Page 29 of The Thing About My Prince
“What the hell is that guy’s deal?” I whisper to Oliver as he leads me back toward the entrance hall.
“Giles has always been fanatical about royal customs and protocol. His mother was a lady-in-waiting to my grandmother.”
“You mean the queen?”
“Yes. So he grew up obsessed. He’s unfailingly loyal to my parents, would do anything to protect their reputation. Like their own personal propriety rottweiler.”
First, there’s this whole castle thing to wrap my head around. Which is not exactly the grand palace I was expecting. Yes, it’s huge. I mean, you know, it has a north tower. And it’s most definitely full of old original details like that spectacular, if leaky, ceiling in the entrance, the ornate floor tiles, and the paneling on the walls. And those rugs in the living room must be worth a fortune.
But it’s definitely more musty than majestic, more rustic than regal.
It’s also as cold as a meat locker.
In fact the only part of me that isn’t chilly right now is the hand that Oliver is holding. His touch isn’t only warm, it’s also surprisingly reassuring. Even though he’s only doing it for the fakery of it all, there’s something about it that says he has my back. But I guess he needs to act the part as well as he can, since it’s in his interests to keep up the charade and ensure no one here finds out about the book.
I couldn’t be more delighted that he picked up on the message I was trying to send him telepathically about us needing to stay in the same room—but then, on the flight over here we did seem to reach an understanding and a kind of easy comfort with each other.
I was reading what he’d written of the book before the publisher made him stop. The editor sent it to me for reference. And, indeed, it will come in handy and save some interview time. There are chunks of it that contain interesting stories and good info that I can probably just reorganize and rewrite.
It even made me laugh. Oliver was trying to sleep, but every time I couldn’t stifle a chuckle he’d ask, “What bit have you got to now?” And when I told him, he’d add even more details to the story.
Like the time as a young teen that he taught his grandmother, the queen, to dance the Dougie. Or when he sneaked into the Glenwither kitchen and, ever the independent spirit, tried to make scrambled eggs but ended up ruining a pan, setting off the smoke alarm, and getting a tongue-lashing from the cook. Or how he crept out of the castle by hiding under a blanket on the back seat of an unsuspecting staff member’s car to go see his favorite band. The staff member got the fright of his life when he got home and Oliver revealed himself. Apparently he got into a lot of trouble for that one.
“This way,” Oliver says as we approach a grand staircasethat looks like something fromGone With The Wind, which leads off the imposing entrance hall. The red carpet is worn in the center of each step, but the ornate banisters are in amazing condition.
“How old is this place?” I trace the thistles carved into the wood.
“Built in 1746. By some guy who knocked down what was originally here to build a larger one because he wanted to big-up his role in society.”
“Ha. Some things never change.”
At the top of the stairs is a half landing with more steps on each side. Both lead to balconied areas on the left and right that have green walls and dark wood doors.
“How do you make a place like this feel like a home?” I ask.
“I don’t think you do.” He guides me toward the left balcony. “At least it doesn’t feel like home to me. Maybe it did when I was a kid. But since I was a teenager, it just felt like the place I had to live in until I could get out of it.”
Dammit, I wish that was on the record—it would make an excellent quote in the book. I make a mental note to come back to that to try to get him to say it again.
“Oh my God. A suit of armor.” There, between a dark old oil painting in an elaborate gilt frame and a marble bust of someone presumably important on a plinth, is an actual suit of armor.
“Yeah, the place is open to the public three weekends every summer. That’s why there are all these artifacts and stuff around. There’s a whole armory in the basement.”
“An armory?”
“Yeah. A big room full of old swords and shit.”
It’s all amazingly casual to him—perfectly normal to come home to his parents’ house and wander past a suit of armor on the way to his bedroom. What a world to grow up in. It makes me even more glad that I talked my way onto hisplane. This is exactly the kind of valuable background I’d never have gotten from talking with him from the other side of the ocean.
How does someone who was raised like this stay so seemingly down-to-earth? Especially with the cold-fish parents. Boy, they were a piece of work. Not a welcoming hello hug in sight. Only pure, icy judgment.
I wonder if his sister is like him or like them? Probably more like him since he seems closer to her. It’s obvious from the way he’s talked about it that he’s here because he genuinely wants to be at her wedding, and it’s not out of obligation.
“This is my room.” He pulls open one of the paneled doors that must be ten feet high.
“Good God.” My eyes are assaulted by the most un-Oliver-like space I could possibly imagine. The top half of the walls are covered with wallpaper that’s a riot of pattern, maybe of flowers and birds, but it’s hard to tell.
There’s a row of three giant windows, each with stained glass at the top, that are draped with dark blue curtains that probably weigh more than me and are held back into swags with gold tasseled cord.
