Page 100 of The Heir Apparent
From the car window, I watched the first signs of Christmas burgeoning on the streets of London. Soon the city would live under a net of twinkling lights. There would be markets and mulled wine, children gliding around ice skating rinks and carollers on doorsteps. The Earth was approaching perihelion, the closest we get to the sun in our annual loop through space. I had almost made it through the year.
“I was thinking, ma’am,” Mary said from the seat next to me. “Perhaps next year we should discuss my role.”
I looked across at her, but her face was caught in shadow. “What do you mean?”
“I just thought once you’re the Princess of Scotland, I should focus more on shaping your overall strategy. Perhaps we could bring on a professional for your styling.”
I smiled at her. “You’ve always been too clever for this, Mary.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that I feel it’s beneath me—I do enjoy it,” she said quickly. “I just think I’d be of more use to you by starting to think about the future.”
I turned back to the window and found that it had fogged over in the cold. With my fingertip, I drew two stars in the glass. “We would be unstoppable, Mary, I have no doubt.”
As the crowd mingled in the gallery, Jenny approached with her teenage son, and they bowed before us. Granny had a trick of lavishing attention on a VIP’s plus one, so while she chatted to Harley, I pulled Jenny aside. The palace videographer was lurking nearby, and this was one guest who would make the final cut of every social media video and television news package. Aware of this, Jenny and I smiled at each other.
“You alright, Lexi?” she whispered.
I nodded, smiled brightly, and then offered her a formal handshake for the cameras.
“Yes, I’m fine, Prime Minister. Thank you for coming.”
When I finally let go of her hand, Jenny receded into thecrowd with her son a few steps behind her, eyes brightening as people saw her, powerful men stepping forward, hoping for her favour. She hated every single one of them, but she had waded into their world in the hope of changing it.
When I turned back, Richard stood before me. We hadn’t seen each other since that August morning on the stairs in Scotland. Now, he bared his wolfish teeth in a grin before sliding his eyes over to Granny.
“Looking splendid, Mummy,” he said and dropped his chin to his chest in a bow. “As always.”
“Oh, do go on.” She sighed. “Where’s Florence this evening?”
“Laid up with a migraine, poor love,” he said, pouting. “She sends her apologies, of course—she’s absolutely devastated to miss an evening dedicated entirely to women’s plumbing.”
I was calm as he turned back to me. We looked at each other levelly, neither attempting to smile for the cameras. It struck me then that in many ways, we were the same: two royal babies born too late, forever outshone by our brothers. Our life’s purpose was to stay alive if tragedy befell them. Now they were both gone, and it was the two of us in the arena. Richard and I both knew that the crown didn’t always float benevolently into your open palms. Sometimes, you had to wrench it away from the gods and plant it on your own head.
“Isn’t this year going so fast?” he said quietly.
“Very.”
“That’s the thing about getting older. Time starts speeding up. I find that these days, I can barely remember what I did yesterday, though my memories of the past are clearer than ever.”
“Yes,” I said coolly. “I’m the same.”
He smiled, surprised. “I see.”
We both glanced over at Granny, who was already occupied by another guest vying for her attention. She had started to wilt a little as she approached her nineties. Soon she wouldn’t be able to stand up straight at all. We’re all just slowly seeping back into the earth from which we came.
Richard leaned in close enough for me to smell his breath: cigars and milk.
“And what have you decided?” he asked.
I looked around the lively room of doctors, donors and royals, the walls bedecked with paintings of the people who came before us. That was all you could hope for in the end, a place on the wall to watch as the powerful ones shook hands and built empires. Over the mantel was the last portrait of Barbara ever painted. In it, her hair was silver, her sharp chin softening with age, though her neckline remained as scandalous as ever. I met her eyes, and saw that Barbara was waiting to see what I would do.
“Did you really think I would just slink away and let you have it all?” I turned to face Richard. “Did you think I would let you take what’s mine?”
He managed to smile, though a scarlet flush was creeping from the collar of his stiff white shirt. With all cameras trained on us, he leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder, as if I was his beloved niece, and he was congratulating me for organising this reception all by myself. The tabloids would say he was being paternal. What a good brother to step in when Prince Frederick no longer could, they’d say.
“Remember, I can have Mr. Rossi on the front page of thePosttomorrow,” he said. “Don’t make me do that to you.”
I shrugged. “Call him then.”
