I spend another twenty minutes trying to figure out what to write on a notecard. Eventually, I decide simple and direct is best: I’m sorry, too. Sisters forever.
I rummage through my supplies until I find some balloons and decorative paper straws, blowing up the balloon until it’s the size of an egg, tying it and cutting off the tip, before stuffing it in the end of the straw and taping it for security. I attach the mini balloon to E.T.’s arm with some twine, taking the stuffed alien, notecard, and balloon upstairs and knocking on her door. Nobody’s there, so I leave them leaning against the door frame.
Not long after, I get a text.
LIBBY: Hi, you. How’s it going?
ME: Hi . . . things are okay. How are you?
LIBBY: Same. Just okay.
LIBBY: Thank you for the card. It was adorable.
ME: ?
LIBBY: I’m not on campus right now, so I still haven’t seen it in person, but India found it and sent me a photo. It’s in her room for safekeeping.
ME: Ah, cool
ME: So . . . I miss you
LIBBY: I miss you, too!
ME: ?
ME: Can we meet up when you’re back? You’re at Windsor for your birthday, right?
LIBBY: Yes! I wanted to invite you, but I thought you’d say no. Please come.
ME: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YES.
I look up from my phone, goose bumps running down my arms.
Finally. I’m going inside Windsor Castle.
twenty
The long, narrow driveway to Windsor Castle stretches on seemingly for miles. As our caravan of cars inches through the manicured forest toward the hulking medieval fortress, the lights flickering in the distance slowly blaze brighter and brighter. Edward must have invited hundreds of people tonight, because the traffic jam is immense—each and every car needs to go through security to confirm they’re all on the list.
Everybody decided to rent a fleet of chauffeured cars—taking trains the forty-five minutes from Sussex Park to Windsor in our evening gowns wasn’t an option. My stomach clenched when I learned the cost per person—how would I come up with that kind of money?—but India sensed my hesitation. Before I even had time to say anything, she quietly let me know she’d cover my portion.
Now India and I are sitting in the back of a chauffeured black car, dressed in evening gowns. My gown is a slinky, floor-length gold number, with a cut-out back and chiffon sleeves. I didn’t have the money to buy a new dress so I had to borrow it off India, who had her mother’s personal assistant send her dresses from home. Apparently, India has an entire closet full of glittering gowns back at Huntshire. (You know, as you do.) Alice and Flossie, Georgie and Oliver, and David and Tarquin are in three cars behind us, our group making a caravan trip all the way from campus for the occasion.
Tonight should be huge. Not only am I finally getting to see behind the scenes of Windsor Castle, I’m reconciling with Libby, too.
The long driveway is thronged with cars, so it takes forever before we arrive at the entry checkpoint. There’s a small gate on the right with two guards standing watch, and directly opposite, a crowd of photographers. When our car stops at the gate, our driver turns down the radio and gives our names to a skinny man with a clipboard. The photographers go crazy.
“Bloody hell,” I say, wincing and squinting as the flashbulbs pop. “They’re going to blind us!”
“Don’t look at them,” says India, her face stony. “Just ignore them so they can’t get a good shot through the windows.”
The guard consults a list and then opens the gates, waving us through and safely beyond the reach of the paparazzi. Once we’re past the gates, we’re inside the inner quadrangle of the royal palace, where the Queen’s private apartments are. I know because my family and I did the public castle tour a few times in my childhood, but we were ants scuttling around, not personal guests of the future king. Looking up at the stone archways and turrets, I feel the thousands of years of history pressing down on me. It’s like a dream. It doesn’t feel real.
Our car skirts a circular green lawn inside the courtyard, coming to stop by an archway leading to the back entrance. I smooth down my dress, looking around anxiously as a footman opens the door for us.
“Are you all right?” India asks. Not for the first time, I think how lucky I am to have her as a friend.
“I think I’m going to vomit.”
She pats me on the arm. “You’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.”
“But if you must be sick, don’t you dare vomit on my dress.” She’s wearing a strapless crushed-velvet black dress that’s cinched at the waist.
“Oh, gee, thanks.”
We wait in front of the stone courtyard for all our friends to pile out of their cars.
Georgie and Oliver step out of their vehicle, Oliver exiting first and offering his hand to Georgie to help her out smoothly. He looks especially handsome, his increasingly long hair slicked back and combed to the side, setting off his thick eyebrows and dark blue eyes. Georgie is wearing a slinky sequined dusty-rose gown that she got from an online couture rental website. She threads her arm through his and looks up at the castle, her face shining like a child’s on Christmas.
“I’m dying,” Georgie says. “Dying. I can’t believe we’re here. Think I can get a selfie with the Queen?”
Flossie and Alice exit their car in time to roll their eyes at Georgie’s question. Flossie wears a long black lace dress with a boat-cut neckline and sheer lace sleeves all the way to her wrists. Meanwhile, Alice’s canary-yellow satin dress, chignon, and fire-engine-red lipstick make her look like a dead ringer for Emma Stone.
We only have to wait for the rest of the boys now; Tarquin steps out of his car and dusts off his tuxedo. It pains me to entertain the thought, but he looks fantastic—as if he were born to wear white tie. David exits, looking ill at ease, like he’s wearing his father’s suit.
The eight of us stand in the courtyard in a circle.
“I’m shitting myself,” says Georgie.
“That makes two of us,” I say.
“Be strong and courageous, soldiers,” says India. “Onward.”
We pass through a courtyard, our heels clicking on the cobblestones. Butlers in white tie flank each side of the entrance, nodding gravely at us as we enter. “Welcome to Windsor Castle.”
“The greeting committee is out in full force,” I whisper as we step inside the vestibule.
“Do you think they do that for all the parties?” Georgie whispers back. “I bet this is special because of Edward.”
“You know we don’t have to whisper,” Flossie says loudly from behind. “We’re not sneaking in. They have actually invited us.”
We walk up a grand staircase, laid with bloodred carpet and flanked by two giant statues of knights in armor riding horses. At the top of the steps, there’s a marble statue of Queen Victoria. We turn a corner, passing through a wide hallway and another series of grand rooms—I vaguely remember these as the State Apartments—and suddenly we’re in the most magnificent room I’ve ever seen.
“Je-sus,” says Georgie, whistling.