Page 139 of The Unlikely Heir
His question knocks the wind out of me.
Philosophically, I’ve been an unapologetic Republican my entire life, although my stance has softened after interacting with the queen and also in the last few months after witnessing up close the good Callum has done, the people he’s helped, what the monarchy means to so many everyday people of the UK.
From a personal point of view, it gets even more complicated.
Voting for the monarchy to end is voting for something that will hurt the man I love. But voting to keep the monarchy will mean Callum and I can never be together while I’m in politics.
And my true answer slips out of me before I can think of any way to polish it.
“I don’t know.”
Callum’s face closes down. He turns and walks out of the room.
My stomach falls away, and I screw my hands into tight balls.
Fuck.
I knew that there was no future for Callum and me.
I knew it from the start.
But it turns out that knowing and believing are two different things.
I am now a believer.
ChapterThirty-Eight
Callum
It’s a bleak gray day in Wales, matching my mood.
I’m at Caernarfon Castle, the venue for my investiture ceremony tomorrow, for an official walk-through so I know what I’m doing in front of the live audience of four thousand people and the estimated TV audience of one billion.
Yeah, practicing is a good idea.
A fine dusting of rain settles on my face and the smell of brine invades my nostrils.
The wind whispers through the flagstones, and the fanciful part of me imagines it carries the echoes of ancient kings and battles long past. What advice would those ancient kings give me? It feels like I could use all the guidance I can get right now.
The Master of Ceremonies is talking, and I snap my attention back to him.
“When you arrive at the castle, the band will play ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales.’”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s a song?”
“Yes. It’s a song.”
I blink at Raymond, who is standing next to me. “There’s a song about me? How did I not know this?”
When I’m the Prince of Wales, God is asked to bless me. When I’m king, he will be asked to save me.
There must be meaning to be extracted from this somehow.
“‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’ was originally written in the mid-1800s to mark the marriage between Edward VII and Alexandra of Denmark,” Raymond informs me.
“I imagine it hit the Top 40 at the time,” I say. I don’t get even a glimmer of a smile from either Raymond or the Master of Ceremonies.
But I immediately store the fact I’ve got a song about me to tell Oliver later. My heart clenches.
