Page 26 of The Unlikely Heir
Will I be the end of it?
My stomach clenches.
The car pulls around to the state apartments, and Raymond and I get out, accompanied by my royal protection officers.
The Grand Reception Room of Windsor Castle is the definition of opulence. The ceilings and walls drip with gilded moldings, interspersed with large oil paintings. The thick red-and-gold curtains framing the tall windows are so heavy they look like they are designed to protect us from invading armies rather than just a draft.
My grandmother is waiting inside the Grand Reception Room, dressed in an elegant emerald dress and tiara, engaged in an intense discussion with Clive, her private secretary.
I give a small head bow to her, and when I straighten, I’ve got her full attention.
“Callum, lovely to see you,” she says.
“Hi, Gran.”
Even though the smile she gives me is warm, there is always something so untouchable about my grandmother. I’m not sure if it’s her natural personality or if years of being the sovereign created this barrier.
I can’t remember if she was like this when my grandfather was alive because he died just before my father, so I was too young to understand how the dynamic between Gran and him worked.
Based on my limited experience as a royal, I can see why you wouldn’t want to let people close to you. Too much potential for betrayal.
“I trust you are getting the guidance you need,” she says.
“I’m learning a lot,” I reply honestly. “Although I’m not particularly enamored with one species of bird that belongs to you.”
Her lips twitch. “I heard about that. Let me tell you, Callum, there’s one important thing I’ve learned in all my years as queen.”
My breath hitches. Is she going to give me some advice to help me navigate these unchartered territories?
“What’s that?” I ask.
She leans in close and whispers, “Never trust birds.”
I give a startled laugh as I pull back.
“I learned that lesson processing insurance claims as well,” I say. We share a smile.
“Callum.” It’s the perfect British accent of my brother.
I turn to face him. “Hi, Nicholas.”
I’m startled every time I see Nicholas because he’s almost a clone of my father. The same dark hair, the same bright-blue eyes. The same lips that curl up into a charming smile. Nicholas’s tuxedo fits him like a second skin.
My parent’s marriage was over before my first birthday, and I spent so little time with my father before he died that I only have a handful of memories. Sometimes I don’t know which memories are real and which have come from watching videos and seeing photos.
But I do know that Nicholas is familiar in some deep-seated way I can’t really explain.
Nicholas arches an eyebrow now as he looks at me.
“I watched the interview your friend gave. What a wanker.”
Wanker is a very British insult, but it seems to fit Cliff perfectly.
“Ah, yeah. That’s an accurate summary,” I say.
“You’ll have to pick your friends more carefully from now on,” he says.
I try not to flinch. “I know.”
