Page 37 of The Unlikely Heir
Please don’t let me screw up.
It’s a silent plea that is becoming quite familiar on my lips.
My security team ushers me through the horde of press to where the chairperson of the British Museum and various other important people are standing.
I greet them all, then sidle over to Amelia, who is at the edge of the crowd reading the display on Cleopatra.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say.
“I keep running into you in the most unlikely places,” she deadpans back.
I feel a pulse of affection toward my younger sister. Anytime she or Nicholas is at one of these events with me, things instantly become more bearable. Partly because at least I know the scrutiny is being shared.
But Amelia is a less imposing presence than Nicholas. I often feel like Nicholas silently judges me for all my inadequacies, whereas Amelia is always upbeat and supportive in her own quiet way.
And she seems to be like me because she’s interested in lots of different things.
“So, what have you learned about Cleopatra?” I ask her.
“Do you know she wasn’t actually an Egyptian?”
“I think I do know that. She was Greek, wasn’t she?” When I was twelve, I went through a phase of being fascinated by Ancient Egypt, and for a few months, I read and watched everything I could find. Some of it stuck in my brain.
“There is still debate over her complete ancestry, but she was definitely descended from Ptolemy I Soter, one of Alexander the Great’s generals. The Romans tried to portray her as a promiscuous seductress who used her beauty for political gain, but she was actually incredibly brilliant. She was proficient in a dozen languages and was educated in mathematics, philosophy, and astronomy.”
“She sounds like a very talented woman,” I say.
“Which makes it sad that history just remembers her for her sex appeal, doesn’t it?” Amelia asks wryly.
“Your Royal Highness.” A middle-aged woman with curly brown hair approaches us, interrupting my reply. “I’m Dr. Michelle Pérez, the lead curator of this exhibit. Would you and Princess Amelia like a tour?
“We would love that,” I say.
As Michelle shows us around, I keep my elbows pinned firmly to my sides at all times.
Michelle seems quite delighted at how much I already know and my interest when she discusses how they are using pigments found in archaeology to work out the colors the original temples were painted. It’s funny how the weathered golden sandstone we associate with the famous temples is not the original color at all. It’s a faded version of its former glory, like a black-and-white photo.
My part in the official ceremony requires me to simply cut a ribbon and smile, and I manage the scissors without any mishaps to myself or anyone around me, which I take as a total win.
Morning tea is served, and I drift over to where scones and drinks are being served by a museum worker with bright-red hair.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Your Royal Highness?”
My mind is still thinking about ancient pigments, so I answer her without thinking.
“Um…no, thank you. I don’t drink tea. I’d rather drink dishwater, to be honest. At least that would have the added benefit of cleaning out my insides, right?”
Her eyebrows fly up.
Oh shit.
Mental note, insulting the national drink of the country I’m going to rule one day isn’t a particularly good idea.
I’m fairly sure Raymond covered that one in my training, actually.
I take a deep breath as I run my hand through my hair.
“So, do you want some dishwater then?” she asks, and the snark in her voice is unmistakable.
