Eadlyn Selects

7 Minutes

 Dad is sitting hunched over a pile of papers with his advisors around him. When he sees me enter, he stops talking and rubs between his eyes.

"How's Mom?" I ask, sitting in the instantly vacated chair to his right.

"She's to take it easy but she can walk around and sleep in her room. I don't want her making public appearances. We're keeping her health quiet until she is ready to speak to it herself."

I nod, this seems wise. But wait, did he answer me?

"But Dad, how is she?" I ask again.

He lets a spark of irritation show in the twist of his lips before smoothing his face to its normal impassive position.

In a barely audible voice he says, "She's scared."

Assuaged, I lean back in my chair. Now that was a real answer, I want to say. Instead, I adopt my version of his impassive expression and tune into the discussion.

"We are limiting the details about the invasion, mostly for other countries who follow our broadcasts. People in Illea know too much, but we can try to stop the greater world from learning of our unrest, for now." His media relations advisor finishes summing up. I wish I could remember his name. I've never liked him. 

My stomach clenches. I resist apologizing, even though it feels like they're listing my faults. 

My maid betrays me. My suitors defect. My country protests my ascension.  

"Thank you," Dad says to the advisor. Then he turns to me and says loudly, "I issued warrants for your maid's arrest, along with the Selection boys who defected."

I nod again, now tears threaten to break free. I purse my lips and try to be stoic. They talk about the details of the security sweeps happening throughout the country to catch the culprits. Then they outline their strategy to infiltrate the black market to watch for our stolen possessions. With each update, my dad's face tightens and ages, right before my eyes.

Finally, he speaks. "My advisors recommend going back to life as usual, while we sort out the impetus of this attack and the issues that we can ameliorate to prevent future violence." Dad sounds hollow, like he is functioning on no sleep and zero emotions. I search the room for General Leger but he isn't here.

Dad and his advisors sum up more. I listen only halfway. Nothing will be normal again. Not for me.

After three hours of political debate about issues to address and change and how, I am feeling cross eyed and close to a tantrum. Not ideal future queen behavior. I wish I'd stayed with Kile. I wish I could be a normal teenager. I wish Ahren hadn't left me. I wish those seven minutes hadn't been so important.

"What was that?" Dad whispers into my ear.

I shake my head in confusion.

"You were mumbling something about minutes?" he asks. The meeting stops around us and everyone looks at me.

And that's the moment Dad notices my altered appearance.

"Eadlyn!" his finger almost points to my pants, which would be an egregious lapse in royal manners. Instead, his eyes widen. "Jeans," he sounds aghast.

Dad always wears dress pants, button up shirts during the work week, tie in the office and on TV, suit jacket at dinner and all functions. He's a cuff links kind of guy and I have always been his heel wearing, dressy little girl.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and feel grateful for the absorbent denim.

"Are you alright? I've never seen you without a tiara at a meeting," he says, in a more fatherly tone.