Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

B EAU COULD NOT pretend she was happy. Misery seemed to seep into every corner of her life. Every moment felt like more of a chore than it should. She tried to maintain a positive outlook on everything, but the only thing that made her even feel remotely happy and alive was video calling with Zia and the twins and reading the most outrageous books she could find. Dragons and alternate universes. Time travel and postapocalyptic worlds that allowed her to forget all about her very boring world.

A world where she felt increasingly in love with her husband, and increasingly miserable for it. Even though she'd only had one panic attack since the one at the chalet, and she'd hidden it easily, she couldn't even be happy about that. She was living in a world where she did everything she swore she'd never do.

Bend and twist and hide in an effort to make a man happy.

All because he'd said she was the best wife he could ask for. All because he'd said she made him happy. Day in and day out, no matter how many nights she spent chastising herself, she twisted herself into a more miserable pretzel because making him happy felt like...like...

Oh, she didn't know, so after she finished up her usual morning call with Zia, she picked up a book about a young woman who went through a portal to a land full of dragons, fairies and evil. It was far better than wondering if her husband was ever going to touch her again for those heirs he claimed to need.

The countess chose this moment to sweep into the library, the usual disapproval in every line of her face. Beau wanted to groan aloud.

"Well," she sniffed. "It must be nice to relax when the entire palace is readying itself for tomorrow's dinner."

Beau smiled as she always did. Not out of politeness, but because when she didn't bristle it only seemed to make the countess more angry.

Well, at least she hadn't completely lost herself.

"What a welcome interruption then," Beau said brightly. "I was under the impression I had prepared in every way possible, but is there something you think I've missed?"

The countess sniffed. " I would be ensuring that I knew everything I was supposed to know, backward and forward. Not reading...filth."

"Ah, well, I'm afraid I do know everything backward and forward. So filth it is."

The countess scoffed, which scraped against Beau's last nerve. She hated for her intelligence to be insulted. She hated the way the countess was always harping on her to do things differently. No wonder Lyon was obsessed with control and doing the right thing.

The woman who'd raised him was equally obsessed, if not more so. Then if she added in stories of his grandmother, well, she understood why they were all such...external perfectionists and internal messes.

"Quiz me then," Beau said, barely resisting tossing her book down like a gauntlet thrown.

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you do not think I have the knowledge to handle this event, quiz me." She kept the fake smile firmly in place. "I would love to show you just how prepared I am."

"That is no way to talk to me, young lady."

Beau happened to think she was being very calm, but there was no point arguing with someone who wanted her to be at fault. "I apologize. I only meant that I'd be happy to prove to you that I am quite ready so you needn't worry so."

The countess made a haughty sound and then turned to leave. Or so Beau thought. After a few steps, she whirled back around.

"Who is Giorgio Amato?" she demanded.

"The MP from Cana. His wife is Amelie. She is from France. They have two children. Girls. Would you like their names?"

The Countess got very pinched-looking. "And who will be seated at the secondary table?"

"The parliamentary aides, and their guests. Twelve of each. I can recite names, if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary."

"Excellent." Then, to try to smooth things over, which was so foreign to her and yet necessary in this role as a visible , respectable princess, she continued. "I understand it must be...concerning to worry that I am not up to the challenge of taking on your role of hostess that you've held for the past year of Lyon's reign. Everyone has told me you were excellent at the job and made certain I knew I had incredibly big shoes to fill."

It was a bit of an exaggeration—another thing she wouldn't have done for herself. But for Lyon? She was an utter fool.

"You see, Countess, I have an excellent memory. It usually only takes reading something for it to be lodged here." Beau pointed to her temple. "Along with reading dossiers on every guest invited to the dinner, I have also read a book on Divio history, parliamentary etiquette, and the guide sent to guests. Is there anything else I should read?" Bend, bend, bend.

Just like her mother.

"Perhaps you should have asked me for help prior to the day before," the countess said.

Agree. Agree.

But her temper was snapping, and it felt good . Felt wonderful to feel something other a numb detachment from everything around her. "I'll ask Lyon for help if I need it." Then because that was rude, she tacked on a "thank you."

"He has a kingdom to run. Don't you think you've been distracting enough?"

Beau laughed. "Distracting?" Her husband barely looked at her, did everything he could to keep his physical distance. And sure, she'd leaned into that over the past few days, because she couldn't bear the thought of talking about schedules or when she had the best chance of getting pregnant.

But Beau doubted very much, no matter how happy Lyon claimed she made him, that she was any kind of distraction . Because he didn't want that, so she hadn't been that.

