Bad Princess Read online

“I find it hard to believe you are telling me this,” she said.

  “And yet,” he replied, “I am.”

  6

  BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning was a strained affair. After Finn’s vague confession the night before, they had spoken very little. He slept on the sofa again, and Brinley in the bed, and when she woke he had already gone for his morning bike ride. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, teeth brushed and hair combed, he was reading the news on his tablet while waiting his turn for the shower. He greeted her politely, but said nothing more.

  Now they took their seats in the dining room, King Luke at one end, Brinley and Finn opposite each other much as they had been that first night, only this time, married. And still very much apart.

  The king preferred to read the news in print, and a stack of world newspapers sat next to his arm. He was currently forking eggs into his mouth with one hand while using his other to flip pages, scowling at whatever he read. Brinley was familiar with her father’s morning complaints, finding fault with everything from sports scores to the weather forecast to the classifieds. And, as usual, his youngest daughter.

  He read aloud from a British newspaper. “Seeing Princess Brinley Cantrella hit a tin can proves only that she missed her calling as a baseball player, not that she is fit to fill the glass slippers she will undoubtedly break when her time comes.”

  “I don’t even know how to play baseball,” Brinley argued. “And glass slippers aren’t real.”

  He ignored her dispute and selected a French paper. “The names Brinley Cantrella both translate to the word princess,” he read. “So how horribly ironic that someone whose name literally means Princess Princess Princess is so quantifiably bad at it.” This one was accompanied by a photo of Brinley at a particularly unflattering angle, her arm cocked back as though she were intending to throw the stone into the engine of an airplane filled with puppies.

  They were spared another excerpt by Magda’s entrance. She came with a basket of sesame bagels and cream cheese, plates of artfully cut fruit, and a platter of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon.

  “Thank you, Magda,” Brinley said, grateful for the interruption.

  King Luke cleared his throat. “Here’s what the Spaniards are saying—”

  “Magda,” Finn said loudly, making them all jump. “I wish to tell you...that I...do not...like...sesame seeds.”

  There was a very, very long pause.

  Finn was so stiff and formal that he might have said, “We are going to war right now” with the same seriousness.

  “Er...” Magda froze mid-step. “I see. Thank you, sir.”

  “I prefer onion bagels,” he continued. “Or even cinnamon raisin.”

  Both Magda and King Luke were trying not to look at Finn like he was crazy, but only Magda, whose job depended on it, was succeeding.

  Brinley tried not to laugh into her pancakes. All night and all morning she had tried to see Finn through a new lens, to see him not as a man who loved her sister and enjoyed squab, but just a man. A man who wanted neither of those things. She had failed in her attempts to erase the long list of expectations she had composed for him over the years, notions of who he was and would be, and what he wanted. And as though he could sense her struggle, he was trying to provide her with new information. To adjust the focus on her lens so she might see him a bit more clearly. Through bagels.

  She was not the princess the people wanted; not the Princess Princess Princess her parents had tried in vain to create. But perhaps he was not the Prince Finian of Lenora she thought she knew, either.

  Queen Vivienne swept into the room, disrupting the tableau, and Magda took her puzzled leave. The queen watched her go, then sat in the seat next to her husband and reached for a strawberry sliced to look like a rose. “What did I miss?” she asked.

  King Luke was still frowning, dark brows drawn together. “Ah, Finn here does not care for sesame seeds.”

  “Oh?”

  “But he does like onion bagels.”

  The queen looked at her daughter, like she had something to do with this. Brinley just shrugged.

  “Well,” Queen Vivienne said. “Okay.”

  Brinley cut her pancakes. She could feel Finn watching her, but knew she would laugh if they made eye contact, so she tried to hide her smirk as she took an over-large bite.

  “Anyway,” King Luke began, “the Spaniards say, Princess Brin—”

  “Oh, stop,” the queen interrupted. “That was yesterday’s news. Today brings something much different.”

  Brinley stopped chewing. New news? What bad thing had she done in the intervening hours that the press could have caught wind of? She racked her brain but came up empty. She was pretty sure she was innocent. Still, she said nothing, just in case. Even King Luke was listening, and he rarely listened.

  “Prince Jedrek and Princess Ilona have just signed paperwork affirming that they will not renew the Estau-Lenora forestry agreement with Bellida,” Queen Vivienne said.

  Brinley looked at Finn in astonishment—his brother Jedrek had married Princess Ilona of Bellida specifically to ensure the agreement on behalf of Lenora; he and Elle had been promised to each other to secure the same for Estau. The kingdoms were constantly interwoven to guarantee a continued, uninterrupted succession of such agreements, and the antiquated forestry arrangement was one of the biggest.

  “Isn’t that good news?” the queen asked, looking expectantly at Brinley. “I know you weren’t the biggest proponent of the agreement’s renewal.”

  Brinley tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  She glanced at Finn, who was calmly eating a pancake. Perhaps Elle was not the only sibling keeping secrets if Finn’s brother had not warned him of this development, only days after they were forced to wed in support of the very same thing. And also to help people forget about those naked library photos.

