Page 31 of The Heir Apparent
Amira and I made eye contact as everyone stiffened into what they imagined was a natural pose. We both knew it would beconsidered to be in poor taste to take a photo after the funeral. But one surreptitiously taken by messy old Lady Florence and posted to her Instagram account would be her misstep, not ours. All four of us approximated soft, closed-mouth smiles while Flo tapped her phone screen again and again. After an interminably long time, she saw someone across the room and wandered off to trap them in conversation.
“How are your studies going, Lexi?” Birdie asked.
“Uh yeah, okay. I’ve got a year left of residency.”
“Gosh,” she said. “What kind of doctor do you plan to be?”
“She’s not sure,” Amira said before I could respond. She hit me with a stern look.
Birdie’s real name was Bernice. But from the moment two-year-old Demelza struggled to pronounce it and called her Birdie instead, the name on her birth certificate would be ignored for the rest of her life. She was the youngest cousin, sixth in line, homely and a bit dotty, and therefore ignored by pretty much everyone, including her own parents. All I really knew about her was that she was given, and promptly quit, an abundance of jobs that thousands of young people would kill for. She worked at a record label for a while, then did social media for an auction house, then went to New York to intern forSaturday Night Live, then was hired to be an accessories buyer for ASOS. Nothing seemed to stick for more than a few months.
While Demelza lived in a three-bedroom cottage on the grounds of Cumberland, Birdie still stayed with her parents at the Clarence family manor. There had been a minor scandal the year before that gave Birdie her first and only front page of theDaily Post.She had thrown a dinner party, and as the wine flowed, Birdie took a sword off the wall and pretended to knight one of her friends. The sword was far heavier and far sharper than she realised. She sliced off the tip of his ear, spattering blood on a £50,000 Persian rug on loan from the Royal Collection Trust. “Blitzed Birdie brandishes blade and butchers buddy,” theDaily Postsnickered.
“And what about you, Amira?” Demelza asked. “What are your plans? I’m so sad we’re not going to be neighbours anymore.”
I felt, rather than saw, Amira’s posture become rigid under Demelza’s gaze. A waiter carrying crab meat vol-au-vents gingerly approached the group. Birdie plucked one from the silver tray and inserted it into her mouth.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Demelza’s eyes slid over to me.
“Oh,” she said with faux innocence. “I just presumed, you know. Cumberland 1 always goes to the heir, doesn’t it?”
“Nothing’s been decided,” I said and her eyes sparkled with obvious interest.
I felt an arm snake around my back.
“Look at all these beautiful girls,” Richard said, his grip tightening around my waist. “How are we all feeling?”
“Fine,” Amira said in a small voice.
I was repelled by his scotch breath and quirking brows, but the feel of his scratchy tunic reminded me so viscerally of Papa that I didn’t move away. The reception after Grandfather’s funeral had been a night just like this one: silver trays of elaborate canapés, the quiet hum of dreary adult conversation. I had fallen asleep on a crimson silk couch, and at some point Papa scooped me into his arms to take me upstairs. He never did that. It was always Mum or a nanny putting us to bed. But on the night he buried his father, he had gathered me to him, and I got to rest my cheek against the rough wool at his chest. I spent the next year flopped over couches and under dining tables with my eyes squeezed shut, desperate for him to cradle me in his arms again. It must have been the only time he did it, and now I knew for sure it could never happen again. The riptide of memory took hold of me as Richard gripped my hip tightly. I felt desperately alone.
“I might turn in,” Amira said.
“Good idea,” said Richard. “And don’t be naughty and blast your music this time, eh?”
She bowed her head and hurried towards the door that led to the quadrangle. I freed myself from Richard’s grasp.
“I might head out, too,” I said and stalked off before they had a chance to respond.
Outside, the moon, as round and smooth as a coin, showed Amira cutting across the lawn. Close family had been invited to spend the night in the private apartments before the fleet of Range Rovers returned them to their lives. The mourning period officially ended the next day. Flags would return to full mast, newscasters would take off their black suits, and I would have to make my decision.
“Hey,” I said.
Amira stopped walking but she did not turn around. I could tell by the sharp rise of her shoulders that she was upset.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk to the bloody Clarences any more than you do,” I said. “I’d rather just go to bed.”
She spun around and I saw pure fury in her face. “No, what are youdoinghere? Are you staying? Are you going to take all this on?”
“I don’tknow,” I said. “Everything’s happening so fast. I don’t know what I’m doing. Is that so hard to understand?”
“Yes, it is actually, because it’s not meant to be a choice. The worst has happened. You’re up. It’s your turn.”
We stared at each other for a moment in the cold wash of moonlight, aware that our raised voices would echo against the stone bailey.
