AFTER THAT, things are fuzzy. Reality is reduced to snapshots. The car ride to the palace. Vomiting on the rose bushes that my great-great-great-aunt, Lady Adaline, commanded be planted outside the palace. Nicholas and Simon tucking me into bed as Olive comments on the papers taped to the walls—saying it reminds her of Russell Crowe’s shed in A Beautiful Mind. Then . . . there’s only the gentle abyss.
But the void doesn’t last long. Because I’m an insomniac—the affliction of champions. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I only ever sleep for a handful of hours, even on the nights when my blood is mostly alcohol. With the bedside clock reading one a.m., I drag myself on unsteady legs to the kitchen, using the wall for support. My stomach grumbles with the thought of Cook’s biscuits.
I don’t recall eating at The Goat—how long was I there? A day? Maybe two. I smell my armpit and flinch. Definitely two. Bloody hell.
After stuffing my face and taking a few treats for the road, I stumble along the palace hallways. It’s what I do at night—it’s given me a new appreciation for American mall-walkers. I can’t stay in a room, any room, without the walls closing in. It feels good to move, even if I’m not going anywhere.
Eventually I wander over to the blue drawing room, near the Queen’s private quarters. The door’s slightly ajar—enough to see that the light is on, smell the firewood burning in the hearth, and hear the voices inside.
I lean my head against the door jamb and listen.
“You look well, my boy,” Granny says. And there’s a warm affection in her tone that I’m familiar with. Because it used to be reserved for me.
Jealous much? A little bit, yeah.
“Marriage agrees with you.”
“Marriage to Olivia agrees with me,” my brother returns.
“Touché.”
I hear the clink of the crystal decanter and liquid being poured. My guess is sherry.
“Is Olivia sleeping?” the Queen asks.
“Yes. She nodded off hours ago. The jet lag hit her hard.”
“I was hoping it was because she was pregnant.”
My brother chuckle-chokes. “We’ve been married for three months.”
“When I was married three months, I was two and a half months gone with your father. What are you waiting for?”
I can practically hear him shrug. “There’s no rush. We’re . . . enjoying each other. Taking our time.”
“But you plan on having children?”
“Of course. One day.”
There’s the scrape of a chair on the wood floor and I imagine them sitting side by side, settling in for a fireside chat.
“So tell me, Nicholas, now that the dust has settled—do you have any regrets?”
His voice is soft but his tone is firm as iron.
“Not a one.”
My grandmother hums, and I picture her sipping her nightcap in the elegant way she does everything.
“But I am curious,” Nicholas says. “If it had been you—if you had had to choose between Grandfather and the throne, what would you have done?”
“I loved your grandfather deeply—I still do—you know that. But, if I had been forced to choose between the two, I would not have picked him. Besides my children, my sovereignty has always been the love of my life.”
There’s a heavy pause. Then Nicholas says quietly, “It was never that way for me. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I see that now, yes.”
“I always knew it was expected, and I was determined to do it well—but I never loved it. I never wanted it, not really.”
“But you’re content now, yes? With the restaurants, the charity you and Olivia and Mr. Hammond oversee?”
It takes a moment for him to answer and when he does, Nicholas’s voice is wistful. “I’m not content—I’m happy. Ridiculously happy. More than I ever dreamed was possible. Every day.”
“Good,” my grandmother proclaims.
“But there is one thing,” Nicholas says, “one chink in the rainbow.” His words go soft and scratchy, like they’ve been waiting in his throat for a long time. “I know I disappointed you. It wasn’t my intention, but it happened just the same. I didn’t forewarn you or discuss it with you. I defied my queen, and you raised me to do better. And for that I am sorry. Truly.”
There’s a tap of crystal on wood—the Queen setting her glass down on the side table. “Listen to me very carefully, Nicholas, because I will only say this once. You have never disappointed me.”
“But—”
“I raised you to be a leader. You assessed the situation, considered your options, and you made a choice. You didn’t falter; you didn’t wait for permission. You acted. That . . . is what leaders do.”
There’s a lightness in his response, a relief.
“All right.”
There’s another comfortable pause, and I imagine my brother taking a drink. Possibly draining the glass. Because then he says, “Speaking of raising leaders . . .”
“Yes,” the Queen sighs. “We may as well address the drunken elephant in the room,” she quips sharply. “He’s . . . how do they say it in the States? A hot mess.”
“He is that.”
I turn, bracing my back against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor. It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to people talking about me—hell, my pros and cons are often discussed openly, even when I’m standing in the same room. But this . . . this is going to be different. Worse.
“Do you remember the holiday production Henry was in at school? It was the last Christmas with Mum and Dad—he had the starring role. Scrooge.” Nicholas chuckles.
“Vaguely. I didn’t attend the performance.”
“No, neither did I. Dad spoke with me about it. They were concerned that if I went, the press and his teachers and classmates would be so busy fawning over me that Henry would be lost in the shuffle. And they were right.” The chair creaks as my brother shifts. “He’s spent his entire life in my shadow. And now he’s front and center, in the hot glare of the spotlight. It’s only natural he’ll squint for a bit. You have to give him time to adjust.”
