Page 55 of The Unlikely Heir
I snap my head up.
The entrance sign for St James’s Hospital is right in front of us.
A knot of apprehension grows in my stomach.
Combining sick, fragile people and expensive medical equipment with my clumsiness. What could possibly go wrong?
Stepping inside the entrance, that sharp nostril-sting disinfectant scent slams into me. I don’t think anyone has warm and fuzzy associations with hospitals. I’m taken back four years to when my mother was dying of vicious liver cancer and I was trying to cope with the thought of losing my mom, the central pillar of my life.
I swallow these feelings as Raymond and I meet Latisha, the head of the hospital who will be showing me around.
“Our patients are so excited to meet you,” Latisha says, and I try to summon a smile. My shoulders stiffen as I follow her down the hallway. The tie around my neck suddenly feels too tight, and I tug at the knot to loosen it.
We enter the children’s ward, and the first bed we stop at contains a girl around fourteen or fifteen. She has long brown hair and a tiny stud in her nose.
She also has dark-purple bruises under her eyes that look almost violent. I remember that from my mother when her body turned against her. It seemed like she was being beaten up from the inside.
“This is Amara,” Latisha says.
“Hey, Amara,” I say gently as I pull up a chair next to her. “Do you know who I am?”
Amara rolls her eyes. “You’re the new American prince. I’ve seen the clips of you. I’m going to move my jug of water to safety because you seem to destroy all objects you go near.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I say.
Amara makes a big deal of nosily rearranging the contents of her table while I sit there feeling more and more like an idiot, Latisha and Raymond watching.
What am I going to talk to her about?
Cynical teenagers aren’t my specialty. I lacked the cynical mode even when I was a teenager myself.
When she finishes, she gives me a look halfway between a scowl and a smirk.
I’m struck by the helplessness of it all. How someone thought my presence would help her when what Amara needs is the best medicine money can buy and a miracle.
My eyes flick to a book resting on the edge of her table.
“Are you interested in Greek mythology?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Yeah.”
“Who is your favorite god?”
“You’re telling me you know about Greek gods?”
“I know a bit,” I say.
“Eirene is my favorite.”
“Goddess of spring, good choice,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Most people don’t know who Eirene is.”
“I was obsessed with Greek and Roman gods when I was seventeen. I read everything I could about them.”
“Who is your favorite?” she asks.
“Helios,” I reply.
