Lottie couldn’t help imagining the looks on all the reporters’ faces if they found out she wasn’t even the real princess. A professional fake, only a cover for Ellie, who was already safely inside the school gates, thank goodness.
“They just want a good story,” Simien had warned her. “And a good princess.”
Heeding his words, Lottie swept a stray lock of hair from her face. She’d scooped her curls up in a meticulously arranged chignon, a request from Simien when he’d declared her “frowsy tresses” to be too long and unruly for public appearances. She just couldn’t bring herself to cut it.
“I have a wonderful support network,” she said now, “and with everyone’s kindness and patience I have found my studies both comforting and a welcome distraction.” Lottie put on her absolute best smile to let them all know just how much she loved studying.
Look at me, look at what a great student the Maravish princess is.
A camera flashed, sending dots dancing in front of her eyes. She brushed a hand over her face, staggering.
“No photos or videos,” Samuel ordered, shielding Lottie.
The next question was painful to hear, yet she should have been used to it now. After all, they asked it every single time.
“We love your dress, Princess! Who are you wearing?”
Lottie imagined how Ellie might answer something so ridiculous. “I’m wearing the skin of the princess formally known as Her Royal Highness Princess Eleanor Prudence Wolfson!”
Laughter caught in her throat and she swallowed it down.
She smiled again, going pink in what she hoped they’d think was humility and not irritation. “I’m wearing a modern take on the traditional sarafan dress in Maravish style. From the A-line shape, the sun embroidery, and distinctive design, I’m sure you can recognize the work of Léon Marie.”
She could practically hear Ellie gagging in the distance, and she wouldn’t have blamed her. There was a giant conspiracy afoot, yet all these fools wanted to know about was her dress. Part of her wished they’d take it more seriously.
A wish she’d quickly regret.
Samuel eased her farther along, nodding to let her know she was doing a good job. The gate was just moments away now, the rose gardens coming into view. Only a few more steps and she’d be free.
“We were told the princess was attending a fencing tournament?” A calm and steady voice sliced through all the other questions, a Pacific Northwest accent that dripped with the confidence of a big city. “So why exactly were you in the manor and not watching the match?”
Lottie’s blood ran cold. This was the first time she’d been asked such a suspicious question, and her eyes snapped onto the mystery inquisitor. A smartly dressed young woman with thin rectangular glasses and a sharp-cut black bob stared back at her. She seemed to inhabit a space all of her own in the crowd of journalists, standing out like a beacon. A name tag on her blue blouse read “Aimee Wu, Clear Line Media.”
Lottie reminded herself that she needed to keep moving, yet the look on Aimee’s face froze her to the spot.
“We were looking for the Hamelin Formula,” Lottie responded smoothly, gathering herself. She could almost touch the golden gates behind her. The familiar, sweet scent of roses and lavender drifted around her, urging her to step inside to safety.
“That’s the dangerous formula that Leviathan were attempting to re-create?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell a teacher about it? And what exactly happened to this Hamelin Formula?”
Heat rose in Lottie’s chest. She didn’t know which question to answer first.
The other reporters fell silent, everyone’s attention now locked on Aimee and Lottie.
“Unfortunately Leviathan took the formula, and it is unclear what they plan to do with it or if it works. As for your other question, we wrongly believed that we—” Lottie’s throat went tight again, remembering the magnitude of how wrong they’d been, and the terrible consequences of their mistake. It had all been a trick; they’d led Leviathan to the formula like obedient dogs. Aimee instantly took the opportunity to launch another question as though she were throwing a hand grenade.
“Who is ‘we’?” Before Lottie could answer, another question was hurled across the space. “Also, I must ask, we were told at the Tompkins press dinner that the Hamelin Formula had been locked away with no way of finding it. So how exactly did these Leviathans end up with it?”
“‘We’ is my friends . . .” Samuel was right beside her, urging her to step through the gate, but when she tried to answer, the phantom scent of icing sugar from the factory caught in her nostrils, nearly choking her.
Leviathan was not the only memory to torment Lottie. She also remembered the taste of a kiss, sweet from the sugar in the factory. A moment of joy before everything had gone up in flames. She was so sure it had meaning, that she and Ellie had shared something special, and yet afterward her princess had claimed it was nothing at all.
So why, Lottie wondered, if it really meant nothing, does Ellie refuse to talk about it?
“Princess?” Aimee urged, dragging Lottie from her thoughts.
“My friends from Rosewood and myself,” she said a little too quickly, “and Leviathan found the formula because we discovered the key to where it was hidden.”
The key, it turned out, had been a piece of music. When it was played on the Tompkins twins’ grandfather’s piano, the melody had opened a secret hatch in the side of the instrument where the formula was hidden. At the time it had seemed magical. But really, it was wicked.
Lottie realized she’d lost all composure. She was gabbling her responses like a child. The way Aimee relentlessly threw questions at her made it impossible to gather her thoughts in time.
Why is no one else asking questions?
“How did Leviathan find the key?”
“They stole it from us.”
“Did you find the key?”
Lottie felt her heart thundering in her chest. She was answering these questions all wrong and she knew it. The journalists didn’t