“He doesn’t have time.”
“Plan on dying any day soon?” Nicholas teases.
“Of course not. But we both know the unexpected happens. He must be ready. You don’t understand, Nicholas.”
“I understand perfectly. I’m the only person in the world who does.”
“No, you do not. Before you could walk, you were trained to take the throne. A thousand small things happened around you daily that you wouldn’t have even perceived. It was in the way others spoke to you, the conversations you had, the topics you were taught, and the manner in which they were conveyed. Henry has a lifetime of catching up to do.”
“Which he’ll never be able to do if you break him,” Nicholas says harshly. “If you convince him in a thousand small daily ways that he’ll never be enough. That he’ll never get it right.”
Silence falls for several beats. Until my grandmother quietly asks, “Do you know the worst part about growing old?”
“Erectile dysfunction?” my brother replies dryly.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” the Queen responds, her tone every bit as dry. “It’s in the genes, and your grandfather was a stallion until the day he died.”
I smother a grin. Because, like the Americans say, when you mess with the bull . . .
“Right.” My brother quips. “No more sherry for you.”
“The worst part about growing old,” Granny continues, “is knowing that soon you will leave the ones you cherish most to carry on without you. And if they are unprepared . . . vulnerable . . . it is a terrifying prospect.”
Only the crackle of the fire breaks the stillness.
Then the Queen declares unequivocally, “They will eat him alive. On his current course, Henry will fail spectacularly.”
My chest constricts so tight it feels like my bones may crack.
Because she’s right.
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” she swipes back.
“I damn well do! I never would have abdicated otherwise.”
“What?”
“Don’t mistake me—I wouldn’t have married anyone but Olivia, and I would’ve waited a lifetime if I had to, until the laws were changed. But I didn’t because I knew in my heart and soul that Henry will not just be a good king, he will be better than I ever could’ve been.”
For a moment I don’t breathe. I can’t. The shock of my brother’s words has knocked the air right out of my lungs.
Granny’s too, if her whisper is any indication.
“You truly believe that?”
“Absolutely. And, frankly, I’m disheartened that you don’t.”
“Henry has never been one to rise to the occasion,” she states plainly.
“He’s never needed to,” my brother insists. “He’s never been asked—not once in his whole life. Until now. And he will not only rise to the occasion . . . he will soar beyond it.”
The Queen’s voice is hushed, like she’s in prayer.
“I want to believe that. More than I can say. Lend me a bit of your faith, Nicholas. Why are you so certain?”
Nicholas’s voice is rough, tight with emotion.
“Because . . . he’s just like Mum.”
My eyes close when the words reach my ears. Burning and wet. There’s no greater compliment—not to me—not ever.
But, Christ, look at me . . . it’s not even close to true.
“He’s exactly like her. That way she had of knowing just what a person needed—whether it was strength or guidance, kindness or comfort or joy—and effortlessly giving it to them. The way people used to gravitate to her . . . at parties, the whole room would shift when she walked in . . . because everyone wanted to be nearer to her. She had a light, a talent, a gift—it doesn’t matter what it’s called—all that matters is that Henry has it too. He doesn’t see it in himself, but I do. I always have.”
There’s a moment of quiet and I imagine Nicholas leaning in closer to the Queen.
“The people would have followed me or Dad for the same reason they follow you—because we are dependable, solid. They trust our judgment; they know we would never let them down. But they will follow Henry because they love him. They’ll see in him their son, brother, best friend, and even if he mucks it up now, they will stick with him because they will want him to succeed. I would have been respected and admired, but Grandmother . . . he will be beloved. And if I have learned anything since the day Olivia came into my life, it’s that more than reasoning or duty, honor or tradition . . . love is stronger.”
For a time, there is no sound save for the occasional pop of the fire and tinkling of glasses, as the Queen considers. Contemplates before she acts wisely. It’s what she does.
What leaders do.
I’ve paid enough attention through the years to know that much. And I’m self-aware enough to admit that I never have.
The Queen inhales deeply. “Nothing I have attempted has improved the situation. What do you suggest, Nicholas?”
“He needs space to . . . acclimate. Time outside the spotlight to process the scope of his new situation and duties. To learn what he needs to, in his way. And make it his own.”
“Space.” The Queen taps her finger on the table. “Very well. If space is what the boy needs, then space he shall have.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of this.
Two weeks later, I know I don’t.
Anthorp Castle.
She sent me to fucking Anthorp Castle.
It’s not the middle of nowhere—it’s the end of nowhere. On the coast, with jagged cliffs and icy ocean on one side, forest on the other—the nearest thing resembling a town an hour’s drive away. This isn’t “space”; it’s banishment.
“Banishment! Be merciful, say ‘death.’ For exile hath more terror in his look.”
Romeo was a pussy, but at this moment, I feel him.
