A Noble Cause Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Lerner Publishing Group

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Cover and interior images: Igor Klimov/Shutterstock.com (background texture); GoMixer/Shutterstock.com (coat of arms and lion); KazanovskyAndrey/iStock/Getty Images Plus (gold); mona redshinestudio/Shutterstock.com (crown).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: SaBerre, Kristen, author.

  Title: A noble cause / Kristen SaBerre.

  Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, [2019] | Series: Suddenly royal | Summary: Alix, eighteen, is torn between her dream of becoming a pop star and her newly-discovered status as European royalty, the next in line to be the Duchess of Nasina.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017056612 (print) | LCCN 2018002698 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541525962 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781541525696 (lb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781541526396 (pb : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Identity—Fiction. | Nobility—Fiction. | Singers—Fiction. | Popular music—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction. | Grandparents—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S18 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.S18 Nob 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017056612

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-44553-35484-3/26/2018

  For my mom and my other teachers. Thank you.

  1

  Sometimes I pretend I’m famous. I imagine myself standing on a stage. Below me, thousands of people chant my name. “AL-IX! AL-IX! AL-IX!” My hair is big and curly and dyed hot pink to match my vintage dress. Out of nowhere, a drum beat picks up, then bass, then I start to sing and the crowd goes absolutely mad.

  Of course I’m not really on stage. I’m in my bedroom, playing keyboard and singing my heart out. Those thousands of people are just a sound effect from a computer program. But even though I’m pretending now, I know that I really will be a star one day.

  I power off my keyboard and pack it into its carrying case. I have a singing gig in less than an hour at the café where I work. In fact, I only work there because once a week I get to take the stage for forty-five minutes and sing for the evening crowd. It’s my first step to becoming Alix Monroe, the next American pop diva. It’s also my one weekly chance to sing for an audience, which happens to be my favorite thing in the world to do.

  I know I have a long way to go before I reach diva status, but I have a shot. A week ago, I graduated from high school. In one month, I’m going to Los Angeles. I have an audition with BPG Artists—a decent record label. BPG’s representatives heard me sing on my website and they listened to my self-made demos. If they like me in person, they might sign me to a record contract and make my first album.

  I know my family doesn’t totally love these plans. I live with my aunt Miranda and her wife, Ella, who’ve raised me. They love me to pieces, but they also really wish I was interested in going to college or at least getting a job with health benefits. But they can’t stop me from pursuing my dream. I’m eighteen now—an adult. And once I move to L.A., I won’t have to play by their rules anymore. I’ll be on my own and making my own decisions. Plus, once I’ve made it big, I’m sure they’ll understand why I needed to take some risks.

  I head to my closet. As I sift through all my clothes, I sing vocal exercises to warm up my voice.

  Do-mi-so-do-so-mi-doooo

  Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-doooo

  Warmed up and dressed, there’s only one more step—my hair. I pull a long, metallic blue and silver wig down from the top shelf in my closet. Don’t get me wrong, I love my natural hair. I look like Beyoncé with ringlet curls, so I’m not complaining. I don’t really remember my parents because they died in a car accident when I was only three, but they obviously blessed me with good looks. On stage, though, I like to make a statement. I want people to notice me even before I start singing and remember me long after I finish.

  I check myself out in the mirror. Colorful hair and spiked heels: very eighties British punk rock. I love it.

  I check the clock again—6:30! Time to go. I have thirty minutes before my aunts are back from work, but I need to be long gone before they come home. Miranda and Ella have no idea I perform every week. They think I work at the library. I don’t like to lie, but if I’d told the truth when I got this job last year, Miranda would’ve wanted me to stop. And that is not an option.

  I’m clunking down the hall in my heels when I hear the garage door hum open. My aunts came home early! This never happens. I run back to my room—well, I try. It’s hard to run in heels. I manage to reach my door right as Miranda rounds the corner. I slam it shut quickly, before she sees what I’m wearing.

  Miranda knocks. “Alix? Can I come in?” Her voice is soft and patient, which catches me off guard. My aunt is an investment banker—an assertive one. She rarely does anything softly.

  “One minute,” I say. “I’m just getting dressed.” I look around for an escape, but there is none. The window is too high off the ground for me to slip out. (Trust me, I’ve tried.)

  “We need to talk. Face to face,” Miranda says. She sounds anxious.

  “I have to work at the library,” I lie.

  “Can you call in sick?”

  “I can’t miss. I’m already covering for someone. Did my aunt, who doesn’t even let me stay home sick from school unless I’m dying, just tell me to call in sick? Whatever she needs sounds urgent. Which means, she’s only seconds away from coming in, whether I like it or not. This leaves me with only one option: hide. I wrap my blue and silver hair into a damp towel from the floor and jump into bed, pulling the covers up to my eyes. “Come in.”

  Miranda enters, with Aunt Ella right behind her. They both stop in the middle of the room and stare at me. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” Miranda asks.

