The Lost Princess Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART TWO Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  PART THREE Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Japanese Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connie Glynn has always loved writing and wrote her first story when she was six, with her mum at a typewriter acting as her scribe. She had a love for performing stories from a young age and attended Guildhall drama classes as a teenager. This passion for stories has never left her, and Connie recently finished a degree in film theory.

  It was at university that Connie started her hugely successful YouTube channel Noodlerella (named after her favourite food and favourite Disney princess). Here Connie vlogs about her passions, which include comics, cartoons, impressions, video games, cosplay and all things cute. Connie recently passed 900,000 subscribers and has over 56 million views. 2016 saw Connie make her first appearance in a cinematic film release as she made a cameo as the voice of Moxie Dewdrop in Dreamworks’ UK release of Trolls.

  This book is dedicated to the rat who lives in the bushes outside my building (I’ve named it Zooms)

  There was something in Emelia’s eye, a speck of dust that caused tears to stream down her cheek. Sniffing, she rubbed her face, not caring that it left a black panda smudge. Honestly, she didn’t really care about anything any more.

  ‘Emelia, bella! Are you OK?’ her mother called over. Emelia’s parents sat side by side on the Italian designer sofa, but her father didn’t even glance up from his book.

  It was almost a year ago to the day that Emelia’s whole life had been turned upside down.

  ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ she replied sweetly, the ring of mascara making her left eye look like an empty socket in her skull. ‘Just something in my eye.’

  Last year Emelia had been kidnapped along with a deaf boy named Percival Butter. He was the son of Richard Butter, owner of the Butter Company and a direct competitor to her father’s confectionary company Hubbub. Although they could not remember a single thing from the time they were held captive, they’d been found safe, unharmed and with no obvious impact on their health or well-being. Which meant the only remaining question was …

  ‘Emelia, I think it’s time for you to go to bed. You have track practice in the morning.’ Her father turned another page, still not looking at her.

  Emelia glanced at the window. ‘But it’s not even got dark yet,’ she protested.

  ‘I said go to bed.’ His tone was dark and oppressive, extinguishing any chance of further conversation.

  She resisted the temptation to scowl at him, knowing she’d be picking a fight she could never win. She grabbed her track team schedule off the gilded coffee table and marched up the marble stairs to her bedroom, fighting the urge to slam the door behind her and scream.

  As she’d been thinking – before she’d been so rudely interrupted – the only remaining question was: If I’ve been returned safe and unharmed, why is my father so clearly disappointed?

  Ever since her return, her dad had turned distant. At first he had watched her like a hawk, as if expecting something of her. Whatever it was, she never found out. Instead she watched his hope turn to disappointment and now to this – a cold withdrawing.

  She’d been upset, of course. She’d taken up every improving hobby imaginable to try to satisfy him. She excelled in school, tried to assist him with work. But nothing pleased him.

  Emelia carefully unpinned her white hijab, folding it neatly to put away in the pristine gold armoire where she kept all her headscarves. They looked up at her, in a variety of colours, but the white one had always been her favourite. It made her feel neat, straightforward, covering up her annoying hair and turning her into someone to be taken seriously, and now she was going to make sure she felt like that underneath it too. She took one deep, furious breath, letting go of all the rage and hurt as the reality of the situation settled in her belly.

  She went through everything she knew. A few months ago, Percival Butter had been admitted to hospital after a mysterious group called Leviathan had made a kidnapping attempt on the princess of Maradova. Fact.

  She knelt down and reached far under her four-poster bed to pull out an unassuming wooden box. She eased back the lid. Inside were piles of curling newspaper snippets, everything she’d been able to find on Leviathan, Percy and the princess of Maradova.

  Percival Butter had been brainwashed and couldn’t remember a thing. His father had known and allowed this to happen. Fact.

  Emelia had been kidnapped by Leviathan a year ago along with Percival. Fact.

  Emelia’s father, for reasons she still didn’t understand, was disappointed that the brainwashing had not worked on her, making her useless for whatever plan they had. This was speculation, but there were two things Emelia was absolutely sure of, deep in her gut.

  One. Leviathan had ruined her life.

  Two. She was going to make them pay.

  At the very bottom of the box was what she needed, the things that would let her feel like herself again. Free and true.

  Emelia had spent her whole life being the perfect daughter, the perfect young woman, always doing what was expected of her, but it had never been enough.

  She strode over to her lavish dressing table and sat down, grabbing a fistful of thick, curly ebony hair. With decisive cuts, she allowed the silky locks to fall like water through her fingertips, leaving a little halo of black around the top of her head. Then, without hesitation, she turned on the electric razor she’d retrieved from the box. Vibrations coursed through her fingertips, a low buzz of power in her hand as she raised the rotary blades to her scalp. She brought it closer … closer still … keeping her eyes trained on the mirror until she felt the halo fall around her feet. When she allowed her glance to fall she saw the curls glimmering on the white-marble floor like writhing black snakes.

