Page 16 of The Unlikely Heir
The queen is at a podium, speaking in her prim and proper voice that is almost as familiar to me as my own nan’s voice was.
“As my heir, Callum now assumes the Scottish titles: Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Island, and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland. Along with the English title of the Duke of Cornwall, I’m also proud to announce him as Prince of Wales, Tywysog Cymru. I know he will serve the people he represents well. We will have an investiture ceremony for the Prince of Wales on August the eighteenth. And now, I invite my grandson, Prince Callum, onto the stage.”
Callum looks startled as he steps up to replace Queen Katharine at the podium. Forget deer in headlights. He looks like a deer facing an entire squad of hunters armed with ten thousand-watt spotlights.
Which isn’t actually a bad metaphor for the British press, come to think of it.
He looks around the room, then stares at a piece of paper in his hands, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I…um…” He clears his throat. “I never expected to be speaking to you as the Prince of Wales, as the heir to the throne. But I’m completely honored and humbled to accept the titles my grandmother, Queen Katharine, has bestowed on me.
“I am proud of my British heritage, and I promise to faithfully serve the people of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth to the best of my abilities.”
Is the best of his abilities going to be good enough?
I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one asking that question right now.
“I look forward to spending more time with the people of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth and getting to know each other as I learn to serve you in whatever way possible.”
Callum looks up from his notes and gives the audience a smile. It’s a happy smile, tinged with relief, but there’s a touch of innocence there too.
Overall, it’s sweeter than a honey sandwich.
It stirs a weird feeling inside me. It’s something I can’t quite name as I stand there in the prime minister’s office, transfixed by a smile on the future king’s face.
Blinking to reorientate myself, I turn to Toby.
There’s something anticipatory in Toby’s grin as he watches the footage of Callum walking off the stage.
“They’re going to eat him alive,” he says.
ChapterSeven
Callum
The next few days are surreal. Pigs flying around an ice-skating rink with leprechauns and fairies sprinkling them with pixie dust kind of surreal.
Photos of me are everywhere.Everywhere.
I turned on the TV to a random Japanese channel last night, and even they had a photo of me on the top right of the screen as the news presenter spoke rapidly with an intense expression. The only words I recognized were my name.
The idea that I am worthy of this amount of attention still seems so ludicrous it’s up there with the pet rock trend and pineapple on pizza.
I work in an insurance call center.
Or I did, anyway. I officially resigned yesterday.
It’s fair to say that Becca had a slightly different attitude toward me when I called to say I was resigning.
Emily also seems to have changed her opinion of me in the few days since we saw each other, if her interviews with media outlets are anything to go on. With headlines likeMy Date with the PrinceandI was with Callum when He Found out He was Heir!she’s gushed about how nice and humble I am. And apparently, I looked “like someone hit by a stun gun” when Spencer told me I was now heir to the throne.
Emily is also auctioning off her blouse with the red wine stain. When I checked last night, bidding had reached over a hundred thousand dollars. I’m trying not to think about that too much because it hurts my mind. If the results of my clumsiness are worth so much, someone should really talk to my childhood friend, Ewan’s, mom to see if she still has the pieces of the vase I broke when Ewan and I were attempting to breakdance in their living room when we were twelve.
Today, I have another morning of lessons in royal etiquette from Raymond. He tries to keep his expression neutral as he guides me through intense media and protocol training, but his mustache betrays him, the left side twitching up every time I say or do something wrong. Unfortunately, his mustache gets quite a workout.
There’s a lot more to being royal than I’d previously appreciated. I’m forbidden to give out my autograph or take selfies with anyone. I can never eat garlic and shellfish is discouraged. My shoelaces have to be ironed. Due to the Royal Marriages Act of 1772, I’m required to ask the queen’s permission before proposing to someone. I must always carry a black outfit when traveling in case I have to urgently go somewhere for a funeral.
I focus as hard as I can on Raymond’s lessons, but they’re overwhelming. I feel like the major piece of knowledge I’m gaining is becoming fluent in the language of Raymond’s mustache. I’m not sure how much that will help me in my service to the British public.
