by Adora Crooks
“I know,” Roland murmurs. “It’s over now. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Rory looks sick with worry. Her eyes brim with tears, and her hand covers her mouth. I reach out and touch her arm. “You saved us,” I whisper to her.
It seems to be what she needs to hear. She takes my hand and clutches it hard. I squeeze her back.
Roland cradles his mother, and we hold hands beside him until the ambulance arrives. Officers from Scotland Yard come with them. While the EMTs whisk the queen away, Roland, Rory, and I are stuck with the officers. We recount the story. Tell them what happen. Rory shows them the video. They nod, somber frowns lining their faces, but even these hardened professionals look shaken.
They jot down notes and then tell us to remain in sight. Roland collapses onto a bench, and Rory and I flank him protectively. For a long while, the three of lapse into silence. The palace, which has been so empty for so long, is suddenly buzzing with activity. Scotland Yard officers and medical professionals bounce back and forth while the help flail around frantically, looking lost.
“Are you okay?” Rory asks Roland, breaking the quiet between us.
“It’s strange,” Roland says. He stares ahead at nothing in particular, those blue eyes now smoky and clouded. “There was part of me that thought we’d never find the person behind this… or maybe, that there never was a conspiracy against the crown. For a long time, I thought my mum had just lost her mind. It turns out she was right after all.”
“Half-right,” I speak up. “She never guessed her sister. No one did.”
“I’ve spent my whole life hiding away from some… great monster outside. It turns out, the monster was right within these walls.”
I watch as Rory’s hand slips over Roland’s arm, and he turns to face her. Rory always has a way of grounding us somehow. “You can go anywhere you want now,” she says urgently. “Anywhere. You’re free.”
I see the temptation in Roland’s eyes. The knee-jerk instinct to run. “And you’ll go with me?” Roland asks. His gaze flickers between the both of us.
I nod. “Wherever you are, we’ll be,” I promise him.
Some of the light comes back in Roland’s eyes.
Tanner steps in front of us and clears his throat. “Your Highness? I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Roland says. “Any word on my mum?”
“They have her at Edward’s. She’s stable.”
Roland lets out a breath of relief. “Thank God.”
Tanner has a bound booklet in his hand, and he holds it out to Roland. “You’ll need this.”
Roland takes it and stares blankly at the leather-bound cover. “What’s this?”
“The royal oath. For your swearing-in ceremony as prince regent.” Just then, it clicks. Of course. Tanner adds finally, “You’re the reigning monarch now, Your Highness.”
46
Roland
My eyes look wild in the mirror. Electric blue and static. I resist the urge to run my fingers through my hair—it’s already been slicked over my skull and tied into a tight ribbon. I settle for fidgeting with the gold cufflinks around my wrists instead.
“Relax.” Rory’s small hands make dents in the white fabric of my shirt as she clutches my arms. She gives me a squeeze. “You look like a king.”
“Prince regent,” I correct. “Just until my mum gets better.”
My mother is still tucked away safely in King Edward’s Hospital. The doctors expect a full recovery; the poison has been flushed from her system. But her wounds are far more than skin-deep. I saw it in her the last time I went to see her. There were bags around her eyes, and her hair looked limp around her face. She’s tired. Tired of losing family. Tired of carrying the weight of the crown.
Those wounds will take far, far longer to heal. She has the best medical and mental health professionals in the world at her side to help her through it, I’ve made sure of that.
Until then… England needs a monarch. England needs me. And thousands of people are waiting outside to witness my transformation. The swearing in was one thing: a private ceremony for the Privy Council. Stiff shirts and bulldog frowns. But now I have to address the people of England to let them know that the monarchy is in good hands. No pressure or anything.
My fingers tremble and I accidentally flick one of the cufflinks out of its pocket. It pings against the mirror and clicks across the hardwood. “Hell.”
“I’ve got it.” Rory bends and scoops the tiny piece up. Wordlessly, she takes my arm and threads the cufflinks together. “You’re shaking,” she comments.
“I’m nervous.”
“You have nothing to worry about. Just be you.”
“I feel like a virgin with his first maid,” I admit.
Rory chuckles. “Okay, maybe be a little less you.”
She presses her lips to my frown. The soft warmth of her kiss distracts the frayed edges of my mind. I cup the small of her back and pull her body against mine. She sighs against my mouth, and in that moment, she’s completely mine.
Hell with addressing the people. I could live between her lips. I push my tongue inside and taste her. My kitten moans, her soft breath pattering against my cheek.
“Sir.” Ah. There he is. My conscience, ready to reel me in. I break away from Rory’s mouth to see Ben standing in the half-open doorway.
Ben looks sharp. The stubble on his jaw has been carved into a clean line. White shirt. Black jacket. Even his trousers are new. Good on him.
“They’re waiting on you,” he says. He’s got an earpiece perched over the shell of his ear and that no-nonsense look in his eyes. Big day and all. He barely even acknowledges the fact that Rory is tangled up in my arms. Give him a job and the man is a horse with blinders.
I turn back to Rory and press my thumb against the swell of her lower lip. “Tell them to wait a little longer.”