  I don’t have a good answer, so I change the subject and hope for the best. “What did you need to talk about?” This works.

  My aunts suddenly remember why they’re here. They both sit on the foot of my bed and look at each other. I have no idea what they’re going to say, but I know it’s serious. I’d be on the edge of my seat if I weren’t hiding under the comforter.

  Miranda goes first. “There’s something I have to tell you. About your parents . . . About who they were . . .” She trails off.

  “My parents?” I ask, curious. We rarely talk about my parents. Ella told me once that it’s really painful for Miranda to think about her brother, so I try not to bring them up.

  “Alix, have you ever heard of a singer named Portia LePenn?”

  “Uhhhh . . .” The name doesn’t ring a bell, which embarrasses me a little. Then again, Miranda assumes all music is the same. Back in middle school, her attempts to bond with me over sixties rock fell pretty flat. This singer she’s talking about probably worked in a genre that’s completely different from mine.

  “She was fairly famous for a short time,” Ella adds gently. “Especially in Europe. She was married to Leopold Valmont, a member of Evonia’s royal family.”

  I try to remember where I’ve heard of Evonia before. “That’s one of those tiny countries, right?”


  “Yes, it’s sort of squished between France and Germany,” says Ella with a small smile. “That’s where Miranda and your dad grew up.”

  I sit up straighter. “For real? I never knew that!”

  “Yes, well, I haven’t been back there in fifteen years . . .” Miranda says.

  And then it hits me. “Wait, Leopold Valmont? Is he the royal dude who died in that crazy car accident? There’s a girl at school who’s obsessed with European royalty—I remember she showed me the footage of the mangled car, it was insane . . .”

  Miranda stares at me, wide-eyed. Ella gently rubs Miranda’s shoulder. Did I say something wrong?

  “Wait, why? Did they know my parents?”

  Miranda takes a deep breath, then says the craziest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “Your father . . . my older brother . . . was Leopold Valmont.”

  I throw off the covers and sit upright. Miranda’s mouth drops open as she takes in my outfit, but I don’t care about that anymore. “What?”

  Miranda takes a deep breath. “Yes. Your birth name is Alix Valmont. Your grandmother, my mother, is a member of the Evonian royal family. She’s the Duchess of Nasina . . .”

  I can’t make sense of what she’s saying. “Wait, wait, wait. Your mother is a duchess? What are you even talking about?”

  Miranda starts pacing, a sign she’s anxious. Ella takes over. “I know this is a lot, but you need to understand. Your father was the heir to his mother’s title. And when Leo passed away, you became the heir.”

  “Heir . . . ?” I manage to mutter. I’m so confused.

  “Yes, Alix. You’re the next in line to be the Duchess of Nasina.”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “You are royalty.”

  2

  My legs are jelly. My head is light, like I’m floating above my body. I run down the hall, heels and car keys in hand. I ignore Ella and Miranda as they shout after me, begging me to stay and talk. But I can’t be here any longer. Within seconds I’m in my car, driving away, forcing back tears.

  Ten minutes later, I’m parked in front of the café, trying to catch my breath. I pull out my phone and do a quick Internet search for Portia LePenn and Leopold Valmont.

  There they are—pages and pages of search results. Portia, my mom, was a rising star in the late nineties and early 2000s. There are pictures of her and my dad posing with famous actors, legendary singers—looking glamorous in every photo. My memories of my parents are fuzzy at best, but anyone could see that I’m related to these two people. My mom looks so much like me, it’s eerie. Not just the skin tone and the hair—it’s the way she holds her head, the defiant look in her eye. And I have my dad’s eyes and chin.

  I scroll past dozens of articles about how they died. One day, Portia and Leo were being driven to a charity event. The paparazzi knew they’d be there, so they followed them most of the way. This was common for them because of their fame. Photographers on motorbikes followed their car closely, desperate to get good photos. One cyclist was too eager. He sped ahead of the car, and then spun around directly in the car’s path. The driver didn’t have enough time to stop without hitting the cyclist, so he swerved into oncoming traffic. Leo, Portia, and the driver were killed.

  So my parents did die in a car crash—but the details were completely different from what I’d always assumed. How could my aunts have kept this from me? How could they have lied to me my entire life?

  This is overwhelming. I can’t deal with it right now.

  I rush inside the café and start preparing to perform. People don’t usually come here to dance. But by the time I’m done, most of them will—that’s the plan anyway. Ordinarily, I would set a goal. Can I get five people up and dancing? Ten? The entire room? But tonight I am too distracted to make wagers with myself.

  So many thoughts race through my mind. My family is royalty. My parents were famous. Did I inherit my talent from my mom?

  “Alix, are you okay?” says Malik, the café owner. He walks over to me looking concerned. I look down and realize it’s because the cord I’m holding is shaking in my hands. I need to calm down.

