours reading stories and answering questions about royal life (“Do you have a crown?” “Do you have glass slippers?” “Do you sleep on a dozen mattresses?” directed at Belle, who furrows her forehead for a moment before realizing that it’s a reference to the Princess and the Pea fairytale).

Seeing Belle with the children makes me feel good, even though the setting brings up bad memories.  “You’re a natural with the kids,” I tell her as we walk out the door.

Outside, she immediately tenses when a small group of photographers rush toward us, their cameras clicking away.  I pause, whispering to Belle to wave, and she stands beside me, smiles, and waves.

Once inside the car, she slumps back against the seat.  "Thank you," she says, her voice wavering.  She clasps her hands together, her fingernails digging into the back of her hand.

"I told you that you wouldn't have to answer questions," I say.  "Just smile and wave."

"No," she says, turning to face me.  "Thank you for that, too.  But, I mean, thank you for going there.  It couldn't have been easy for you, with the way your mother died.  You were really good with the kids."

I nod.  Belle seems to have an uncanny way of anticipating how I feel about things.  I'm not sure whether to be unsettled by that or pleased with it.

When she reaches for my hand, her face forward and not saying a word, I don't even flinch.

Contentment used to be a strange feeling.  Yet, with Belle, it’s somehow starting to become a familiar one.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Belle

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it today, Belle,” my mother says, setting down her fork.  “There was an error in the schedule.”

“Wedding cake disaster?” I ask, only slightly sarcastic, as I sip my cup of tea.

“Oh, did your stylist already tell you?” she asks.  “The chef had flown in from Paris for the afternoon, and it was last-minute, so…”

“It ended up being fine,” I say, cutting her off.  Of course it was a wedding cake disaster.  “Albie went with me.”

“Oh, Albie, you’re a darling.”  My mother sips her wine and beams at King Leo.  “We did decide on a wedding cake.”

“Awesome,” Alexandra says drolly, rolling her eyes.  “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I’m going to London with my friends tomorrow, so I’ll need to pack.”

“Alexandra,” Leo says sharply.  “The trip can still be revoked.”

“Great,” she says, tipping back her glass of wine.  “Then I’ll sit here and hang out.  These family dinners are becoming the highlight of my day.”

A flash of emotion crosses my mother’s face, something akin to embarrassment, and she squeezes Leo’s forearm.  “Perhaps she could join us for breakfast in the morning,” she says.

Leo clears his throat.  “Fine,” he says, waving at her.  “Go.  Pack for London.”