“Should I tell them to postpone for tomorrow, sir?” Ben’s tone is curt. I’m going to be in trouble if I stall any longer.
I sigh dramatically. “Daddy’s calling.”
“Sounds like it.” Rory grins. “Go. Speak to your people.”
I kiss her again, lingering this time. I want to reach under that shirt and feel her shiver under my fingertips. I want to taste between her legs. I want her.
Ben clears his throat.
I seal the kiss and say, “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it.” Rory winks and blows me a kiss.
Ben escorts me out of my room and down the hall. The royal guards are all in red, dressed to the nines. It’s a monumental moment.
“Rooster coming to coop, copy,” Ben says into his headpiece.
“That’s your code name for me?” I scoff. “Rooster?”
“Would you prefer Royal Pain in the Arse?”
“Yes, actually.” I stop at the end of the hall. There’s a curtain separating myself and the balcony. Once I step out there, there will be nothing between me and the thousands of people down below. My heart is positively racing, and I’m doing my best not to break into a sweat. This will be the first time most people have seen me—besides that little snafu with the sex tape. I don’t want to be the prince who shags on camera and who sweats through his first official address.
I stop on my heels and turn to Ben. “How do I look?”
I’m stalling and he knows it. Still, he plays my game. “Good,” he says.
“Only good?”
“Your family would be proud of you,” Ben tells me.
That hits me square in the chest. My father, my mother… what would they say to see me here now? I try to sneak a peek through the curtain, but all I see are shards of white light. “You think he’s watching? My father.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Well, then. Let’s give him a show.”
47
Ben
Rooster is walking.
Clear on ten? Eyes on twenty.
Crowd is rowdy. Calm them down.
This isn’t a bloody rock concert.
Check. Check. Copy. Clear.
The voices chatter incessantly in my earpiece as everyone takes their place for the prince regent’s address. My skin buzzes. I’m alert, eyes and ears everywhere. After all the action we’ve seen over the past few weeks, I’m not taking any chances.
I push people to the side to let Roland pass. “Step aside. Prince regent coming through.”
I make eye contact with Tanner. He’s standing at the edge of the curtain. He nods and we flank Roland on either side as he breaks through the curtain and steps onto the balcony.
People. I’ve never seen so many people flooding the palace gates. There’s a whole sea of them below, moving like a massive wave, and they let out a single, joyful roar when the prince shows his face.
Not prince. Prince regent. Reigning monarch, for the time being.
Roland certainly does look the part. The London breeze flutters at the loose strands of blond hair that have fallen around his face. His eyes sparkle, a perfect match to the cloudless sky above us. When he smiles and lifts his hand in a wave, I’m certain I can hear half the crowd swoon.
Dammit. Get your eyes off his perfect mouth and back on the people below.
It’s impossible to watch this many people all at once, but we have a reliable crew. Guards are perched up above like hawks, eyes trained on the crowd below. I can see other suits mixed into the mass, black dots fidgeting with their earpieces and radios.
And, of course, Roland has me at his side. At the first sign of trouble, I’m prepared to throw him to the ground and drag him back to the palace in one piece.
There’s a small microphone fixed to Roland’s suit, and it sends his voice booming over the loudspeakers and out into the crowd. “I can’t tell you what a joy it is to see you all here,” Roland says. “The palace hasn’t looked so good in years.”
A ripple of laughter from the crowd.
“My family has been through a lot,” Roland says, taking on a more somber tone. “And as always we appreciate your prayers and well wishes. When a plane crash took my father ten years ago, my life changed forever. The palace doors closed. I kept myself locked away out of fear for my own safety. I failed to recognize that it wasn’t only my life that had changed, but the future of England. For years, I deprived you the chance to get to know your prince.”
Roland takes in a deep breath, and it shakes in his throat. He’s vulnerable now. I want to reach over and hold him, protect him, but I keep my feet rooted in my spot. The sunlight makes his blue eyes sparkle. He smiles through the pain.
“No more closed doors,” he says. “As of tomorrow, Buckingham Palace will be open to the public. If I’ve learned anything in these past ten years, it’s that you don’t get anywhere in life without taking risks. Live the life you were meant to live. Don’t hold back. As your prince regent, I intend to do just that.”
The crowd erupts with cheers. My eyes flicker over the sea of people, and I feel a knot in my chest. They love him. I can’t blame them.
I love him.
Just then, my attention is interrupted when Roland starts toward me. Panic stabs through me—did someone push him? Is he ducking an attack? He has his place markers, he shouldn’t move… but he does. He closes the gap between us, takes me by the back of my head, and pulls me into a kiss.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Roland’s lips are on mine, and my body forgets how to survive. The soft, warm press of his mouth entices me in closer. There millions of people watching us. There is no turning back from this moment.
Kiss him, you fool, I hear Rory’s voice in my ear. Take a risk.
I sink into his lips. His kiss strips me of everything. I am his. He is mine. My prince. My king. For the world to see.
When Roland pulls back, I’m breathless and he is grinning. I’m positive I’m beet red, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.
The crowd is still cheering. There are no gunshots. No throwing knives. He kissed me and everything is fine. Everyone is alive. The world still turns; England still loves him.