I sit in the middle of the massive four-post bed, strumming my guitar to the drumbeat of the moon-soaked waves crashing below my open window. The air is cool, but the fire burning bright in the fireplace makes up for it. My fingers pluck out the familiar notes of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” It’s a comforting song. Depressing and sad, but comforting in its easy repetition.
Disgusted with myself, I set my guitar aside and punch my arms into my robe. Then I wander the castle a bit, saying hello to the creepy suits of armor that stand sentry at the end of each hallway. Though I could use the rest, I don’t want to even try going back to sleep.
Because the dreams have come back. Nightmares.
They were relentless when I was first discharged from military service—reminders of the attack that killed a group of soldiers at an outpost just after I visited. I got a reprieve after I confessed to Nicholas and Olivia what happened and they suggested I reach out to the families of the fallen men.
But the night I stepped foot in Anthorp Castle they returned with a vengeance—and a cruel new twist. Now, when I crawl to the bodies that litter the ground and turn them over to check for survivors, it’s not the soldiers’ lifeless faces that stare back at me. It’s Nicholas’s face, and Olivia’s . . . Granny’s. I wake up gasping and dripping with cold sweat.
Not fucking fun.
So tonight, I stroll.
Eventually I end up in the library on the first floor. I fall into the chair behind the desk, take a page from one stack of documents, and read over the laws governing the marriage of the Crown Prince, which is basically a list of requirements for the bride:
“Verifiable aristocracy in the lineage, within a recognized marital union.”
Though, farther down, it states bastards are acceptable in a pinch. How open-minded.
“Certified documentation of Wessconian citizenship by natural birth.”
As opposed to hatchlings or clones, I suppose.
“Virginity as evidenced by the insertion of the trusted Royal Internist’s two fingers into the vagina, to confirm intact hymen tissue.”
Whoever thought this up was one sick son of a bitch. And definitely male. I doubt they’d be so exacting if the law required a prostate exam for members of Parliament.
“I’m makin’ tea. Do you want a cup?”
I look up to see Fergus standing in the doorway, in his robe and slippers, his face scrunched and crabby.
“I didn’t know you were awake, Fergus.”
“Who can sleep with you prowling around the halls like a randy cat?”
“Sorry.”
“Do you want a cup or not?”
I put the paper back in its pile.
“No, thank you.”
He turns, then pauses, and looks back at me, quietly adding, “It was the same with the Queen.”
“What was the same?”
“The lack of sleep. When she was a lass, after just three hours she’d be up and about like that grotesque rodent with the bass drum.”
He means the Energizer Bunny.
“I didn’t know that about Granny,” I say softly.
He hobbles over to the bookshelf, running his finger along the bindings before sliding a thick book out.
“Reading used to help. This was her favorite.”
The heavy volume gets dropped on the desk with a thud.
Hamlet. Interesting.
“You realize they all die? The King, Queen, and sweet Prince are all dead at the end.”
Not exactly the stuff of pleasant dreams—especially for my family.
“I said it was your grandmother’s choice, not mine.”
He shuffles off without another word.
I flip through the pages. And talk to myself.
“This above all, to thine own self be true. Easier said than done, Polonius.”
Because this isn’t supposed to be my life. None of it is me. The title, the responsibility, wandering around this cold, ancient stone behemoth with nothing but the echo of my own damn footsteps for company. And although I’m supposed to be “acclimating,” it’s just not happening.
Because Nicholas is wrong. I’m his blind spot; I always have been. I used it to my advantage when it suited me. He is good and well-meaning . . . but he is wrong.
And we’re all fucked because of it.
The silence closes in, making me twitchy. Reminding me of a damn tomb. And the words repeat in my head like a whispering ghost.
To thine own self be true, Henry.
Maybe that’s the problem. And the solution.
I hop to my feet, pacing. Thinking—I think better when I move. I think a lot better after a good fuck, but, if wishes were horses . . .
The point is, I haven’t felt like myself in a long time. I need to get my groove back. I need to get my freak on. I need to do me for a while.
And then I need to do ten women—maybe a full dozen.
I’m shit at politicking and golfing, terrible at wise decision-making or doing what I’m told, but what I’ve always been good at is entertaining. Putting on a show. Making people happy. I’m the life of the party and one hell of a host.
I push and pull at the idea—like Play-Doh—and after a moment, it starts to take shape. I didn’t ask for this, but it’s time I own it. If I’m going to fail spectacularly, I want to fail my way. Go out with a bang.
And a party. A month-long party, the castle brimming with twenty beautiful women falling all over themselves for my attention. Matched: Royal Edition suddenly seems like a bloody fucking brilliant idea.
What could possibly go wrong?
And as if God is speaking to me, the pressure on my shoulders loosens. The weight that’s been sitting on my chest, making me think I’m constantly having a goddamn heart attack, relaxes.
And I feel . . . good. In control.
I stand up, leaving the documents and ridiculous laws behind me. I go straight up to my room, grab my wallet off the bureau, and slide out the sharp-edged business card that’s still inside.
Then I pick up my mobile and dial.