  There. It was done.

  She ran a hand over the shape of her skull, newly exposed. Silky spikes of freshly shorn hair covered her scalp like a glistening helmet. Her eyes somehow looked bigger, more soulful – dark orbs staring out from an unrecognizable face. She smiled at her new friend, a real smile, welcoming the familiar stranger in the mirror.

  A buzzing from the bed caught her attention. The caller ID simply read ‘4’, but she knew immediately who it was.

  ‘Hello, Riri.’ She grinned down the phone, still admiring her reflection in the mirror. ‘How’s our little project going?’

  The girl on the other end of the phone pondered, a melodic hum that sounded out over the noise of engines revving.

  ‘We’re still trying to decipher the puzzle.’ Her tone was thoughtful, distracted, and Emelia could imagine the exact expressions on her face. ‘How are you holding up?’


  ‘Pretty good.’ Emelia sat down on the bed, absent-mindedly reaching to curl a lock of hair round her finger. It was no longer there. She turned to stare at her new image again, her head feeling lighter, her body free. She smiled again. ‘You’re not going to believe what I’ve just done.’

  All she had to do was get through the gate.

  ‘There she is!’ a lone voice cried out from the crowd of people closing in around the car.

  The school rose up behind the gilded gates of Rosewood Hall, its windows winking in the sunlight, the stone pillars carved with roses. Their safe haven. Yet here, outside it, this sea of strangers spread like an awful stain.

  Journalists.

  The gates usually did a good job of keeping them at bay, but the pavement outside the school walls was a no-man’s-land in this fight for privacy. Anything went – and Lottie was the best story these journalists could get. Until she passed through those gates it was open season.

  But first she had to get Ellie away from these sharks.

  ‘Nikolay,’ she whispered, ‘please sneak Ellie into the school. I’ll distract them.’

  ‘But, Lottie –’ Her princess tried to protest, sniffing loudly.

  ‘It’s fine, Ellie. Don’t worry.’ She threw her a reassuring glance. ‘This is what I’ve been trained for, remember?’

  They’d dealt with the press after the incident at the Tompkins Manor, and Lottie had answered their questions well, but then she’d had the king’s advisor, Simien Smirnov, to coach her. He’d warned that the dam would eventually break, that they’d get hungry for more. And, from the looks on these journalists’ faces, that moment had come.

  ‘I’ll see you inside,’ Lottie assured her princess, putting on her best smile as she watched Ellie disappear, rubbing her nose.

  In the two years Lottie had known her, not once had Ellie ever had a cold. It was strange to see the red of fever on her pale olive skin, the deep shadows beneath her eyes and the dry, chapped lips, all weighing heavy on a body usually so full of life.

  Seeing Ellie ill filled Lottie with a furious determination. She was her Portman, meant to take on the burdens of being a princess so Ellie could play the part of a normal girl. Getting sick was what happened to stressed and worried people. Not a princess.

  Lottie was meant to do the worrying.

  When Lottie stepped out of the car it was cloudy but warm, the staple of a British summer. The air crackled with the threat of a storm.

  Well, come on then. Let it break.

  Lottie walked confidently into the fray.

  ‘Has there been any more information on the mysterious Leviathan?’

  ‘Why haven’t you been out in public since the incident? Are you afraid?’

  ‘Can we see a smile?’

  Kind, brave, unstoppable! Kind, brave, unstoppable! Lottie repeated the words over and over in her head, tapping the wolf pendant at her chest, then moving her hand up to adjust her tiara nestled in her hair.

  The crescent-moon opal at the top of the tiara rose to greet the sun when she lifted her chin boldly, the strength of the intricate silver headpiece coursing through her, reminding her that she was never alone, that she always had a piece of her family with her.

  In a great display of poise, she walked calmly down the line of reporters. At her side, where the princess’s Partizan should have been, was a hired bodyguard. Samuel was a nice-enough man, and Lottie had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t his fault Jamie wasn’t with them. Because Jamie had been very clear that he didn’t want to come with them to collect their exam results.

  Instinctively Lottie clasped the wolf at her heart. It was a pendant she shared with her princess, a gift that had welcomed her into the royal family, the weight of it a reminder that they were all connected. Only now Jamie had broken their link, and she felt it like a wound in her chest.

  A microphone was suddenly shoved into her face, grasped by a hand that stank of cigarettes.

  She stared at the reporter holding it as he aggressively repeated his question.

  ‘Has any more progress been made on finding out why Leviathan are after you, Princess?’

  Lottie took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘It’s still the same information. As far as we’re aware, Leviathan …’ Her throat went dry at the name, memories of Ingrid and Julius swarming around her. They were the deadly duo that had nearly kidnapped her. ‘As far as we’re aware, they’re targeting the children of important and influential families, but their objective is still unknown.’

