I need to get back to my room. Alec might know what this is all about. I can send him a message when I get there—why did I forget my phone back in my room?
Someone is waiting for me when I push open the door to my suite. It’s Claire.
She is standing in the middle of my living area, and I can see she’s been crying.
“Ms. Reeves,” says Claire, her face serious and pale. “Jessica.”
“Claire, what’s going on? I went to the café—.”
She interrupts me. “Oh, it’s bad. It’s very bad. Jessica…Prince Marcus died this morning. The news has just broken.” Claire shakes her head, puts her hand to her mouth. “He died!”
Just then, I hear my phone buzzing where I left it on a low table. I rush across the room to the table and snatch it up.
The message appearing on the screen is from Alec.
Jessica, very bad news about my brother. I’m sure the people at the hotel already know.
I’m trying to decide how to reply when another message appears.
I’ll be back with you as soon as I can. Don’t know when.
Then a third.
I love you.
Chapter 26
Alec
My brother is dead.
My brother is dead.
What the fuck am I going to do?
What the fuck am I going to do?
This can’t be happening.
Phillip stands there dumbly until I push past him, my head spinning, my thoughts wildly floundering around in my head, my pulse throbbing loudly in my ears.
My pulse.
I’m still alive and Marcus is not.
I deny to myself what he told me. Phillip has to be goddamn wrong. Someone must have given him bad information, fucking wrong information.
I move blindly, numb with disbelief and confusion, through the hallway that leads from my rooms to Marcus’s. Marcus always had the rooms located closest to my father’s royal apartment because he was the crown prince. I envied him for having those rooms, even though they were not larger or decorated any more opulently than mine. We have similar tastes, both favoring a more simple style, so the furniture is modern and wall hangings are kept to a minimum.
We both favored a more simple style, I think to myself. If the news Phillip shared with me is right, then Marcus doesn’t favor anything anymore.
There are people milling about in the hallway outside Marcus’s rooms, standing with bowed heads, whispering to each other.
They must have gotten wrong information as well, or maybe they’ve heard instead that Marcus is sick, he is gravely ill, they have discovered some kind of cancer, perhaps. It’s bad news, yes, but it can’t be the news that Phillip gave me.
Yes, that must be it. Marcus is sick, or hurt, but not dead.
Phillip wouldn’t lie to me.
But I can’t believe him.
The people in the hallway turn to face me when they hear my footsteps approaching. Their eyes are filled with pity, filled with sorrow. It’s not me they should feel sorry for. They should be feeling sorry for Marcus, who may be facing some kind of terrible disease. I should reassure them. I try to give them a weak smile, but the corners of my mouth feel weighted down. Goddamn it.
“It’ll be all right,” I say to the eight or so people hovering in the hallway. I’m sure as word gets out…about Marcus’s…illness…that there will be even more people standing vigil. People may even gather outside the palace gates to support Marcus.
When my mother died, we were not yet living in the palace. When my mother died, people did not come to the palace gates. They came to our front door and brought food, and I watched all the trays piling up on the countertops, watched bouquet after bouquet of flowers being delivered, and wondered why people sent food and flowers when food and flowers would never bring her back.
The citizens of Saintland might send food to the king in his time of need, but I doubt it would be allowed to our rooms. Security wouldn’t allow it—the testing alone would take far too much time.
There will be no need for food or flowers.
Marcus will get through this.
We will all get through this.
We will all put our petty differences aside and get through this.
I realize I haven’t moved since arriving in front of Marcus’s door. I’m standing in the same place in the hallway, hands hanging limply at my sides, when a woman approaches and puts her hand on my arm. Her face looks vaguely familiar. Perhaps she’s someone from my father’s staff, maybe, or someone who works in the palace? It’s a large household.
“Your highness,” she says, her voice low and tremulous, “we are all so very, very sorry to hear that—.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say, patting at her hand awkwardly. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll share your support with my brother. If you’ll excuse me—.” I incline my head toward the closed door leading to his rooms.