“They need to be more than men. Nicholas needs to be a king. And I can’t teach him how to do that. Only you . . . it must be you.”
I dissolve into my tears.
“He was our boy, Edward. Our good, sweet boy.”
“I know, my love. I know . . .”
We don’t move from the floor for a very long time. We sit there, wrapped around each other. When my cries eventually quiet, because inevitably they always do, I confess, “We should’ve had more children. You should’ve had more. Handsome sons and doting daughters. I should’ve given you that. But I was a coward.”
Edward draws in a deep breath and traces my hairline tenderly.
“You have never been a coward a day in your life. I didn’t want more. You and Thomas were always enough.”
He presses his lips to my temple.
“And now we have Nicholas and Henry . . . and they are enough.”
Edward
In the days following Thomas and Calista’s funeral, Lenora throws herself into her work. She rises early, even for her, and joins me in bed long after the sun has gone down. I allow the long hours because her work is a comfort—it gives her a renewed reason to carry on living.
Nicholas spends time with his grandmother, adjusting to his new circumstances. And I give particular attention to Henry, because he seems most at risk for feeling forgotten . . . for getting lost in this world. We ride together in the mornings and go fishing at dusk. Being outdoors and busy is soothing for my youngest grandson—at least, it seems to be.
On the fourth afternoon after the funeral, I visit Lenora in her office. As I approach, I hear the unforgiving, lashing sound of the Queen’s voice. And I pity the politician or bureaucrat she’s speaking to.
Until I walk into the office.
And see Nicholas sitting in the chair across from her desk. His head is down, curving in on himself, as if she’s carving out his insides with every word.
“Our future rests on your shoulders now. I expect you to behave accordingly.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“Any weakness you show will harm us irrevocably. Myself, your grandfather, your brother. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“That’s enough, Lenora,” I say softly.
But she carries on as if I haven’t spoken—her tone as harsh and cold as her words. Cruel.
“When you return to school, all eyes will be on you, now more than ever. You will not act out or grieve—even in front of your closest confidants. The people will look to you to lead them through their mourning—that is your priority. Your own feelings are irrelevant now.”
I’ve never shouted at my wife once in our lives. But I do now, slamming my hand on the desk so hard the leg cracks.
“Enough!”
She turns to me with the gaze of a cornered animal. Wounded and angry—and dangerous.
“Nicholas, leave us, please,” I tell him.
He hesitates, looking to the Queen. And that infuriates me more—that she has drilled this obedience into him so deeply.
With her eyes still trained on me, Lenora nods and Nicholas rises, bows, and walks from the room.
Once the door closes, I move toward her cautiously and speak carefully. As if I don’t know her at all. Because at this moment . . . I’m not sure I do.
“What are you doing, Lenora?”
“I’m doing what we discussed. I’m teaching him to be a king.” Her tone is devoid of emotion. Frighteningly flat. “This is how it’s done.”
“You spoke to him as if he is nothing to you. You looked at him like he is no one. He’s Nicholas. He’s our grandson. He’s Thomas’s boy.”
“He is heir to the throne. The Crown Prince of Wessco.”
“But that is not all he is.”
She scoffs disdainfully.
“You don’t understand.”
I step closer and my voice goes hard.
“Explain it, then.”
The silver eyes that I adore narrow, sharpening like a blade against stone.
“I had Thomas’s whole life to prepare him; there was time to educate him with care. But I am sixty-six years old now, Edward. My father was dead at seventy, Mother at forty-three. Your parents were both gone before your twenty-eighth birthday, your brother dead at twenty. How long do you think I have with Nicholas? A year? Five years? A decade if I’m lucky? When I am gone they will come for him.”
“Who?”
“Everyone. They will cut off pieces of him, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of his true self. And then they will twist him into what they want him to be, to serve their purposes.” She shakes her head, her delicate jaw rigid. “No. No—I will not allow that to happen.” She lifts her chin, tilting her face into mine, her voice rising with each sentence. “Not to Nicholas. Not to our grandson. Not to Thomas’s boy!”
For a moment, Lenora glares at me like I’m an enemy.
Then she glances away, breathing hard, reining in her rage, composing herself.