Traditionally, only the royal family appears on the balcony. However, some months ago, Father decided that, while we were discarding the time-honored tradition of heterosexual royal romances, it couldn’t hurt to very slightly alter this particular tradition alongside it. He first asked Danni to join us several months ago as something of a test, I believe, after seeing just how enthusiastically the public—most especially, the younger members of it—responded to Danni’s and my relationship. And the near-hysterical response from the crowd at Danni’s appearance alongside us that day cemented his decision to continue extending the invitation.

He always has been one to prioritize anything that would improve the reputation—and the reception—of the royal family. It’s only surprising because it never occurred to me—or him, I imagine—that my relationship with Danni could ever be one of those things. Last year, it hadn’t seemed possible. It hadn’t been done, so therefore it couldn’t be done. But I suppose the problem with clinging too tightly to tradition is that you can miss it when the public sentiment toward what has always been done has marched on ahead of you.

In the end, it wasn’t our family the country was losing faith in. It was the past they were rejecting. A past we used to represent.

Until me. Until Danni.

Squinting as the sun bursts into my eyes, I raise my hand to wave at the crowd below as it explodes into ear-splitting applause. The sea of people spreads almost as far as I can see, writhing and gesturing and calling out to us. Calling out to me. I wave again, raising my arm higher, and it ripples out over the crowd like a current as the volume and movement surges further.

I don’t know all the answers yet. I don’t know if things will change should Danni and I become engaged, or what will happen if we have children. I couldn’t say for certain what would happen should another referendum take place, and I don’t know if there is quiet resentment brewing where I can’t yet see it. It’s not possible to know the future in its entirety, nor has it ever been. All I can do is observe the present, and use it to fuel my hope.

So, like I always do, I count the signs in the crowd. NOT MY KING. ABOLISH. THE COUNTRY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE. I only spy a couple, scattered sporadically. The number grows smaller with each count, as the months tick by. And, as usual, I check for angry signs calling Danni and me disparaging names, something I initially assumed we would see a lot of.

As usual, there’s not a one.