  “I’m good, thanks.” I jump around to settle my nerves and boost my energy.

  Malik smiles. “Cool. You’re on in five.”

  I take a deep breath and start to sing quietly to myself.

  The dew on the lilies twinkles bright.

  Their starlight catches the little child’s eye.

  Don’t be fearful, not this night.

  The wolf lily quiets the baby’s cry.

  It’s not dark tonight.

  Loup Lis shines ever bright.

  Through the forest, through the hills,

  Through the lakes at night so still.

  It’s not dark tonight.

  Loup Lis shines forever bright.

  The clearest memory I have of my mother is of her singing me this lullaby. It always made me feel safe. If she were here today, I think she would sing to me, so I would feel safe and strong. Suddenly, like magic, I do. I’m ready.

  I take the stage. There’s light applause as I dive straight into my first song. The rhythm is slow at first, the words aching.

  The longer I wait,

  The more I think about you.

  The beat picks up in an instant.

  The longer I wait,

  The more I just can’t live without you.

  I rock my hips and my shoulders as I sing. I dance across the small stage, winking and smiling at the crowd. My energy spreads through the audience like an infection. People start clapping. A couple gets on their feet, dancing together. A few seconds later, another joins, then another.

  I gotta break free

  I gotta get out

  I gotta get to you,

  I just gotta do it, do it, do it

  Do it, do it, do it.

  No more waiting, I-I-I

  I just gotta do it, do it, do it,

  Do it, do it, do it.

  I finish the song to generous applause and jump straight into the next. I sing a few more of my original songs. I sing until every single person in the café is on their feet, clapping and moving. This is the best feeling, making people happy. There’s something incredible about the power to affect people in this way. This is why I sing.

  As I belt my final note, I realize I was wrong. I don’t have the entire room excited. Standing dead center in the middle of the crowd is Miranda. She found me. And she does not look happy.

  3

  I’ve never ridden in the back of a police car. I’m sure it’s not fun, but I can’t imagine it would make me feel worse than how I feel now. I’m sitting in the back of Miranda’s SUV. Miranda drives silently. Ella is driving my car home, so it’s just me and Miranda. Every time I even open my mouth to breathe, Miranda glares at me. It’s a look I know well—it means she’s so angry that she’s still deciding how to unleash. Finally, she figures it out. “Unbelievable,” she says. “Right under my nose. So disrespectful. Lying to me all this time! How could you?”

  I fling the same question right back at her. “How could you? You’ve been lying about my parents for my entire life.”

  “Everything I’ve done has been to protect you,” she fires back. “What about you? What’s your excuse?”

  “I never told you because I knew you’d say no. You’ve never supported my singing.”

  “I have no problem with your singing. I have a problem with your obsession for getting famous, and acting irresponsible in the process!”

  “Oh, so is that why you never told me about my mom?” I yell. “Were you afraid I’d follow the same path she did? Get famous, get chased by the paparazzi, and die?”

  Miranda pulls over so fast it gives me whiplash. She parks in front of a random house, leans her head on the steering wheel, and cries. I have never seen my strong-as-steel aunt cry. I am stunned into silence.

  “You don’t know how often I’ve had nightmares about that,” she chokes out. “It’s wh
y we brought you to the States in the first place. So that no one would know who you were, no one would follow you around. So that you’d be safe.”

  I suddenly realize how selfish I’m being. I’ve only been thinking about me. Only now, seeing her in pain, do I realize how hard this has been for her. For nearly fifteen years, Miranda has had to keep a huge secret. She probably hasn’t seen her family in that time, and she has sacrificed those years to raise me. I lean forward and place my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  Miranda lifts her head to wipe her eyes and nods. “I’m sorry too.” We sit in silence for a moment until the tst-tst-tst of a lawn sprinkler slaps the windshield. She says, matter-of-factly, “This is no place to have a life-changing conversation.”

  Half an hour later, we’re back home. Ella, Miranda, and I split a tub of my favorite ice cream, caramel with peanut butter cups. In between spoonfuls, Miranda explains everything.

  “Portia and my brother were the coolest people I knew.” Miranda’s face glows as she remembers. “Portia was this incredible singer, and Leo was good at everything he tried—sports, art, politics. Because they were so talented and charismatic, they had a lot of talented, charismatic friends. Movie stars, models, celebrities. By association, they became celebrities too. They were a true power couple. They went viral before going viral was a thing. But then . . . it caught up with them.” Miranda pauses, her voice catching.

  “After the funeral,” Miranda says, with a shaky voice, “my mother wanted you sent out of the country, to somewhere you could live a normal life away from the media. So Ella and I volunteered to move to California and raise you. We had to remain anonymous. No one could know where you were. If anyone found out, the press would never leave you alone. We never told you because we thought the secret was too large for a child to bear,” Miranda says, apologetic.

  “Why did you tell me now?” I ask. “This is pretty much coming out of nowhere.”