Roland shouts over the balcony, “God bless the queen! And God bless England!”
My muscles unlock. It’s time to usher him back inside. I’m grateful that Tanner is there because he helps pull my focus, and we redirect Roland back into the palace.
“You’ll have to answer for that kiss, Your Highness,” Tanner informs Roland, playing the role of father for the day.
“Let them ask,” Roland laughs. “I’m an open book. It’s time England got to know their royal family.” He turns to me then and adds, “Are you all right with that?”
It’s a bit late to ask now—but I’m somehow pleased he’s asked at all. I nod, my head flopping. I’m still in a daze. “Yes. I’m all right with that.”
“Good.” Just like that, Roland is onto the next thing. He strolls down the halls with decisive purpose now. He turns his head left and right and then asks the million-dollar question: “Where’s Rory?”
48
Rory
Getting out into the crowd to watch Roland from the balcony seems like a pipe dream. So I putter around the palace until one of the maids pssts me and gestures me over to the living room. There’s a handful of help here, all in matching uniforms, eyes glued to the television.
“Pop your rear down, dearie.” The maid sits on the couch and pats the spot next to her.
I sidle up next her, grateful that the palace help got to me before any of the dukes or duchesses could. I’m far more comfortable here, where people call me dearie, rather than squeezed in between a couple stuffy suits who address each other as ma’am and highness.
“Lookit, there goes our boy,” the chef snorts.
“Awww, he looks all grown up.” A middle-aged maid sniffs and dabs her eyes with her apron. “He’s gonna make me cry.”
These are the people Roland grew up with—his only human contact, day after day. And they’re so proud of him. It makes my heart swell in my chest.
Roland starts to speak, and we all hang on his every word. He looks great on the TV. Confident. Bold. He looks as though he was born to be there. He’s effortlessly commanding. I watch as Roland wraps up his speech and then… he turns to Ben and catches the bodyguard in a passionate kiss.
The reaction from the help is a mixture of gasps and laughs. My hand flies to my mouth, and I can’t help the stupid, wide grin that explodes across my face. Oh my God. He did it. He went for it.
Leave it to Roland. You can give the boy a throne, but you can’t stop him from being a boy. And I wouldn’t want to. Roland’s boldness is infectious and magnificent, and nothing can diminish his blaze.
Ben looks in a euphoric haze when Roland pulls back. Roland is ecstatic, and his enthusiasm is contagious.
“I always knew Roland fancied him,” a maid declares.
“You did not!”
“Did too!”
“Someone owes me twenty quid!”
I let them squabble it out, and slip out of the room. It’s only a matter of time before they turn their attention on me and start asking questions I don’t have an answer for.
It’s bittersweet, this fluttering in my chest. My job here is done. The palace is all a flutter of bodyguards and help rushing back and forth, and I move through them like a ghost. No one pays attention to the Normal with tattered jeans and a lumpy backpack. I move down the hall and slip into the library. My fingertips fly over the book spines until they hit the world atlas. It’s stiff under my fingers, the pages blocky, and I tilt the book back. I can hear the clunky lock come undone, and the bookshelf groans open.
I’ve mapped out most of the secret doors in this place by now. This one should spiral down to the underground tunnel, which will let me out under the bridge by the Thames and then—
“Here, kitty, kitty.”
The familiar voice stops me in my spot. I turn and see Roland and Ben standing at the entrance of the library, eyes on me.
“Oh,
hey.” I smile lamely. “I was just…”
Roland fills in the blanks. “Leaving the party before saying goodbye?”
“I thought you were done running,” Ben says stiffly.
My shoulders droop at his tone. “I am,” I tell him. “I’m not running.” I lift my hand, motion to them, and drop it. “You’ve… found your home. Now I have to go back to mine.”
“About that,” Roland says. “I thought you might want to stay a little longer.”
Roland steps back and motions someone forward as if on cue. I hear the sticky-tape sound of rubber wheels on hardwood floor.
When I see him, my heart nearly leaps out my throat.
“Bonjovi, Rory.” Oscar smiles at me, the nurse behind him holding onto the handles of his wheelchair.
My jaw falls. My mouth works uselessly before I get out the words “Otter? How…?”
Roland has one of his canary-eating grins, and he shrugs. “I’m the prince regent. I can pull strings.”
My bag falls to the ground with a loud thud. I launch myself forward and throw my arms around my brother. “I can’t believe you’re here.” I hug him and bury my face into his wool sweater. His red hair tickles my nose. He smells like mothballs and minty disinfectant, and honestly I can’t get enough of it.
“Careful with the delicates,” Oscar wheezes. All of him is delicate. He’s frail under his sweater, like a pile of baby bird bones in my arms.
I pull back and wipe my nose on my sleeve. I’m a blubbering mess.
“Why don’t we give you two some space?” Roland suggests.
The courtyard is beautiful this time of day. Twin rosebushes line either side of the brick walkway as Oscar and I make our way through it. At the end of the walkway, there’s a stone fountain with cherubic angels dancing around the base, water spouting over their heads. I push his wheelchair over the brick road. We stop by the fountain and listen to the water gurgle and hiss.
