Page 58 of The Unlikely Spare
Star with royal beauty bright
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light
I force myself to look away from the man on stage, to scan the perimeter, to do my actual job.
But my attention keeps getting pulled back to the stage like I’m following my own feckin’ star of Bethlehem, except it’s leading me straight to career suicide instead of salvation.
And I think the impure thoughts I’m having definitely won’t make it into any holy text.
The carol ends, and enthusiastic applause erupts. Nicholas gives a small bow.
As he moves toward the stage steps, I position myself at the bottom, on high alert. His eyes meet mine as he descends, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” I say quietly, an odd flutter in my chest.
“My father taught me.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He loved music. Used to say that singing was the closest thing to magic humans could create.”
His confession catches me off guard.
“My da thought singing was what you did after twelve pints and a win at the horses. Different kinds of magic, I suppose,” I say.
Nicholas’s lips twitch. “I imagine the results were equally enchanting.”
“Depends on your definition of enchanting. The cats certainly fled the neighborhood.”
“And here I thought Ireland was known for its musical traditions.”
“Oh, it is. Da just wasn’t invited to participate in them.”
Nicholas’s grin is fully fledged now. “Well, now I know what to threaten you with if you misbehave. Mandatory duets.”
His smile leaves me feeling slightly lightheaded.
Before I can work out how to respond, the radio at my hip crackles with Singh’s urgent voice.
“Suspicious movement northeast corner, black jacket, baseball cap, approaching stage area with package.”
My body reacts before my mind fully processes the warning. I grab Nicholas by the arm and pull him toward the nearest covered position, a row of portable toilets set up by the side of the stage.
“What—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Potential threat. Need to get you under cover.”
He doesn’t resist as I hustle him to the nearest unit, yanking open the door and shoving him inside before following.
The door latches behind us with a plastic click that sounds absurdly inadequate.
The enclosed space is minuscule, barely big enough for one person, let alone a royal and his protection officer. Nicholas’s chest is inches from mine in the dim blue-tinged light.
“Well, this is certainly a new low in royal accommodations,” he whispers. His breath is warm against my ear.
I ignore him, pressing my wrist mic so I can report. “The Thistle is secure at position Juliet. Status report.”