"He hasn't been the same since you came back from that little honeymoon," the countess continued. "The fault of that lays directly in your lap."

Her lap? If only the fault of anything was hers, then maybe she could fix it. "Did it ever occur to you that the fault might be yours?" Beau countered. In the back of her mind she knew she was making a mistake. Lyon would be displeased.

And she just didn't care anymore. She wanted to break something. If it was them, so be it. "That it was you who put unreasonable expectations upon him? That you demanded he be so perfect that he's terrified of any misstep?" Beau did slam the book down then. She got to her feet and looked the shocked countess right in the eyes. "Or not you. Your mother, perhaps."

"How dare you speak of my mother."

"I have heard so much about her. In these bright, glowing terms, and yet all I see is a woman desperate for control, with no worry of how all that control might hurt and twist a little boy."

The countess reared back like she'd been slapped, and Beau knew she would pay for this. In so many ways this very moment would backfire on her, but she couldn't stop herself.

After all these weeks of shutting all her emotions away, she wanted to feel everything .

"I happen to think that perhaps distraction would be the best damn thing for a man who thinks the entire country's fate rests on every single step he takes."

Anger was power, but it was also emotion. And she felt it take over. The way her legs started to feel a little numb. Her vision started tunneling and for a terrifying moment she couldn't catch her breath.

She would not have a panic attack here in front of the countess. So she acted quickly. She walked right past her mother-in-law, ignoring the woman's sputtering protests. She didn't run to her rooms, but she hurried. Up the stairs. Trying to keep count in her head. Trying to breathe.

She reached the hallway to their rooms and nearly sobbed when Lyon stepped out of the door and into the hallway.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

He said something, but she didn't hear it. She walked past him, not making any eye contact.

"Beau. What is the matter?"

She could hear him follow her, but she did not look back, she did not stop walking. But she forced herself to speak, as clearly as she could manage.

"I h-had a p-public fight with your mother. She said I've d-distracted you, so I told her I thought she had p-put unreasonable expectations on you and that is why you are s-so afraid of making a mistake that n-nothing else matters." The tears were starting, a sob threatening to escape, so she moved into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

She locked the door as she sank to the floor, as the shakes took over. It felt like that moment back at Cristhian's house weeks ago, after listening to her father berate her for all her failures.

Because he had been right.

The only thing she could do was fail.

Lyon stared at the slammed door for countless seconds trying to make sense of what had just happened. He had never seen Beau even remotely that worked up. She'd been stuttering. Struggling to breathe. It almost reminded him of...

Then he heard footsteps and turned to see his mother charging into his sitting room where he stood. But it wouldn't do to talk here. If there'd already been a public fight, everything needed to be nipped in the bud now .

He stopped her then took her by the arm and led her across the hall into a little-used office.

He closed the door behind him, then surveyed his mother. Her color was high, her eyes were flashing with anger. For a moment, he was reminded of his grandmother. A woman who he'd idolized.

I told her I thought she had put unreasonable expectations on you and that is why you are so afraid of making a mistake that nothing else matters.

Unreasonable wasn't fair. They'd placed expectations upon him because no one else could be trusted. No one else had been able to handle it. They had given him strength and belief in himself by thinking he could.

For a strange moment, he remembered that moment at the chalet. When Beau had apologized to him. A real apology. The kind his grandmother had claimed didn't exist. It had been the first time he'd ever considered the woman he'd idolized might be wrong.

But even before that, Beau hadn't understood him being a payment for a debt. No matter how he'd explained it, she hadn't been able to absorb it.

Because she simply didn't understand. Not because it was wrong... Right?

Any more it seemed like a cascade of wrong was happening all around him.

"What has happened?" he asked. He had to focus on the task at hand. The public fight his mother and wife had just engaged in, and how he would...fix it.

"Your wife just made a scene, Lyon. First, she tried to show me up. Then she made wild accusations. And then she stormed away. This is why she was the hidden Rendall. She is a spoiled—"

"You will not speak of Beau in such a way to me," he said firmly.

"Did you hear me?" his mother all but screeched.

Lyon took his time responding to her. A wall of calm to his mother's upset. "You two had a little spat. Unfortunate."

Mother's eyes were wild, but she didn't yell anymore. She sucked in a careful breath. Venom throbbed in every word she spoke, but she spoke calmly and quietly. Mother and Grandmother had always done that so well. Tied up all their fury into cold, calm, sharp ice.

