The Last Princess (3 page)

“Wait!” I heard a tapping and opened my eyes to see Polly running alongside the truck, waving at me. I quickly rolled down the window, and she tossed a white envelope into my lap.

“I almost forgot,” she gasped, “to give this to you.”

I clutched it tight to my
chest. “I’ll read it on the train! Good-bye, Polly!” I turned and waved out the back of the Jeep, watching her figure grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared in the mist.

4

AFTER THE SEVENTEEN DAYS, MY FATHER HAD AN OLD VICTORIAN
steam train taken out of the underground tunnels, where it had been used as a museum piece. We visited it once when I was very little: I remembered chasing Mary around the red velvet seats, drinking tea in the dark-paneled dining carriage. Now, as the only train in the country that ran on coal, it was also the only train able to run
at all. A few coaches were kept open for passengers, but its main purpose was to haul heavy crates of coal, scrap metal, broken glass, wood—anything that could be melted down or welded into something usable—back to London.

We walked up to find the beautiful coaches of the old train
hidden behind reams of barbed wire fencing. Men wearing mesh masks perched on top, their guns aimed down into the
crowd, holding giant three-pronged hooks so that they could pry off any stowaways. Crowds of people shoved and pushed on the platform; some had tickets, while others tried to barter cans of food, dried meat, even clothes and mittens for a seat.

“Ticket holders only!” the conductor shouted at the crowd. “Stowaways will be thrown off on sight!” I held tight to Jamie’s hand as George and Eoghan
rushed us through the crowd to the Royal Compartment.

We were quiet as the train pulled out of the station. Jamie drew stick figures in the misted glass of the window, then wiped them away with his sleeve. Bella curled up on her blanket by my feet. I looked out at the abandoned towns we were passing. The setting sun cast eerie shadows on an old playground. The chains had been cut from the rusted
swing sets, probably to be made into weapons, or to be used by the Roamers to tie up their captives. I shuddered, thinking of how close to danger Jamie and I had come.

Eventually, the moon appeared in the sky, but even the moon was different after the Seventeen Days. It was a grayish color, and splotchy, as though it too was covered in the fine gray ash that had fallen over everything. Jamie
had once asked me if the moon was sick, just like him.

The cabin grew dark. Mary reached for the coal-light, compressed coal ash inside a heat-resistant glass bulb. Slowly the black mound turned blue, then red, casting a circle of golden light above us. She pulled out two ball gowns and a sewing kit from her case. Jamie fished out a book of crosswords and a packet of colored pencils, and started
drawing pictures of colorful, fiery trains. I looked at the gowns spilling over Mary’s knees. One was the color of wine, with crystal beading sewn around the neckline, while the other was a simple peach-colored silk gown with a ruffle along the sleeves.

“Which one are you going to wear?” I asked, realizing that I hadn’t even thought about tomorrow night’s ball.

“The red one. I’m mending this
one for you. It will be perfect with your eyes.”

“Thank you, Mary,” I said softly.

“It was Mum’s, so it’ll look good on you.”

I said nothing, just watched the careful movement of Mary’s needle along the seam. Once upon a time we had a whole staff of royal seamstresses, but Mary had learned to do a lot since the Seventeen Days. “I found them in the storage wardrobe. Remember how she used to
let us play dress-up in there? This was the dress she was wearing the night she met Dad.”

I thought of the room in Buckingham Palace filled with dresses belonging to past princesses and queens. The magnificent white wedding gowns worn by Princess Diana and Princess Kate, the fur-lined cloak Queen Elizabeth wore the day of her coronation. But I couldn’t remember the story behind the peach dress.

I made myself smile, but inside I ached. Mary had so much more of our mother than I would ever have, and Jamie, none at all.

He looked up from his notebook, his wide blue eyes shifting anxiously from Mary to me. “Do you think Dad will be happy to see us?”

“Of course he will,” Mary scolded. “Why would you even ask that?”

Jamie shrugged. “Because he never came this summer. He’s been gone since
June.”

