A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals, #1)

by Alyssa Cole

Brian, the postdoc, was suddenly hovering over her shoulder. Brian was super fun to work with: on her first day, she’d introduced herself, and he’d asked her to take out the trash more frequently—he’d thought she was the cleaning woman. He often stopped to explain basic concepts to Ledi—and Ledi alone—during lab meetings, while asking Kevin, the newbie, for his advice on how things should be run. So fun, that Brian.

She hadn’t foreseen all the other variables that went into life as a woman in STEM: politicians who treated her profession with contempt and threatened her future—and the world’s. Fellow scientists like Brian, who thought that women in the lab were their personal assistants instead of their equals.

Being outwardly friendly while keeping people at a distance was second nature to Ledi. She thought of it as her social phospholipid bilayer: flexible, dynamic, and designed to keep the important parts of herself separate from a possibly dangerous outside environment. It had been working for the prokaryotes for eons, and it would suffice for a broke grad school student, which was only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale. “When are you starting?” Trishna asked.

Thabiso dropped the plate onto the table with a loud ceramic thunk. The man who had requested it took it up in his hand without even looking at him, continuing to converse with his compatriots. He had just been waited on by royalty and couldn’t even manage a nod of gratitude? Son of a two-legged antelope . . . Thabiso waited a moment longer for the recognition owed to him, and then snatched the kale back. “I beg your pardon,” the man said, clearly confused as he finally turned his gaze toward Thabiso. “Your pardon is denied. I just performed a task for you. The correct thing to say in this situation is ‘Thank you.’” Thabiso imbued each word with the disdain learned from years of etiquette lessons. The man sputtered, eyes wide behind his glasses, then stammered out a thanks. Thabiso returned the kale to him. “You are welcome.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, you must leave this place, as I’ve been informed that there is work to be done for a later event. I give you permission to take this plate with you, as it’s obviously of inferior quality and will not be missed.” The man and his group of friends quickly gathered their things and shuffled out. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched them go. Do I ever thank my servants? He couldn’t remember explicitly doing so. His servants had always been there, like the photos of ancestors on the walls and the furniture handed down for generations. Surely, they didn’t feel affronted when he waved or beckoned without a word. ...

“Actually, I need to change what I said. Everybody wants something from you, but sometimes there’s a person you want to give to. Sometimes what you give them makes you better for having given it. And it makes having to give to everyone else not so bad.”

“That’s the thing, Naledi. That the people who love you will hurt you the most is one of the great conundrums of the human condition. My philosophy tutor said so, and he had about five degrees on the subject, so I guess it holds some water.”

“It’s hard losing a friend,” Ledi said quietly. “If it’s your significant other, you’re allowed to grieve. But people act like best friends are a dime a dozen, and if you lose one you can just replace them with another.”