I look down at her. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I like to know things.” She shrugs. “I’m a people person. So, what’s with the clothes?”
I finger the navy tie around my neck—the one I remember her liking.
“Knights have armor; we have dark clothes. We’re supposed to blend in.”
“Inconceivable! You’re way too fuck-hot to blend.”
I hold back a smile. She’s a flirty little thing—daring; she doesn’t know how to hide her feelings, and wouldn’t even if she did. If Ellie were older, if we were different people, I’d be giving serious thought to flirting back. I like to give as good as I get, in all things.
Out of curiosity, I ask, “What do you want to be? When you’re done with school?”
She sighs, long and deep.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Her head toggles back and forth. “If I wanted financial security, I would go into accounting. Become a CPA. I’m good with numbers, and businesses will always need auditors.”
I open another door for her to the next exhibit. “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
Her mouth sparkles with a smile. “Buuuut, accounting isn’t really me.”
“What is ‘you,’ Ellie Hammond?”
“I want to be a psychologist. Talk to people, help them through their problems. I think that would make me happy.”
Something tugs in my chest as I look at her—good-hearted lass. I want that for her; she deserves to be happy.
Ellie stops walking and turns to the display in front of her. It’s a bed—four-poster canopy, ornate and curtained with intricate, gold-trimmed, royal-blue and purple fabric. She reads the description off the plaque on the wall. “The bed of His Majesty King Reginald the Second and Queen Margaret Anastasia of Wessco. That’s Queen Lenora’s parents, right?”
“Yeah.”
She gazes back at the bed with a longing sigh. “Wow. I can’t imagine living like this every day. Servants and castles and crowns—how perfect would that be?” She points at the opulent bed. “Queen Lenora could have been conceived on this bed, right here!”
I flinch at the thought.
“Let’s not speak of it.”
Ellie laughs—a twinkling kind of sound. As we move on to the next display, she asks, “What’s the weather like in Wessco?”
I glance up at the glass ceiling where the rain still batters against the pane. “Like this. Mostly gray, kind of cool—it rains a lot.”
“I love the rain,” she says on a breath. “It’s so . . . cozy. Give me a rainstorm and a warm fire going in the fireplace, a soft blanket and a cup of tea in a sturdy brick house—I’d never want to leave.”
She paints a very pretty picture.
Ellie stops in front of a painting of the Crown Prince of Wessco, Prince Nicholas Arthur Frederick Edward Pembrook. It’s his official portrait, commissioned when he turned eighteen. He’s wearing his military uniform, looking regal and dignified. But because I know him, I see the resignation in his expression and the flatness in his eyes.
Like a hostage with no hope of being released.
She stares at the portrait, and her voice turns hushed. “He’s going to break my sister’s heart into a thousand pieces, isn’t he?”
I take a moment before I answer.
“Not intentionally. And not only her heart.”
One week later
MY BRAIN HURTS.
But it was worth it. The all-nighters. The cramming. The stunting of my already stunted growth from too much caffeine—all worth it. Because it’s over now.
I’ve crossed the finish line. Planted my flag on the mountain peak. Snapped the last Lego into place.
The only problem is . . . there’s no crowd to roar. I have no one to share the news with. Liv’s asleep on the other side of the world, Marty’s on a date, my dad’s “out,” a.k.a. wasted at a bar somewhere, and Cory, my friendly neighborhood security detail for the night, was snoring away at the coffee-shop table.
People probably can’t tell this about me, but I’m a sharer. I need to spread the word, like I need water or air or microwave popcorn.
Which is why I’m doing something stupid right now. I didn’t even tell Marlow, though she would’ve totally approved, the vixen.
I’m going to Logan’s apartment. I know it’s dumb, but I just can’t stop myself any more than a magnet can stop its stupid slide toward its one true opposite.
A few weeks ago, at the museum, I could’ve sworn I felt . . . something. A connection. Logan wore my favorite tie—that’s gotta count for something, right?