Page 67 of The Unlikely Spare
That mental slip is a warning sign I can’t afford to ignore.
The first note from the didgeridoo fills the space like thunder making music. Low, impossibly deep, coming from the earth itself rather than the instrument. The sound moves through my bones.
And my traitorous gaze can’t help but return to Nicholas to see his reaction.
His lips part slightly, those impossibly blue eyes widening as the sound washes over him. The golden afternoon light catchesin his dark hair, and for a moment, he looks less like a prince and more like someone discovering magic exists.
His eyes flick up, accidentally meeting mine. He quickly looks away.
Fuck. I scrape my hand through my hair.
William draws the demonstration to a close, the last note hanging in the air like smoke.
The silence holds for a heartbeat before applause erupts. William acknowledges it with quiet dignity, then his eyes find Nicholas.
“Your Royal Highness, would you honor us by having a try? I promise the ancestors are very forgiving of beginners.”
“I’d be delighted,” Nicholas replies smoothly. “Though I feel I should warn everyone that the last time I attempted a wind instrument was a recorder in primary school, and they asked me to mime thereafter. Something about dogs howling in a five-mile radius.”
Nicholas’s quick wit makes the crowd laugh. And it stirs something inside me as well.
Something that I’m desperate not to name.
“When this center opened, we had twenty kids learning the language. Next term, it’ll be fifty—so I’m making every visitor earn their media clip,” William says, a glint of mischief in his eye.
“I have no doubt my musical ability will make something go viral,” Nicholas says as he joins William, folding himself to elegantly sit beside him.
“The breath is circular,” William demonstrates, his cheeks puffing slightly. “Never stopping, like time itself. Here”—he positions the didgeridoo—“lips loose, like letting air slip around them.”
Nicholas listens intently, mirroring William’s mouth position.
His first attempt produces only air.
“Feel the vibration,” William encourages, adjusting Nicholas’s grip. “The didgeridoo will teach you if you listen.”
The second attempt births a sound—brief, rough, but undeniably a note. Nicholas’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. For a split second, delight flashes across his face. Then, as if remembering his audience, he schools his expression into something more media-friendly.
“Once more,” William says. “You’re thinking too much. More breath.”
Nicholas’s third try is almost musical, wavering between notes like it’s searching for home. When it finally breaks, Nicholas pulls back laughing. But it’s his public laugh now, the one that invites everyone to share the joke.
“I do believe I’ve just set diplomatic relations back several decades,” he says as he returns the didgeridoo with both hands, a gesture of respect he would have been briefed on.
The crowd eats it up. Another perfect Prince Nicholas moment. He thanks William with exactly the right words, probably memorized from his briefing papers. The photographers get their shots of cross-cultural connection.
He smiles his practiced, polished smile that never reaches his eyes.
I’m so fucking tired of watching him perform.
The realization hits me with unexpected force. I’m tired of seeing the mask, the calculated charm. Tired of knowing there’s a real person beneath all that royal conditioning who only emerges in rare, unguarded moments.
William stands, moving to a table where several didgeridoos rest on stands. He selects one painted with looping crocodiles in deep reds and golds.
“A gift.” William presents it to Nicholas. “So you can practice. My auntie says the old people love a trier.”
“This is extraordinarily generous. I’m deeply honored,” Nicholas replies.
The crowd applauds. More photos. Nicholas holds the didgeridoo like he’s been handling priceless artifacts his whole life—which, I suppose, he has.
