The Royal We Read Online Free PDF

American.”
    She punctuated the last sentence with thrusts of a sharply filed nail. I was so flummoxed that, still dripping water onto the centuries-old Persian runner, I simply gaped as she vanished into her room.
    *  *  *
    If I had actually harbored fantasies of landing myself a prince, I might’ve been deterred by the intensity of the competition outside the cozy confines of Pembroke. Our college-mates, while clearly interested, were at least accustomed to the sight of Nick, and initially that was the only place I saw him. But off campus, so to speak, the curious eyeballs were more intense. Guys jockeyed to get him on weekend sports teams or present themselves as potential confidantes, the better to boost their own profiles; the ladies were eager for a shot at an heir they couldn’t count on running into every day on their way out of the bathroom. They all tried to be subtle about it, and failed spectacularly. It was like dropping a steak into a rabid pack of horndogs.
    The first time I witnessed this was about three hours after I’d hung up the phone with Lacey. I’d begun working my way through Oxford’s pubs in my ten days there before school had started, thanks to the guiding hand of Cilla and the others, and that night I found myself outside on a bitingly chilly night, trudging past several warm and inviting ones.
    “Where are we going again?” I asked Cilla, shivering as I tried to keep up. Her stride is all business.
    “It’s called The Bird,” she tossed at me over her shoulder. “It’s where C. S. Lewis and Tolkien and some other people got together and gave notes on each other’s manuscripts and probably acted totally unbearable.”
    We pulled up our parka hoods against the mounting wind until we came to a plain yellow gabled building with its name in iron gothic letters across the front.
    “The Eagle and Child,” I read aloud. “I thought you said it was called The Bird.”
    “Same thing,” Cilla said. “It got nicknamed The Bird and Baby because of the pictures on the pub sign, and that got shortened to The Bird.”
    “So its nickname has its own nickname?”
    “If you think that’s off, wait until Gaz busts out the old Cockney rhyming slang,” Cilla said. “As if he’s not indecipherable enough on his own.”
    She paused. “I also finally talked Nick into coming out to toast the start of term, so he’ll be here. Just pretend he’s normal.” She stopped. “Not that he isn’t , but… you know.”
    She pushed me inside the pub, where the boisterous, noisy vibe clashed with the unassuming exterior. Fresh paint butted up against original brick and stonework, the walls warped and bulging in some corners. Students sloshed beer over the edges of their pint glasses as they snacked on plates of thick-cut chips, and while the music was loud, the human din was louder. Later on I would flirt with the VIP club scene, but velvet ropes are more Lacey’s speed than mine. I have always preferred a dive.
    Cilla scanned the crowd, which wasn’t easy, given that the pub was essentially a long chain of cramped rooms.
    “I wish Gaz would invest in a stepstool,” she groused. “His hair would be so easy to spot if he weren’t so bloody short.”
    “I think we walked right past them,” I said, gesturing toward the larger of the two front rooms. “Half of the girls in here are loitering over there.”
    We peered to our right, and eventually I recognized Nick’s head, and saw that it was bent at an angle toward a group that included golden-blond India Bolingbroke. Standing to either side, like wardens, were Gaz and Joss, chatting up a gloomy guy with six rings in his nose.
    “Oi!” Clive called out behind us, coming from the bar and carrying a large tray of shot glasses and Guinness pints. “You’re just in time.”
    We let him pass through the crowded, uneven doorway—precious cargo, after all—then pushed through the crush until our hands found the shot glasses.
    “Yikes,” I said,