  “So the marriage...” King Luke began slowly, peering between Brinley and Finn, “is unnecessary?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They can be divorced?”

  “Yes. The library scandal has been largely forgotten, so the ceremony did its job. If they want to be divorced, I will not dispute it. It should be noted, however, that one cannot ascend the throne if they are divorced. Though, Brinley, I know that was never your hope. Now, if you choose, you can go back to school and finish your studies. And Finn, you can...”

  The queen trailed off, uncharacteristically lost for words. For the right words. Because the only word available here was “go.” Finn could go. Just as soon as he’d arrived, he could be gone.

  A million thoughts pinwheeled through Brinley’s brain. How happy her parents would be; how happy the public would be. The field day the press would have. No more future Queen Brinley Cantrella. King Luke had a brother, a rather hermit-like fellow who lived in a smaller castle in the mountains on the west side of the country and had little interest in inheriting the throne. If Brinley were to divorce, it would leave no children to inherit the role. The job would pass to her uncle, who would likely abdicate, leaving his oldest son, Prince Winslow, to ascend. Prince Winslow was very popular with the media and the ladies alike, handsome, clever, and a skilled pilot. The closest Brinley had ever come to such an accomplishment was crashing a toy airplane into the head of a visiting Swedish royal, requiring him to receive eighteen stitches.

  But despite all these ideas ricocheting inside her skull and making her brain throb, there was one thought that managed to trump all others: if Finn wanted to leave, there would be no need to divorce. They had never consummated their marriage; it could be annulled. It would be like it had never happened at all.

  BRINLEY MADE HER EXCUSES and spent the rest of the morning alone in her room. Bad princesses were allowed to shirk their duties—though her royal calendar was empty today—but Finn was off doing something, somewhere, undoubtedly being very honorable.

  She might have expected to spend these hours thinking of her husband, but the only person she
could think about was Elle. Elle frolicking on a beach somewhere; Elle, who had eschewed everyone’s hopes for her in favor of her own will, and never been criticized for it. Brinley once wore a red dress when she was expected to wear blue and the papers called her a harlot. She had actually spilled rum on the blue dress, then walked near an open flame and caught it slightly on fire, but still. She could not make one wrong move without being punished in the most extreme ways. If she thought she was heartbroken on her wedding day, it was nothing compared to the black hole of despair that had opened in her chest at breakfast. They had dangled Finn in front of her like a promise, then snatched it away when they no longer needed her to behave. They used her. They always did.

  And yet she was still here. Her heart, shattered though it was, belonged in Estau, not on a beach in the South Pacific, not with a lumberjack, not with any of the boys at university. For all her poor decisions, how ironic that she could not be so foolish as to fall in love with someone attainable, someone imperfect. Perhaps it was because after a lifetime of being her sister’s less-pleasant reflection she had learned by habit to seek out someone who would magnify her flaws. Or, perhaps loving Finn was just another bad decision she simply could not walk away from.

  They hadn’t told her parents the marriage had not been consummated, but the lawyers would arrive in the coming weeks and the discussion would be had then. Given the unmistakably scandalous library pictures, they might not believe her, but they would believe Finn. The marriage would be annulled and she would go back to the life she had been living, the one she had accepted for herself, and everything would follow its same expected patterns and nothing would ever change.

  Brinley got out of bed and grabbed her battery-powered lantern from the closet. She told people she liked to have it handy in case of a power outage, but that was not true. Now she tucked it in a canvas bag and grabbed her e-reader and a wool hat and left her room. She took the elevator down one floor and wound her way through countless corridors, smiling blandly at the castle staff as she had done so many times before. They no longer wondered what the bad princess was off to do, they just expected the worst.

  When she reached the gilt-framed oil painting of a long-dead relative, one of many in this particular hallway in the north wing, she checked to make sure the corridor was clear, then prepared to kick the second brick up from the floor. At the last second she heard footsteps approaching and froze. Brinley righted herself and tried to look casual, studying the portrait as though she cared about it at all. It was what was behind the picture that so interested her.

  “Brinley.”

  The sound of Finn’s voice made her stiffen and turn, her heart thudding inside her chest. She knew he hadn’t left—his things were still in her room, after all—but she had imagined him spending this time planning his departure, and in her mind he was already gone.

  She shook her head as though that would release the maudlin thoughts, watching Finn as he came closer. She frowned as he approached, taking in his appearance. Instead of his usual suit and tie—or, at his most casual, button up shirt and pressed pants—he wore jeans and a T-shirt and carried a piece of paper in one hand, rolled up like a scroll. How incredibly unfair that when dressed down—dressed much like her, she realized, taking in her own jeans and gray shirt—he still managed to look handsome and refined. The press would call his look relaxed and casual; they would call her sloppy.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going outside,” she lied. “To the east garden. The hedge maze.”

  “But you are in the north wing.”

  Brinley’s gaze darted around. “Am I?”

  “Yes. And you have no coat.”

  “Hmm.”

  They stared at each other, neither willing to blink.

