And, likewise, I had come to the conclusion that this meant I would never know love the way I’d hoped. Platonic love, absolutely. Romantic, unrequited, aching love? Also not a problem. But requited, intimate, committed romantic love? How could it happen for me? It wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t even entertained. It simply isn’t done. The princess marries a man, they have children, they become king and queen. Generation after generation. Simple, predictable, dictated.

Somehow, the thought of a wine cellar hadn’t crossed my mind. And by that I mean, obviously the idea of a clandestine affair had occurred to me, but that a queen could maintain a committed lover over the course of years, and keep them close, to the knowledge of the palace staff, but with the general public being none the wiser? It was revolutionary to me. It was the first time I realized that perhaps I wasn’t the first royal in history to ever secretly stray from my dictated course. That perhaps I could, like King Aelorin, fall in love with someone, and keep them close, while still performing my royal duties as outlined.

That month, I came out to my parents. And they confirmed what were, at the time, my wildest hopes. My public perception was the only thing of importance, and whatever occurred behind closed doors was my business, as long as I ensured it remained only my business.

It felt like a crack opening to let light stream into the dungeon I’d been sitting in the center of for the past year. It felt like hope.

I have an absent smile on my lips as I tune back in to observe Danni and Eleanor practicing Macbeth. Danni, it turns out, is a natural. She delivers Macbeth’s lines with ease, barely even glancing back down at the script as she speaks. She holds herself with a confident air, and there’s a recognizable charm in her delivery. Once she sheds the self-consciousness, she speaks with the assuredness of a leader.

She glances at me, and she must notice the latent smile I’m still wearing, because as she turns back to Eleanor, the corners of her mouth lift as well, her eyes crinkling and her scripted laugh noticeably breathless.

For some reason, this makes me think of how Danni beamed at Harriet earlier, and my smile slips into a scowl until I retrieve it and wrestle it into neutral.

What a thing to be upset about. Danni is allowed to have friends who aren’t me. And Lord knows I don’t mind her being friends with Eleanor, or even Molly. Why is it her friendship with Harriet that jabs at my side like the Holy Lance?

The next time Danni turns to me, we don’t meet eyes at all. I can only see her in my peripheral vision, because my gaze is fixed determinedly on the wall.