Page 59 of Her Royal Highness
I’m standing on the top of a massive green hill, staring at a shard of stone thrusting up toward the sky. Wind is whipping my hair out from under my beanie, and my cheeks sting. It started raining on us about fifteen minutes into this hike and only just stopped, so I’m vaguely damp and clammy.
And I am alsodelighted. When Flora told me at breakfast that there was something she wanted to show me, I didn’t imagine anything like this.
“The most magical,” I confirm to Flora, looking at the Old Man of Storr.
Flora hadn’t lied about this part of Skye being almost unbearably beautiful and also very rock-filled. It feels like being on another planet, almost, everything bare and craggy, loose rubble under my feet. Even the other tourists brave enough to make this climb on a windy, wet morning don’t take away from the beauty of the place or the sense that I’m somewhere completely different and unknown.
Grinning at me, Flora leans down to pick up a loose pebble, bouncing it in her hand. She’s wearing a red jacket and black pants, her own hair also stuffed underneath a hat. Her nose is red, too, but she still looks nearly magazine-ready.
Such is Flora, I guess.
Then she gestures to the rock, calling out over the wind, “So tell me about it!”
I screw up my face, trying to shove my hair back out of my eyes. “What, the rock?”
“Yes, Quint, the big magic rock. Give me all the rock facts in your ginormous brain.”
Self-conscious, I dust my hands on the back of my pants, glancing up at the shard. “Well, it’s made of two types of rock,” I start, and Flora sits on the ground, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. It’s a very un-Flora-like pose, and I almost giggle at it, her sitting there like a bright and eager student.
“Louder!” she calls, and I roll my eyes.
“Two types of rock!” I repeat. “In layers, see?” I point, and Flora nods. “So that means the rock is fairly fragile and susceptible to weathering, and that’s what happened here. All the wind and rain and years just kind of... whittled it into this. This big rock.”
Flora squints a little as she studies the huge, jagged piece of stone, then she says, “See, legend has it that there’s a giant buried under this hill, and that’s his thumb, sticking up out of the ground.”
“Well, that story is much better than ‘giant rock made slightly less giant by erosion,’” I admit, and Flora laughs, standing up.
“I think I like your science-y version better, if I’m honest.”
We stand there for a second, grinning at each other, and suddenly last night in the orangery comes rushing back to me. The way I felt dancing with her. How the air around us seemed different, charged.
And even up on top of a mountain in the north of Scotland in October, my skin suddenly flushes hot.
That feeling only intensifies when Flora slips her arm through mine and bumps my hip with hers, saying, “So I delivered on all my Skye promises, yes?”
“And then some,” I tell her.
Nodding back at the Old Man of Storr, she steps away and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone, I’ll take a picture of you by it.”
Feeling self-conscious, I move in front of the rock, pulling my hair out of my eyes before clasping my hands in front of me.
Flora laughs. “Okay, Quint, try to actually look like you’re having fun.”
“Iamhaving fun,” I retort. “I’m just terrible at posing for pictures.”
With an extravagant sigh, Flora comes to stand next to me, throwing her arm around my shoulders and pulling me in tight. “Fine. We’ll selfie it, then, shall we?”
She holds my phone out, her face pressed to mine, and I can see us in my phone screen, her smile dazzling and bright, my own a little more hesitant.
“Quint, you’re insulting the giant under the ground with that face,” Flora says through her smile, and I laugh.
That’s when Flora snaps the picture.
When we get back to the castle, it’s already getting dark, even though it’s barely evening. The wind has gotten colder, too, and Flora and I tumble out of the car that had taken us to Storr.
“Hand me your phone,” she says, and I do it without thinking because Flora is that good at issuing commands.
“Back in the land of Wi-Fi,” she mutters to herself, and I remember setting up my phone with the castle’s Wi-Fi yesterday. The network was called “IT’S THIS ONE GRANDDA,” so I assumed one of Lord Henry’s grandkids had set it up for him.