"In public, Lyon. Where any staff member could see. That she is not what you or this country needs."

He realized then his mistake—because the mistakes were always his. He was the one who would save everyone. From the moment he could remember, he'd known he was the payment of a debt. So all missteps were his. All messes his to clean up.

And he was failing. Over and over again.

He had assumed his mother would realize over time Beau was the perfect wife for him.

He should have made it more clear. So this fight was his fault. And he had to fix it. First, by showing his mother how ridiculous she was being. "Would you have me divorce her?" he asked blandly.

"Of course not. What a scandal! The opposite of the stability you assured me you could handle."

Lyon studied her then. Had he assured his mother of that? He couldn't remember anything but his grandmother and mother insisting that he handle it. Capable or not. It had always been up to him .

Now she was claiming he'd...taken that on himself?

"Then what would you have me do? What is it you think you are accomplishing with this attack on her? She is the princess. She is my wife. A wife you encouraged me to have. I cannot divorce her. So why are you adding to this scene?"

The outrage was written all over his mother's face, but it soon morphed into a sharp look that, again, reminded him of his grandmother. He braced himself for the attack, the takedown.

Because it always came after that look. From either woman.

"Perhaps this could be handled if you didn't have such a soft spot for her," Mother said in a viciously quiet voice. " You will make a mistake."

Yes, of course. Him.

He loosened his tie, that familiar choking feeling that was getting a little too common again. It seemed every day, no matter how careful he was, no matter all the precautions he took, those old anxious habits were creeping back in.

"You mustn't," his mother whispered at him. She leaned close, even though they were alone in this room with the door closed. She put her hand over his that was loosening his tie. "Have you been taking your medication?" She tried to tighten his tie for him, but he stepped back.

"Yes, Mother." A careful secret, of course, but the anxiety medication was the only way he'd gotten through his teenage years. Things had eased in his early twenties. After his grandmother's death...

Had he really never put it together before? He wanted to laugh. He'd told himself grief had eased the anxiety. One feeling taking over the other, but in retrospect that was ridiculous.

His anxiety had eased because one of the sources of it had been gone.

He shook his head. That was a terrible thought. A terrible way to feel about the woman who'd given him so much. Besides, this was all...the past. He needed to deal with the present. The parliamentary dinner was tomorrow, and everyone needed to be in accord. Everyone needed to be ready so they could continue to prove they were a strong, stable unit.

"What is it that bothers you about her?" Lyon asked. "Her as a person, or the soft spot you claim I have for her?"

"Claim? I have eyes . You are my son. I know you. The point of a wife was a partnership. An arrangement. Not...love."

Yes, that was true. That had been the point. And he'd never questioned it. Until something that felt far too close to love had taken hold. And he was afraid of soft spots, of desire, of losing his focus.

Of love.

Because he had been made to be afraid of all these things. But he also knew, that for all the ways he didn't remember his father, his mother had never once talked about him like a...pawn. He had not been an arrangement.

"You loved my father."

Mother blinked up at him, then turned away. "We must deal with the problem at hand. Not ancient history."

"Mother. You loved him."

As if sensing he wouldn't give up the topic, she sighed. "Yes." She turned away, refusing to look him in the eye. "What does that have to do with anything? I was not in charge, and never would be."

"Why would it be so terrible for me to love Beaugonia? Simply because I'm in charge?"

She turned back to face him, and he saw all the ways she looked like her own mother. The dark eyes, the way her mouth nearly disappeared when she was angry. "You are the ruler. You must love your country above all else. How else will you rise above the legacy the men in this family leave?"

Years ago, when he'd been quite young, he'd had the nerve to ask his grandmother why that responsibility had to fall to him . Why he was the only one.

She had slapped him across the face. He had cried. Which had earned him a night in his room without dinner. He hadn't thought of that in years. He'd blocked it out of his mind.

Lyon didn't care for old, ugly memories. He preferred to think of her as a strong leader. The woman who'd shaped him. But if she'd shaped Lyon... "Did she never give you a choice either?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What pressure did she put on you?"

"Who?"

"Your mother."

"Your grandmother..." Mother's brow furrowed and she shook her head. "This is ridiculous. Your wife created a scene and now you want to discuss your grandmother with me?"

"Yes. Because it all goes back to her, doesn't it? Why we're here. Worried about...scenes. Afraid of love and soft spots. Things that normal people think are good ."

