Page 21 of The Unlikely Spare
“Was that a joke?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he replies, deadpan. “Simply a security assessment. The icing figure appears less likely to find itself in compromising situations.”
“Careful, Officer O’Connell,” I say. “I do believe I detected the faintest hint of humor there. We shouldn’t want word to get back to the Scowling Protection Officer Association. They might revoke your membership.”
“I believe my membership is secure, sir,” he says dryly.
But I’m sure there was a slight hitch on one side of his mouth before he wrestled it back into submission.
A weird feeling swells inside me, one I can’t quite name. What would it take to make Officer O’Connell smile properly?
Why do I even care?
I turn my attention back to the children, accepting another piece of gingerbread with appropriate gratitude.
But my good mood brought on by excess sugar fades quickly when Mrs. Pemberton, the community center director, materializes at my elbow.
“How’s the Queen feeling, Prince Nicholas? Is she on the mend?”
My grandmother has been plagued with a bad winter cold that went to her chest, forcing her to cancel a series of public engagements for the first time in years. It’s something that would be a mere inconvenience for most ninety-year-olds, but becomes front-page news when you happen to be the monarch.
“Her Majesty is recovering splendidly, thank you for asking,” I reply. “Though I’m told she’s driving her doctors to distraction by insisting on reviewing state papers between naps.” Mrs. Pemberton smiles, and I continue, “She asked me to personally apologize to the gingerbread architects of St. Margaret’s for her absence today. I’m afraid my judging skills are a poor substitute for her expertise in structural icing techniques.”
Mrs. Pemberton makes the right noises about how wonderful it is that I could step in, but my mind is now dwelling on Grandmother’s fragile health and the fact that she won’t be around forever.
Grandmother has always been a force of nature. The thought of her actually being vulnerable feels like watching Big Ben tilt sideways.
I’ve just awarded theMost Creative Use of Candy Canesprize to a gingerbread recreation of the London Eye that almost certainly had more parental involvement than child input when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s from my private secretary, James.
Your Royal Highness, your presence is requested at Buckingham Palace immediately. The Lord Chamberlain wishes to speak with you personally.
My stomach clenches.
The Lord Chamberlain requesting an unscheduled meeting is the royal equivalent of being called to the headmaster’s office. It’s never for good news or casual conversation.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m afraid duty calls,” I announce to Mrs. Pemberton, summoning a regretful smile. “Please convey my sincere apologies to anyone I haven’t had a chance to speak with yet.”
As I make my way toward the exit, I catch O’Connell already speaking into his wrist mic, no doubt arranging for the car to be brought around.
Whatever this meeting might be about, I doubt it involves gingerbread.
On the drive to Buckingham Palace, I stare out the window, watching London slide past in a blur of red buses and Christmas decorations that seem obscenely cheerful given my current mood. The last time I received a summons this urgent, it was when my uncles, aunts, and cousins had all been caught out in a scandal that propelled me from twelfth in line to the throne to second. But I’m fairly sure Callum hasn’t been misbehaving, unless his recent mishap of falling into the Thames during a boat christening ceremony and baptizing half the press corps in the process warrants a royal intervention.
There’s the usual throng of tourists gathered outside Buckingham Palace. Our motorcade procession attracts attention, with tourists turning toward us, their mobile phones raised.
O’Connell doesn’t say anything from his space next to me on the back seat, but his gray eyes remain vigilant, as if one of thepedestrians might suddenly produce a weapon and attack the car. Or potentially, he’s expecting Queen Victoria to come alive from her massive marble memorial and attempt to smite me with her scepter for being a disappointing descendant.
The car slides through the gates of Buckingham Palace.
I emerge from the car into the courtyard where even the pigeons seem to stand at attention. The palace looms above us, all imposing stone and centuries of expectations pressing down like atmospheric pressure.
Inside, the world immediately changes to hushed voices and the particular silence that comes from carpets thick enough to swallow secrets.
Officer O’Connell follows two paces behind me, his footsteps nearly silent. What does he make of all this gilt-edged grandeur?
If he’s impressed, his face doesn’t show it.
