Page 36 of The Unlikely Spare
Nicholas snaps his gaze up to mine, his eyes widening. He laughs, and it’s different from his usual controlled chuckle. The sound bursts from him like something escaping captivity.
“Well played, O’Connell,” Nicholas says, amusement lingering in his voice. “Although I can’t help but wonder if that observation was directed purely at the koalas.”
Fuck. I wasn’t planning to make a jab at him. The words just slipped out from some hidden part of my brain apparently determined to torpedo my professional detachment.
I need to stick to the script, not play verbal sparring games with a royal.
Luckily, the director has turned her attention back to Nicholas as we enter a climate-controlled building.
“We’re currently caring for several koalas rescued from bushfires,” she explains. “This little one came to us severely dehydrated and with extensive burns.”
In a specialized enclosure sits a smaller koala, patches of its fur singed away, its back paws wrapped in bandages. Nicholas approaches the enclosure slowly, his expression softening.
“How is she doing?” His voice is quieter than usual.
“She’s a fighter,” the keeper responds. “We’re optimistic for a full recovery, though she’ll always have some scarring.”
“What’s her name?”
“We’ve been calling her Ember.”
Nicholas crouches. “Hello, Ember,” he says, talking in a soft tone that no one but I can hear. “You’re doing brilliantly. I won’t try to touch you because I don’t want to hurt you, but you keep on being a brave girl, okay? Lots more munching on eucalyptus trees in your future.”
The moment feels strangely intimate. No cameras pushing for better angles. No officials hovering. Just Nicholas talking to this small, injured creature.
I take a step back, and the noise makes Nicholas look up. His expression immediately shutters.
He straightens, tugging his shirt sleeves back into place.
“Well, I suppose we should move on to the next photo opportunity, shouldn’t we?” he says to the director. “We can’t keep the wombats waiting. I hear they run a very tight schedule.”
The director chuckles, already turning toward the exit. “They certainly do. We’ve got a particularly grumpy male who gets quite irritable if his afternoon feeding is delayed.”
“Sounds like my Uncle Rupert. Do the wombats also complain about the wine selection?”
The director laughs again, but I can’t help feeling unsettled.
Like I just glimpsed a rare creature before it darted back into hiding.
As we leave the rehabilitation center, I receive a message from Cavendish.
Suspicious individual not located. Security footage being reviewed. AFP running ID check on sanctuary employees.
I reply with a terse acknowledgment, positioning myself closer to Nicholas as we proceed to the next exhibit.
Nicholas continues to be the perfect royal, fielding questions about his grandmother with appropriate seriousness and deflecting inquiries about his personal life with self-deprecating humor. “Am I seeing anyone special?” he echoes the reporter’s question. “Well, I’ve just been intimate with a python named Sheila, so I suppose that counts. Though I suspect she’s not the commitment type.”
When posing with twin wallaby joeys, he cradles them gently, asking the keepers detailed questions about wallaby diet andhabitat. The cameras click furiously, capturing exactly the image of thoughtful royalty the palace wants projected.
In the car heading back to the hotel, Nicholas is uncharacteristically quiet, staring out at the city sliding past the bulletproof windows. Officer Blake sits up front with the driver, while I occupy the seat beside Nicholas, maintaining a professional distance.
The silence stretches uncomfortably before Nicholas finally breaks it.
“So, are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks, still looking out the window.
“What are you referring to, sir?”
He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “Don’t play dumb, O’Connell. Something happened back there. All the little security whispers, that maintenance worker Singh was chasing. I’d like to know what was going on.”