"That poor woman watched her family destroy every tradition, every positive relationship, every bit of honor her father and grandfather had built. And instead of letting it destroy her, she focused on us. How we could save it. It could never be me, Lyon. That's hardly her fault or some pressure she put upon me. But she taught me just the same, for when I would give her a son."

A payment to a debt. He'd always accepted that as a perfectly acceptable thing to put on a child. But there was something about soft spots, and the possibility of love. The idea of making his own child with Beaugonia, and the way she'd looked at him when he'd tried to explain. It all added up into a sick feeling in his stomach.

His child would never be a payment to anything. They would be a person . An heir, yes, but a child first.

"Give her a son?" he asked his mother gently.

She whirled away, frustration and temper in every harsh move. "You sound so much like your father right now. And he was wrong about her. He died , and she and you remained."

"Wrong about her? I thought Grandmother approved of him?"

" She did. Because he was a good man from a good family. Upstanding and honest. Your father found your grandmother...difficult. But he simply didn't understand. He wasn't royal."

This was the first Lyon had ever heard of it. The first he'd ever asked. Because...his grandmother had discouraged any talk of those already gone. Or so she said, though she spoke of her own father plenty. "Did you think he didn't understand. Or did Grandmother think that?"

Mother looked up at him like he'd just stabbed her clean through. "Why are we talking about this, Lyon?"

He didn't know. Only that it was crystallizing things for him. Things he'd been trying to push away ever since the chalet. All the ways Beau had, without meaning to, flipped the truths he'd believed from his grandmother on their head.

And he looked at his mother now and saw himself. She had believed his grandmother's hard, cold truths. But someone had loved her, and she had loved someone. Father had been her soft spot, and then he'd died. Too soon, too young.

"Losing him must have been very hard."

"People die," she said, but he heard the grief in her voice all the same.

"Yes, that was Grandmother's line, wasn't it?"

Mother straightened, lifted her chin. "She was right. Everyone must deal with death. There is no point in grieving, in letting it mark you."

"I don't think all emotions have to have a point, Mother. They're just there." Anxiety. Grief.

Love.

Such a false equivalency they'd passed down. That one love might blot out another. That responsibility to his wife would mean disaster for his country.

But wasn't that the false equivalency he'd employed back at the chalet? Desire would lead to forgoing all...sense, responsibility.

"Have you ever wondered, Madre?" he said gently. "If Grandmother put an unreasonable weight upon our shoulders?"

"She only wanted what was best for Divio. And you should as well. Letting that wife of yours poison you is beneath you."

But he saw something desperate in his mother's eyes. Like he had gotten at least a little through to her, even if she wouldn't admit it.

"I do want what's best for Divio. And I will fight for it. But why does that mean I cannot care for my own wife?"

"She's poisoned you."

"Or she's set me free." He wasn't certain he believed that, but it felt good to say. It felt true to say. "Now, I would appreciate it if you would have lunch with Beau. I will go talk to her, and then you two will sit down and have a civil conversation. A public civil conversation to undo this."

Mother scoffed. "She will not agree. Or she will not be civil. You cannot get through to that girl. She is... unhinged ."

"She is not. She's incredibly reasonable. But she's also...incredibly herself. Without fear. Nevertheless, she will have lunch with you, she will be civil, because I'll have asked her to. You see, Mother... Perhaps I have a soft spot for her, but she has a soft spot for me as well. Grandmother treated us like little soldiers. There were no soft spots. I thought that was the only way to be."

"It got you here, didn't it?"

"No, happenstance did. Maybe the other family's genetic predispositions to giving in to excess as well, I can't deny that. Perhaps Grandmother taught me in ways her brothers, nephews and so on had never been taught. Perhaps it will even allow me to rule Divio with all that tradition and stability she so worshipped. But it didn't get me here."

"She loved you."

Lyon thought about that. And then he thought about Beau. How she listened to him. Tried to understand him. The comfort she offered. The heartfelt apology. Those things were closer to love than cold demands, hard rules and harsh punishments.

"No. I'm not sure she really loved either of us. She loved the idea of what her progeny might do to one-up her brothers. Love is...helping one another, apologizing when you're wrong. Love is soft spots, Mother."

"You must run a country, Lyon."

"Yes. I've been doing an excellent job of it the past year, if I do say so myself. It was good, to start off just me. But now I have added a wife, and some adjustments could be made. If I am going to start a family, adjustments will be made." He would not raise his children with the weight of the entire country on their shoulders.

Respect for their role, yes. An appreciation for hard work, ideally. But he would not lay down the burden of centuries. Not on them. Not on his wife.

And not even on himself. Not anymore.