Page 173 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. Especially when in a foreign country.”
“All I’m saying is it’s okay to be spontaneous every now and again.”
“Need I remind you that I have been spontaneous, and it resulted in puke… on you.”
The train pulls away, so I scoot forward again and get lost in the rolling hills and countryside, the landscape so different from what I’m used to. Serene. Earthy. Beautifully verdant. It provides a sense of peace, and I wonder if I lived here in a previous life. Perhaps I was a blacksmith’s daughter, a tavern whore—hopefully not—or a highborn woman?
Imagining my life as a fictional character, I get lost in the fantasy until we’re disembarking at Windsor Station.
“I wonder if the king is here,” Riley says as we walk the cobbled paths past quaint shops to the castle.
I look toward the cylindrical tower. “He’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the royal standard flag isn’t hoisted.”
“What’s a royal standard flag?”
“It signifies the presence of the monarch.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read… a lot.”
Releasing my hand, Riley shows the admission clerk our tickets when we get to the gate, and once we pass through a security checkpoint, we’re granted entry beyond the stone and brick fortress walls into the grounds.
I turn in a circle. “Wow! I can’t believe I’m here, where kings and queens have lived for centuries.” Rushing to a stone wall no higher than my waist, I lean over it. “Isn’t it magical? And how pretty are the gardens? They’re so well-kept.”
“That’s because they cut the lawns with scissors.”
“What?” I snap my head to him. “No, they don’t. They mow them with lawnmowers.”
“I’m kidding, Riles.”
“Oh. Well, they probably did cut them with scissors at one point or another. I wouldn’t be surprised if Henry VIII ordered them to be snipped one blade of grass at a time.”
“Was he the dude who beheaded his wives?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “Philandering murderer.”
Riley rears back a little. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“Harsh? He was a terrible king and husband. Treated his wives like dirt. Except for Jane Seymour. He liked her, but she died shortly after their son was born.” I point to St. George’s Chapel. “They’re both buried in there.”
“And you know all of this from reading a lot?”
“Yes.” I lift my chin, proud. “And because Mom was a big fan of Tudor history. After I started my internship, I managed to chase down a first-print copy of Philippa Gregory’sThe Other Boleyn Girlfor her. It was her prized possession, besides me, of course.”
Linking my hand with his, I practically swing our arms and skip to the door of the chapel, excited I can tell Mom what I’m about to see.
My feet falter to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Riley asks.
“I just realized I can’t tell Mom what I see here today.”
He tugs my hand. “Sure you can.”
