“Then don’t,” I snap. “Because that would be rude, Edward.”
He shrugs, the devil.
“I’m a rude man. A rude man . . . who told you so.”
I rub my temples—because grandchildren invented migraines too.
And it all comes crashing down on me. Parliament, the press, the country, the future. Dear God—the future. What will become of the boys now?
I press a palm to my chest, as my heart starts to race.
“I can’t breathe. I don’t think I can breathe.”
Edward rises from the sofa and approaches me, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“You’re speaking, Lenny. By definition you’re breathing.”
“I think I’m hyperventilating.”
“You don’t hyperventilate.”
“I think I just started.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so distraught,” he says almost cheerfully. “You still have Henry.”
Henry.
I cover my face with my hands.
“Oh God . . . not Henry!”
Edward is a bit taken aback by the outburst.
“What’s wrong with Henry?”
“What’s wrong with him?” I gasp, standing up, the burgeoning panic squashed into oblivion by the opportunity to assert blame. Where it’s so richly deserved.
“He’s just like you—that’s what’s wrong with him!”
Edward looks at me a beat. Then he straightens the cuffs of his suit jacket and lifts his chin.
“I believe I’m offended.”
I shake my head, moving around the massive desk to stand before him. To reflexively be closer to him, even now. Especially now.
“Henry is rash and impulsive.”
“He’s . . . quick thinking.” Edward corrects. “Decisive.”
“He’s as hotheaded as they come.”
“The lad’s passionate. Passion is good.”
“He’s reckless.”
“And brave,” Edward counters proudly.
“He doesn’t listen to anyone. Hopelessly stubborn through and through.”
Edward rolls his eyes.
“Well, you can’t blame that on me—you’re not exactly the picture of flexibility, Lenora.”
My voice goes smaller, sadder. The fire of culpability dimming to the fragile flame of worry.
“He’s kind, Edward. In this place, kind is not a good thing to be.”
“Yes.” Edward nods somberly. “He gets that from his mother. Calista was always a dear heart.”
And then I confess my deepest fear—my youngest grandson’s fatal flaw.
“He feels things. So much. He feels everything. And they will use that against him in ways they wouldn’t have dared to try with Nicholas. They’ll manipulate him, crush his spirit, take advantage—”
“No, they won’t,” Edward says sharply. “They won’t have the chance, because he has you. You will show him how to distance himself. To separate his feelings. How to contemplate before he acts. You will teach him how to be a king.”
“What if I can’t?” I whisper.
And maybe, just maybe . . . that’s my deepest fear.
Edward gazes down at me, smiling gently. Beautifully.
“You can do anything, Lenora. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
I look up at him, losing myself in my husband’s emerald-green eyes. Letting his belief comfort me, support me; allowing his endless confidence to build me up and replenish my soul. The way it always has.
There’s a rap at the door and I turn toward the sound.
“Come in.”
Looking more than a bit frazzled, my secretary Christopher pokes his head into the room.
“The prime minister is here, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, of course he is.” I nod. “Give me a moment, then bring him in.”
When I turn back, Edward is gone. But just for now.
I fold my hands at my waist and a take a deep, cleansing breath.
“All right,” I say to myself. “Henry it is.”
I move back to my desk and sit down.
“This should be interesting.”
(Five years after Royally Endowed)
“I think that laughter and happiness and all those lovely little tykes will be our dynasty.
They will be the joys we leave behind.”
~Prince Edward, Royally Yours
Queen Lenora
IN THE YEAR OF WHAT would have been my ninety-fifth birthday, spring comes early to Wessco. The air is pleasantly warm and the sun is bright. Nicholas and Henry are here at the palace with their wives and children, who are on holiday from school. We’re in the south garden, after lunch, enjoying the pleasant air and bright sunshine.
I sit on that familiar white marble bench beneath the cherry trees, near the cherub fountain—that I still think is a bit evil looking—watching the children play on the grass. Henry trots over, depositing himself in the chair beside me with a contented sigh.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Granny?”
“It is, yes.” I nod, feeling my old bones creak with even that small movement. “The cherry blossoms were always my favorite . . . but they never stay for long.”
The warm wind blows, carrying the children’s laughter to us and sending a rush of pink petals dancing on the breeze. And it all feels so familiar. Not déjà vu, but something more. Like a memory—the memory of a dream that sits hazily on the very edge of recollection.
And my aged heart whispers that it’s time. Time to have the conversation with my grandsons that can no longer be put off.
“Get your brother, would you?” I tell Henry. “There are things we must discuss.”
It’s not an unusual request these days. Although I am Queen and Henry will be King, behind closed doors, Henry, Nicholas, and I rule the country like the Holy Trinity—strategizing and planning in consort before settling on a course of action.