Page 17 of The Unlikely Heir
That afternoon, when my half-siblings, Amelia and Nicholas, are ushered into a meeting room, I can see some of my confusion reflected on Amelia’s face. She’s blinking behind her glasses like a bewildered owl.
I stand and move toward them instinctively, then stop, hovering awkwardly. Because hugging is definitely not part of our family tradition.
We give each other hesitant smiles instead.
“Hi, Callum.” Nicholas holds out his hand. “Good to see you.”
I shake my half-brother’s hand, acutely aware we’re being watched by a whole bunch of royal officials with fancy-sounding titles like Lord Chamberlain and private secretaries of Buckingham Palace, Clarence House, and Kensington Palace, all staff of The Royal Households of the United Kingdom.
It’s not exactly your typical family reunion.
“Good to see you too,” I say.
Our father died when I was eight, Nicholas five, and Amelia was only two.
If he hadn’t, I’m sure I would have spent more time with my half-siblings. But we grew up half a world apart. And as I’m basically just a male version of my mother, I don’t even share their dark hair, strong brows, and startling blue eyes that mark them as siblings.
I look nothing like them. I sound nothing like them. But they’re the closest family I have left.
We all take a seat around the meeting table, and it turns out that the main purpose of the royal staff getting us together is to deliver a lecture about our expected behavior now that we are in such close proximity to the crown.
"Your behavior needs to be impeccable, above reproach.” My grandmother’s private secretary, Clive, seems to direct that comment mainly at Nicholas, who shuffles in his seat uncomfortably. I’m guessing some of Nicholas’s behavior that makes the tabloids doesn’t reach Clive’s threshold for the standards we need to maintain.
Then Clive extends his penetrating gaze to me.
“In regard to politics, the royal family’s position requires the support of all politicians, so you cannot be seen favoring one party over the other. You cannot express your views on any political matter. You have to be strictly impartial. And as part of that, you are not allowed to vote.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not allowed to vote?”
“No. Technically it’s not forbidden by law, but by tradition, members of the royal family do not vote. As a constitutional monarchy, the royal family is the symbolic head of the country, but all governance is carried out by the Parliament and the prime minister. The monarchy is a source of stability and continuity, and being politically neutral means they can be a unifying presence no matter which party is in power.”
I nod. It makes sense. Although the idea of never voting again seems weird.
“And how are you planning to handle the fact that the heir to the throne is an American?” Nicholas asks, his crisp public-school accent sounding even more precise than normal.
My shoulders stiffen.
“Trust me, we are very well aware that the heir to the throne is now American, and we shall do everything we can to mitigate that.”
Mitigate it? My nationality is something to be mitigated now?
“I’m half-British,” I offer up feebly with a weak smile.
No one smiles back at me.
After the meeting officially finishes, I remain at the table, slightly shell-shocked. Which appears to be my modus operandi right now.
Amelia lingers near me. “Are you all right?”
“By all right, do you mean, am I quietly freaking out over the fact my life will never be the same again? Because I’m definitely doing that.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s a bit of a whirlwind, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it’s more on the scale of a category-five hurricane,” I say.
She glances over at the doorway where a few of the palace courtiers are having a discussion.
“I’m really not sure the royal advisers reflect the diversity of modern-day Britain,” she says in an undertone.