  “What are you doing?” she asked finally, nodding at the paper in his hand.

  “Ah...” He faltered, and she realized he was trying to lie, but could not. “I am...just...walking.”

  “You’re a horrible liar.”

  “Well, so are you.”

  “Am not. What are you really doing?”

  “I’m looking for hidden passageways. I’ve always wanted to see one, but my father had all the old Lenora tunnels filled with concrete so there are none left. Rumor has it there are still a few at Estau, and I hoped to see one while I...still could.”

  The implication of those last words hung uncomfortably in the air, and Brinley wondered if she were the only one to whom they sounded so incredibly sad.

  She squashed the feelings and held out her hand. “Let me see that.”

  He passed over the paper and she unrolled it, studying what appeared to be a photocopy of the castle blueprints. Similar prints were available at gift stores and shops around the kingdom, but this one had several handwritten additions made to it, red X’s and question marks, some of which had been crossed out, as though the avenue had been explored and determined to be of no value.

  There was an X for this very same hall, but the tiny note beside it indicated the passageway was hidden behind the portrait of a duchess from the 1700s, which was six paintings down. Finn could kick every brick in the vicinity and never find what he was looking for.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “I’ve had it for a long time,” he replied. “And whenever I heard a story about a hidden stairwell, I marked it down.”

  “How long have you been looking?”

  “Several years. It’s not exactly easy to explore this place when you don’t live here.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if that’s why he had married her, but she knew it wasn’t true. They had married for the same reason. Obligation.

  “I didn’t know you were so adventurous.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “Are you sure? Because I bought the Estau Tattler Prince Finian Special Edition when I was fourteen, and it told me a lot.”

  He smiled slightly. “Okay. Then you know most things.” He paused. “Do you know where to find...?”

  Brinley hesitated, then figured if she was ever going to trust someone, it should be Finn. Married or not, he was the most honorable man she had ever known. And the irony of her hopes to explore his hidden passageways leading to her showing him the secret tunnels she often roamed did not escape her.

  “You can never tell,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  “You cannot mark it on your map.”

  “Never.”

  “And you cannot scream if you see a large spider.”

  “I promise.”

  “But you must kill it for me.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Okay,” Brinley said. “Turn around.”

  “Why?” But even as he asked the question, he gave her his back.

  Brinley kicked the brick and a faint groan emitted from the wall. Finn whirled around, mouth agape. “What did you do?”

  “Shh. We don’t have long.”

  “Don’t the security cameras see this?”

  “No. I turned them away long ago. A hall of old portraits is just a hall of boring old portraits. This is a blind spot.”

  Finn looked astonished as the wall slowly opened to reveal a space just wide enough for an adult to slip through.

  “Come on,” Brinley said, pulling the lantern from her bag and sticking the wool hat on her head to protect her hair. “Let’s go.”

  She stepped in and Finn followed close behind, his face positively glowing with excitement as Brinley kicked the brick on the opposite side to close the wall.

  “How did you ever find this?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “I have kicked a lot of walls.” Brinley switched on the lantern. She had purchased the most powerful one available, and as such it lit approximately fifteen feet in front of them. The tunnel was two people wide and tall enough for them to walk easily, the clay walls cold and clammy, the floor composed of large, smooth stones.


  “Where does it lead?” Finn asked as they began to walk, their pace slow and cautious.

  “To the old dungeons. The proper routes were bricked over a long time ago, but this way was used to transport prisoners the castle denied having.”

  “Are the dungeons...intact?”

  “Yes. But it’s not gory, if that’s what you’re imagining. They were cleaned out a long time ago. Now they’re...quiet. Peaceful, maybe.”

  “A peaceful dungeon?”

  “It’s been a hundred years since anyone was kept down here. Whoever suffered has long since died. It’s like a cemetery—the suffering is over. All that’s left is rest.”

  Finn looked at her then, really looked at her, and Brinley pretended not to notice. It was no use; she was very aware of Finn, his close proximity, the warmth from his body contrasting sharply with the cold walls.

  She had come down here so many times that the dark and damp no longer bothered her. She had never encountered another person, never seen signs of a mystery visitor. Despite her reputation for silly, fanciful things, she did not believe in ghosts and did not fear them. The people who haunted her were very much alive.

  Finn murmured to himself the farther they went, the pathway spiraling beneath the castle, the oppressive quiet growing thicker the more they descended. A handful of old metal sconces still clung to the walls at random intervals, their torches long decomposed, and when they finally reached the dungeon Brinley pulled a lighter from her bag and lit the large candles she had brought down on previous visits. She lit six, their glow providing little warmth but plenty of light.

  The dungeon was circular in shape, the small center space looking into five separate cages, all covered with rusted bars. At the end was a private cage, with mud walls and a heavy iron door, now propped open with a pile of loose bricks. Inside that room was a large lounge chair and a pile of pillows and blankets, a spare lantern, and a crate of non-perishable food and water, in case Brinley somehow found herself trapped here. She was a bad princess, but she was not stupid.

  Finn looked stunned as he absorbed it all. “Brinley...” he began. “You...”