Page 33 of The Unlikely Spare
A cluster of students chant something rhythmic and furious, their signs screamingMONARCHY = WHITE SUPREMACY,250 YEARS OF GENOCIDE IS NOT A CELEBRATION. MAKARRATA NOW!
One particularly effective sign simply asks:WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?
Their fury is familiar, like an echo from Belfast streets where we’d spray-paintedBRITS OUTon every available wall. Different people, different continent, but the same common denominator.
The Crown.
Nicholas watches the protesters silently through the bulletproof glass, his face unreadable as he continues to spin his ring on his finger.
When we finally reach the motorway, leaving the protesters in our rearview mirror, Nicholas leans toward me, his voice pitched low. “So, Officer O’Connell, does your security training include giving tactical advice on how to respond to people who rightfully hate you because your ancestors stole their land?”
The question catches me off guard. There’s a familiar sardonic edge to his tone, but underneath it, there’s something that sounds suspiciously like uncertainty.
“I don’t believe that’s covered in the standard protection protocols,” I reply carefully.
“Pity. Seems rather a significant oversight.”
The irony’s thick enough to choke on. A prince of the United Kingdom asking a Belfast Catholic for advice on colonial resentment?
The universe must be having a right laugh.
“My advice would be to listen to them.” The words decide to come out without my permission. “People who feel unheard tend to shout louder.”
Surprise flashes across his face, and he blinks at me. For once, he doesn’t have a ready quip.
We stare at each other for a few heartbeats. Then Nicholas turns away, returning to staring out the window, his expression unreadable.
What the fuck just happened? Is he actually concerned about the protesters, or was that just another layer in the complex performance that constitutes Prince Nicholas Alexander?
When people show you who they are, believe them.
My da used to say that.
The callous way Nicholas treated his mother surely should remind me of who this man really is.
It’s easy to be kind to strangers. It’s a lot harder to be kind to people who love us because we know they’ll forgive us.
I rub my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. This assignment is doing my head in. I’m not here to psychoanalyze a prince or uncover the man beneath the crown. I’m here to identify any potential security threats within his detail.
I need to remember that.
Chapter Ten
Eoin
The Wallaby Wildlife Sanctuary sits on the edge of Sydney, surrounded by scrub and eucalyptus trees. By the time we arrive in the late afternoon, the place looks like a bloody circus. Press everywhere, locals rubbernecking behind police barriers like it’s the second coming.
Nicholas steps out of the car looking like he’s stepped off a magazine cover—chinos and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled just so. The cameras go mental, clicking like a plague of locusts.
He looks exactly how a prince should look. Polished but not too posh, approachable but still royal. I know this because I had to sit through twenty minutes of James and Prince Nicholas’s stylist Henrietta debating whether his sleeves should be rolled to mid-forearm or just below the elbow.
Christ. The things I never thought I’d witness in my career. Sleeve positioning as a form of communication. Next, they’ll be telling me his shoelaces send diplomatic messages.
“Look at them all,” Nicholas says to me in an undertone as we walk toward the waiting officials. “Do you think they’d be this excited if a koala were visiting a prince sanctuary?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I reply, scanning the crowd.
“Of course you wouldn’t. That would require imagination,” he says.