Mary gently brushed his hair away from his forehead. “He’s been very busy with work this summer. He had to meet with the prime minister almost every day,” she explained.

“Did he ever say why exactly?” I asked.

Mary shook her head, but I had the feeling she knew more than she was saying. “The rebuilding projects, I guess.” Strands of her thick blonde hair fell loose from her ponytail
and down the shoulders of her cream-colored
blouse. Our mother always said Mary had roses in her cheeks, but I couldn’t help noticing how very pale she looked these days.

Silence fell as we ate the sandwiches Clara had packed for us and shared the jar of well water. It tasted cool and fresh. Like the gasoline, the well was guarded day and night. Clean water was so hard to find now, a treasured
commodity.

I turned to the train window as we passed through the outskirts of an abandoned coastal city called Callington. The buildings had collapsed like a pile of toy blocks. Pieces of debris floated like dead flies on the water. A peeling, faded billboard was scrawled in black paint with the words
THE NEW GUARD IS RISING
.

I shivered at the menacing words, uncertain what they meant. “Mary,
what is that?” I asked.

“What, Eliza?” But by the time she turned to look, we had already passed it.

The train rocked rhythmically over the rails and soon Jamie lay asleep between us. I covered him with the blanket and tucked it under his chin.

“He looks so peaceful when he sleeps,” I whispered.

Mary nodded, placing her hand on his cheek. “It’s the only time he’s not in pain.”

I held my breath.
I wondered if she suspected what had happened this afternoon. I wanted so badly to tell her, but she had enough to worry about.

“I’m getting sleepy too.” Mary unfolded another plaid woolen blanket and covered herself with it. I turned down the coal lamp and laid my head on the pillow.

“Eliza?” Mary whispered, and my heart skipped a beat. I was certain she would ask me about what happened. “Do
you think the red dress is too dark for my skin?”

I stared up at the dark ceiling, fighting a strange urge to laugh. Why were we holding a ball while bands of criminals stalked our lands? Roses didn’t even grow anymore. But I knew that the Roses Ball was one last thread of tradition that Parliament could cling to. Like the thread in Mary’s needle, desperately trying to repair the holes.

“Mary,
you know you’d look beautiful in a potato sack.”

I was about to close my eyes when a burst of orange flame came cascading through the sky, leaving smaller trails of fire in its wake. I sat up, watching it anxiously to see where it would land. A flash of heat passed the train window, then disappeared in an instant. The sky went black again. The sunball had died out falling to earth.

The flare
was gone, but I couldn’t bear to take my eyes from the dark fields. I watched, waited, just in case another
one fell from the sky. The sunballs—pieces of the sun that spun off toward Earth—had been falling out of the sky since the Seventeen Days. No one knew exactly what caused them, but getting caught in their fiery rain was fatal.

Even after the destruction of the Seventeen Days, we had been
hopeful. There was still electricity thanks to the backup generators, which my father allotted for use in the hospitals and fire and police stations. The hum of the generators was oddly comforting—it was the sound of rebuilding, of putting the pieces back together. The water lines were destroyed, the sun was hidden behind a cloud of ash, but as long as I heard the generators, I hoped everything
would somehow be okay.

Except that England was utterly alone.

My father had sent the
Queen Mary
, the navy’s eight-thousand-ton steel warship, to find news of the rest of the world. The earth had stilled, laying itself down among the mess like an exhausted child after a temper tantrum, but the oceans were still furious. The
Queen Mary
only made it a few miles offshore before the ocean swallowed
her whole. There wasn’t enough fuel to send another ship, and no one had answered a single one of our radio transmissions. Maybe we were the only survivors.

I pressed my hand against the window glass, still warm from the burst of the sunball’s flame. The cabin suddenly felt unbearably cold. I shrugged into my coat, putting my hands in the pockets, and felt the sharp corner of an envelope. I’d
forgotten about Polly’s letter. I unfolded it with a smile and started to read.

Dear Eliza,

I am so sorry to have to tell you this. You are my best friend and if anything happened to you I would never feel whole again.