  Samuel put an arm round her and smoothly guided her away from the reporters. Lottie couldn’t help cringing at her answer.

  Her words had been true. Almost.

  But the whole truth was much less easy to digest – because the truth was they had no idea what Leviathan were really planning. All they had was a terrible theory, that they might want to control those influential children, and that Lottie and her friends may very well have given them the tools to do so when they had found the Hamelin Formula, a dangerous mix of chemicals that could be used to brainwash people.

  ‘This must have all been awfully difficult for you!’ a man’s voice called after her, rich with fake sympathy. The temptation to roll her eyes was almost unbearable. ‘How have you coped with adjusting back to normality?’

  Barely.

  Lottie had to shush the voice in her head, turning to smile pleasantly at the crowd.

  These were the questions they asked the most. Personal questions. A chance for them to get to know this mysterious Maravish princess who’d somehow landed herself in the centre of an evil conspiracy.

  Lottie couldn’t help imagining the looks on all the reporters’ faces if they found out she wasn’t even the real princess. A professional fake, only a cover for Ellie, who was already safely inside the school gates, thank goodness.

  ‘They just want a good story,’ Simien had warned her. ‘And a good princess.’

  Heeding his words, Lottie swept a stray lock of hair from her face. She’d scooped her curls up in a meticulously arranged chignon, a request from Simien when he’d declared her ‘frowsy tresses’ to be too long and unruly for public appearances. She just couldn’t bring herself to cut it.

  ‘I have a wonderful support network,’ she said now, ‘and with everyone’s kindness and patience I have found my studies both comforting and a welcome distraction.’ Lottie put on her absolute best smile to let them all know just how much she loved studying.

  Look at me, look at what a great student the Maravish princess is.

  A camera flashed, sending dots dancing in front of her eyes. She brushed a hand over her face, staggering.

  ‘No photos or videos,’ Samuel ordered, shielding Lottie.

  The next question was painful to hear, yet she should have been used to it now. After all, they asked it every single time.

  ‘We love your dress, Princess! Who are you wearing?’

  Lottie imagined how Ellie might answer something so ridiculous. ‘I’m wearing the skin of the princess formally known as Her Royal Highness Princess Eleanor Prudence Wolfson!’

  Laughter caught in her throat and she swallowed it down.

  She smiled again, going pink in what she hoped they’d think was humility and not irritation. ‘I’m wearing a modern take on the traditional sarafan dress in Maravish style. From the A-line shape, the sun embroidery and distinctive design, I’m sure you can recognize the work of Léon Marie.’

  She could practically hear Ellie gagging in the distance, and she wouldn’t have blamed her. There was a giant conspiracy afoot, yet all these fools wanted to know about was her dress. Part of her wished they’d take it more seriously.

  A wish she’d quickly regret.

  Samuel eased her further along, nodding to let her know she was doing a good job. The gate was just moments away now, the rose gardens coming into view. Only a few more steps and she’d be free.

  ‘We were told the princess was attending a fencing tournament?’ A calm
and steady voice sliced through all the other questions, a Pacific Northwest accent that dripped with the confidence of a big city. ‘So why exactly were you in the manor and not watching the match?’

  Lottie’s blood ran cold. This was the first time she’d been asked such a suspicious question, and her eyes snapped on to the mystery inquisitor. A smartly dressed young woman with thin rectangular glasses and a sharp-cut black bob stared back at her. She seemed to inhabit a space all of her own in the crowd of journalists, standing out like a beacon. A name tag on her blue blouse read AIMEE WU, CLEAR LINE MEDIA.

  Lottie reminded herself that she needed to keep moving, yet the look on Aimee’s face froze her to the spot.

  ‘We were looking for the Hamelin Formula,’ Lottie responded smoothly, gathering herself. She could almost touch the golden gates behind her. The familiar, sweet scent of roses and lavender drifted around her, urging her to step inside to safety.

  ‘That’s the dangerous formula that Leviathan were attempting to recreate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell a teacher about it? And what exactly happened to this Hamelin Formula?’

  Heat rose in Lottie’s chest. She didn’t know which question to answer first.

  The other reporters fell silent, everyone’s attention now locked on Aimee and Lottie.

  ‘Unfortunately Leviathan took the formula and it is unclear what they plan to do with it or if it works. As for your other question, we wrongly believed that we –’ Lottie’s throat went tight again, remembering the magnitude of how wrong they’d been, and the terrible consequences of their mistake. It had all been a trick; they’d led Leviathan to the formula like obedient dogs. Aimee instantly took the opportunity to launch another question as though she was throwing a hand grenade.

  ‘Who is “we”?’ Before Lottie could answer, another question was hurled across the space. ‘Also, I must ask, we were told at the Tompkins press dinner that the Hamelin Formula had been locked away with no way of finding it. So how exactly did these Leviathans end up with it?’