Page 106 of Thrones We Steal

“And you think …?”

He closes the book and sets it down on the table nearby. “I think Walter McManus was the man who actually died, Philip saw the opportunity and slipped his own watch in the man’s pocket, then came ashore with a new name: Walter McManus, footman at the palace.”

“It’s still just a theory.”

“I know. But a plausible one.”

I look past him and notice a suitcase open on the sofa in his sitting room. “You’re leaving?”

“I have some business in England.”

“When do you leave?” My voice comes out sounding like a pinched nerve.

“Tomorrow morning. The plane leaves at 9:00.”

“Have a safe trip.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but decides against it. Instead, he reaches for me and, before I can fully grasp what’s happening, tugs me into his arms. “Thank you,” he says into my hair, his arms wrapped tightly around my back.

I wrap my own around his torso, relishing in the feeling of his firm chest under my cheek. The beat of his heart is steady and solid, unwavering. Has he always had the power to shatter me and put me back together more beautiful than he found me?

We stand that way for a minute? Five? I don’t know. Time seems to halt. Now that he’s agreed to let me go, it takes everything in me to let him go.

“Goodbye, C.”

I miss him as soon as he steps back.

Why does it feel like he’s saying goodbye forever?

“When will you be back?” I am not desperate. I am not desperate.

He runs his fingers through his hair. “It will depend on how things go. I should know within a few days.” He smiles, causing a muscle near my hip bone to ping. “Don’t miss me too much.”

If only that were possible. As he closes the door, I get a scary sense of foreboding. He’s up to something, and this time I don’t think I’m going to like it.

32

“Angels Like You” - Miley Cyrus

The palace buzzes with that pre-dinner hum I’m slowly growing accustomed to. Staff members halt their various tasks to bow their heads as I pass, but I hardly notice anymore. While I’m certainly more comfortable with the routines of the royal household and no longer get lost on my way to the State Dining Room, I seriously doubt whether these cold rooms will ever feel like home.

A sacrifice in exchange for being a household name and my picture some day being featured on banknotes and stamps: I will never feel truly at home again.

My heels click a rapid staccato on the tiled floors, occasionally muffled by carpets as I pass through salons and drawing rooms, their drapes now drawn against the glow of the setting sun. Dinner will be served in an hour, at which Henry will not be present. The reminder stings, sharp and visceral.

Distracted as I am by my thoughts of Henry, I’m not sure I would have noticed them were it not for the whimper. I’m walking through the Blue Salon, and they’re huddled together in a corner not yet lit by the lamps.

I stop, the rhythm of my steps coming to an abrupt halt. The king is seated on the floor, a position I’ve never seen him in, and the chocolate-colored head of Argos lies in his lap. William strokes his velvety ears and murmurs in tones so low I can’t make out the words.

If he notices my presence, he doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps speaking in a soothing voice to his dog, who isn’t doing well at all. Without a thought to what I’m doing, I move closer. Argos doesn’t lift his head, but his eyes flicker toward me. I see pain reflected there.

I kneel down and place my hand on the dog’s head.

“The vet said he won’t last through the night.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, settling myself down beside Argos. “Is there anything we can do to make him more comfortable?”

He looks at me then and with a start, I recognize Henry’s dark eyes in his own. Instead of their usual hard glint, they overflow with sorrow. My heart softens ever so slightly.

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