“We’re all good.”
“Oh, Cousin Mary is here!” says Flossie, spying the Danish crown princess. “I haven’t seen her in months.” She walks over to the princess, who looks excited to see Flossie and embraces her warmly.
“Cousin Mary,” mutters Georgie while looking at me, her eyes comically wide. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Don’t you see famous people all the time with your dad?”
“Are you kidding me? He won’t let me near a red carpet. He thinks Hollywood is corrosive—that’s why he shipped me off to boarding school. The only celebrity I know is Alan Alda.”
“Who?”
“Exactly.”
“Plus your mum,” I point out.
“Ha! Yeah, like she counts.”
“She’s famous! She totally counts!”
Georgie shrugs. “It’s not like she’s Meryl Streep. But this,” she says, waving her arm around to indicate the room, “now this is real glamour.”
India joins us, linking her arm through mine. “Come with me.” As she propels me down the red carpet toward the far side of the room, we pass David and Victoria Beckham standing underneath a portrait of George I. They look as out of place as the rest of us.
“So,” she says. “You. Edward. Libby. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No,” I say. “Definitely a little awkward. But mostly fine.”
“I’ll admit it. I’m surprised,” she says.
“By what?”
“Greeting guests with Libby by his side: talk about a bold statement. His parents won’t be chuffed about that.”
“They don’t like Libby?”
India shrugs. “That I don’t know. But I do know his family is big on tradition. Having your new girlfriend standing by your side for a receiving line . . . that is not tradition.”
Flossie comes up behind us. “Are you talking about Libby?”
“Obviously,” I say. We all look back toward my sister, who is now shaking hands with an old guy I’m pretty sure is the Duke of Wellington. Behind her, one of her former classmates from Greene House waits to greet her.
Flossie shakes her head. “I can’t even explain how absolutely bizarre that is.”
“Speaking of bizarre,” I say, “what the hell is Alice doing?”
We all look over at Alice, who is flirting with a waiter who seems desperate to ignore her.
The three of us are still laughing when Flossie lets out a sharp gasp. “They’re here.”
“Who’s here?” I ask, turning around and looking behind us.
India stands up a little straighter. “The King and Queen.”
My eyes widen. Edward’s parents enter the room from the far end, several guards holding open the doors to escort them from their private apartments. I’d always imagined them entering every room to the strains of “God Save the King,” but the musicians in the corner continue softly playing classical music, switching to a song I don’t know. The Queen is resplendent in a floor-length silver beaded gown with a blue sash draped over her shoulders. She’s dripping in jewels, wearing a diamond-and-sapphire tiara and a matching diamond-and-sapphire necklace. Golf ball–sized sapphire earrings hang from her long earlobes, so enormous that they’re visible all the way across the room. The King wears a black tuxedo and white tie, also with a blue sash slung across his shoulders. He has a slew of multicolored medals pinned in a row above his heart, with a cross-shaped medal hanging from his neck under the tie.
I look around to see if everybody is as enthralled as I am. In the center of the room, Edward’s aunt and uncle formally greet the King and Queen, bowing and curtsying as if they’re visiting dignitaries and not their brother-and sister-in-law.
“Prince Michael and Princess Verena are here, too,” I say, pointing at them.
“Oh, I’ve met them loads of times,” Flossie says, looking unimpressed.
We watch as the King and Queen approach Edward, who gives them both a quick bow before the King claps him on the back and hugs him.
I’m watching warily, waiting to see if Edward will introduce Libby to his parents.
“There’s no way,” says Flossie, as if reading my mind. “It’s just not done.”
But we all gasp as Edward turns to Libby, taking her by the hand and leading her a few inches closer to the King and Queen. We’re too far away to hear their conversation, but every eye in the room is trained on them as Libby makes two deep curtsies in rapid succession. The Queen nods, the slightest hint of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Libby looks enchanted, her face lighting up.
My sister has just been introduced to the King and Queen as their son’s girlfriend.
I realize that Flossie’s thin fingers are clasping my own hand, her beautiful face registering shock. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmurs, her hand still glued to mine. Her mouth is slightly agape. “Blimey. It’s absolutely unprecedented.”
“So what does it mean?”
India answers, looking strangely impressed. “It means Edward has just thrown hundreds of years of tradition out the window.”
“So Libby’s special.”
India looks at me, eyes wide. She nods. “Libby is very special.”
I feel proud of my sister—she’s clearly being treated with respect, and she’s breaking down barriers in a family not exactly known for change. I’m so impressed by her.
And when I realize that I’m not jealous anymore, not even a little bit, it feels like a huge weight has lifted off my shoulders.
A waiter glides by with a tray of champagne and Flossie grabs two glasses, thrusting one into India’s hand and then motioning for another for me.
“Cheers,” Flossie says, clinking her glass against ours. “To Libby. It’s quite a coup.”
After an hour of drinking, dancing, and stuffing our faces with canapés, Edward materializes at the far end of the room, making a speech to thank everybody for coming. He’s been working the room all night, with Libby never more than a couple of feet away from him.
“I especially want to thank my parents for hosting this party. Thank you, Mum and Dad, for allowing us to throw this very quiet shindig here.” Everybody laughs and raises their glasses to the King and the Queen, who smile and incline their heads in acknowledgment.
“I’d also like to thank my girlfriend, Libby,” Edward continues. “Her own birthday is in two days, so it was gracious of her to let me steal her spotlight—as usual. I’m a lucky guy to be celebrating with her by my side.”
Everybody in the room raises their glasses again.
“You okay with all this?” Flossie asks me.
“I’m good. I’m great.”
“I think it’s wild,” Alice says. “Who could have predicted this when Libby transferred here?”
“I predicted it,” Tarquin pipes up. “I told you all Libby was smoking.”
“So you’ve got eyes,” Flossie says. “Congratu-bloody-lations.”
“Do you think the castle is haunted?” Alice asks, staring at the ceiling.
We’re all studying a painting near the State Apartments—a scowling monarch in a curly black wig and knee breeches—when I hear Libby’s quiet voice behind me. “Charlotte.”
I turn and she reaches out, squeezing my hand.