Do you remember my uncle, the one who worked in a metal factory before the electricity stopped? Late last night he banged on our door with his wife and their baby son. They said they had been lucky enough to escape a raid on the district LS12 in Manchester, a raid led by a group calling themselves the New Guard. They had weapons, guns, and ammunition, and they were shooting everyone who resisted. My uncle’s family was able to escape through the underground to another district. They were the lucky ones.

My uncle said the New Guard have already seized many of the districts in London. They are led by Cornelius Hollister, who wants to kill your entire family and become king.

Please be careful, Eliza. Your life is in danger.

Polly

My hands trembled as I held the letter. In the dim glow of the coal lamp, I looked at my brother and sister sleeping soundly.

It dawned on me that all summer I had not heard any news of the outside world. Usually the Carriers
brought us updates from London when they delivered letters from our father, but this year Clara had collected the mail for us. I thought of the time I walked into the kitchen and saw her with her ear pressed to the radio. She had switched it off as soon as she saw me, claiming that all she could find was static.

I sank back into the train’s seat, staring out at the dark night. I wondered how
much my father knew of Cornelius Hollister’s plan and how much he was trying to hide from us. Maybe that was the reason he had stayed in London all summer.

As the light started to break through the fog, London came into view: the beautiful spires of Westminster Abbey; the sharp, glinting Steel Tower, the maximum-security prison, rising above it all; the London Eye still against the
skyline, frozen,
like the hands of Big Ben. When the disasters of the Seventeen Days hit London six years ago, the clock had stopped at eleven fifteen, and it was never set right again. To me the clock appeared normal, just as it had always been. But as the train charged into the city, I considered how little I understood of anything at all.

5

WE FOLLOWED THE GUARDS THROUGH PADDINGTON STATION IN
the predawn darkness, dodging the shafts of cold rain that poured through the broken ceiling. Past the boarded-up ticket windows, past the workers unloading freight cars of coal and wood, past the white-haired woman in the deserted food court, selling cups of tea from an aluminum pot. The dust falling from the ceiling settled on our heads
like snow.

Outside the station, the morning air was already thick with gray soot. The street felt eerily deserted. Without artificial light it was impossible for anyone to begin work until later in the morning. Our black Aston Martin was the only car on
the street, though there were plenty of horses, most tethered to wagons or crude-looking carts. A few wealthier citizens who could afford to
keep a pair of horses had chained them by their saddles to salvaged metal trucks. They looked awful, with wide, sad eyes and thin bodies. I thought of Jasper, well fed and free to run through the fields of Scotland, and felt guilty.

“The drains are overflowing,” Mary complained as she stepped into the car.

I could only nod as we pulled out and headed toward the palace. I clutched Polly’s letter
in my pocket. Flooded streets were the least of our problems.

As we entered the gates of Buckingham Palace, the guards stood to attention, saluting us, still wearing their traditional black hats and red coats with shiny brass buttons. The palace itself hadn’t really changed, though the brick-and-limestone facade was darkened from the dirty air and most of the windows had been boarded up to keep
out the cold. We lived in a small section of the palace, closing off the rest to conserve light and precious heat. There was so little oil left in our tanks that we saved it for the coldest days.

Inside the great hall of the East Wing, our father stood
waiting for us, flanked by two guards holding swords. As excited as I was to see him, I stopped when I saw the guards. They had never been there
before.

“Mary, Eliza, Jamie!” our father called out in his booming voice, holding out his arms. I ran to him, burying my face in his soft sweater, breathing in his familiar spicy scent. I wanted to stay in his arms, to fall asleep there and never leave, but instead I pulled back and felt for the letter in my pocket. “Dad,” I said quietly. “I need to talk to you alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” I whispered
in his ear. “Polly says—”

“Eliza,” my father stopped me, his voice terse. “This is not the time.”

He turned away from me to address Mary and Jamie in an overly happy voice. “Tell me everything about your summer! Did you swim? Ride? Did the blackberries grow this year?” He lifted Jamie in the air like an airplane as the sound of my brother’s laughter filled the hall. It was the first time I had
heard him really laugh since we had left for Balmoral three months ago.