an excerpt of The Queen’s Decree

"No."

"Your majesty, the Weekly has done some extensive research regarding the topic of the palace's social and romantic history, as we find many readers interested in what goes on behind closed doors up on the lofty hill. We have reason to believe that Mr. Greene and Mr. Flowers may not have been the first of their kind. I take it you are familiar with the princes of Opali?"

"I have not verified or denied any of the allegations you have stated on Mr. Greene or Mr. Flowers, so I must wonder at what 'their kind' should mean."

She ignores me, "Just this morning we were notified that there may have been another in the picture: a Prince Kane Blaize Calloway of Opali."

I don't respond; I'm too busy trying to figure out how anyone could find out. I burned the letters we had sent back and forth. I destroyed any evidence of our relationship that extended beyond dancing at exactly three People's Balls. There were several press-ready photos published of us I couldn't scourge, as well as several guards, butlers, and maids I had to bribe for silence. Kane did the same. And we went our separate ways. For almost two years I haven't seen him or spoken with him, or touched him, or been allowed to be near him.

That is, except for once.

"And what makes you think the Prince and I were involved?" I ask.

"Eyewitness account of a certain birthday celebration that you must have been quite excited for," Ms. Day smiles kindly, yet sinisterly.

"Happy Birthday, your highness." I said stiffly. This was a formal greeting between two acquaintances, allies, but nothing more.

"Thank you kindly, Princess." He nodded.

I couldn't help but look at his eyes, his hands, his shoulders, his hair. Kane. My Kane. His metal arm had changed since I had last seen him, and was now donning several engravings, sort of like tattoos on metal. His sleeve was cut off at the shoulder, showing off his whole prosthetic. I saw a series of dates, a sword, and...

How could anyone expect me to fall out of love with him? With the letters M.E.L. in fancy script on his arm, a swooping underline engraved to emphasize the monogram.

I ended up, somehow, in a secluded corner of a room full of extra tables and chairs, curled into his lap, his arms around me, my head on his shoulder, my arms around his torso and neck, eyes closed. My lipstick had left a small mark on his mouth I could wipe off, but I had somehow missed the nickel-sized bruise on my neck. As it turned out, someone needed extra chairs during the gathering, and the servant who came to retrieve them was very surprised to find us saying our goodbyes there. Two and two were put together, and our fathers were notified before I could stop the servant.