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Royals

Royals

Page 21

“You know,” I say to El as we get out of the car, “I don’t even like horses that much. What if they sense that and feel disrespected?”

Ellie stops, turning to look at me. There are two men in dark suits on either side of us, not David and Malcolm, the bodyguards I’m used to, but they have that same air of being more statues than people. They’re certainly working hard at both staying close to me and Ellie and ignoring everything we’re saying.

Impressive.

“It’s just a race,” she says, and I can see the reflection of my stupid hat in her expensive sunglasses. “And there are enough people here that we shouldn’t steal the focus.”

“From the horses or the other people here?” I ask, and Ellie grimaces.

“Daisy—”

“Is this the part where you tell me just to relax and be myself?”

Turning to me, Ellie fidgets with the lace on her hat. “Relax, yes,” she says. “Definitely don’t be yourself, though. Just . . .” She steps closer, laying one gloved hand on my arm. “I’m serious, Daisy. I know you come by that ability to say whatever comes into your head naturally, but remember you’re not Dad.”

I want to scoff at that, but she has a point.

A point she’s going to keep making, apparently. “Just smile, be polite, and don’t try to make jokes, okay?”

She gives my arm a squeeze, and as she turns to walk away, I fight the urge to call after her, “Thanks for the pep talk!”

Instead, I just follow, my knees shaky and my face kind of numb. This is the first time I’ll really be out among these people, and it’s like I’m seeing every tabloid cover, every headline that’s featured Ellie over the past year, and suddenly imagining my face, my name in them. The few brushes with that life I’ve had have been more than enough.

But Ellie is right—as we make our way from the car to the actual track, there’s no deluge of photographers or people shouting Ellie’s name. There’s just . . . a lot of posh people.

And I mean a lot.

This may still be the most horrible hat in all of creation, but at least I blend in. I’ve never seen such an assortment of headgear. There’s one girl wearing a concoction of blue, red, and green feathers on her head that makes me wonder if a parrot crash-landed in her hair. I turn and see another girl with long dark hair and a truly gorgeous black-and-white suit rocking a pink hat with so many frills and furls that it looks like something out of an anatomy textbook.

The hats are honestly so ridiculous and over the top that I wonder if this is just another part of the fancy life. Do they wear stuff like this just to prove they can get away with it? Is this hazing via hats?

The girl in black and white with the slightly obscene hat approaches us, her shoulders stiff. Next to her is a redhead all in light purple, her hat small and actually hat-like. “Ellie!” the redhead says. There’s a glass of champagne in her hand, and some of it sloshes out as she hugs my sister.

The dark-haired girl is a little more reserved, her smile tight as she looks at me and my sister.

“Daisy,” Ellie says, pulling back from the hug, “I’d like you to meet Fliss and Poppy.”

I refrain from saying “Fliss” doesn’t seem like a real name and smile at both the girls, wondering if I’m supposed to shake their hands or curtsy. In the end, I just give a little wave. “Hi.”

“Are you enjoying your stay?” the redhead—Fliss—asks, and I give my best Ellie Smile.

“I am. It’s really lovely here.”

That part is sincere, at least. Everything I’ve seen of Scotland has been gorgeous, and this place is no exception. Rolling hills, green grass, blue sky . . . it’s a postcard of a day, made even prettier by all the ladies wandering around in bright colors.

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