Page 17 of Thrones We Steal

If the truth had come out back then, my life would look completely different right now. Bea and I would have been raised in the palace as princesses. When my father died, the whole country would have mourned the loss of their king. I would have been crowned on my twenty-first birthday. Would I be planning my wedding to Beck right now? Would we even know each other? Or would I be engaged or married to a man chosen for his suitability as my prince consort?

“Only if it’s true,” I say in answer to Henry’s question. “Although it can’t possibly be. Do you know the kind of lengths Helena would have had to go to in order to have an affair? It’s preposterous. It’s more likely that the diary was forged.”

“C, if there’s even the remotest possibility—”

“Think about what you’re saying.”

“I can’t think. I need food.” He pushes himself from the cushy recesses of the chair.

“You just ate an eight-course dinner a few hours ago.”

“Exactly. It was hours ago. Please let me raid your fridge.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just leaves the room, presumably headed for the kitchen.

I roll my eyes and follow him into the dark hall. Someone has to do damage control. The kitchen looks eerie without even the clock on the microwave broadcasting the time in neon numbers. I find Henry standing in front of the refrigerator, both doors gaping open while he shines the light from his phone over the shelves. In a few swift movements, he collects a small pile of foodstuffs beside the stove.

He spins around to face me. “Frying pan?”

“You couldn’t just grab a bag of crisps like a normal person?”

“I have a craving.” His voice is muffled by the cupboard he’s currently sticking his head into. He reemerges, skillet in hand. “For a toastie. Want one?”

I shake my head, both in answer to his question and at the incredulity of the situation. Who in their right mind can eat after everything we just discovered? I say as much.

“Food helps me focus. Here, come hold the torch for me.” He hands me his phone.

I hop onto the countertop and watch as he uses a match to light the gas range and set the pan on top. “Is this an avoidance technique?” I ask.

He glances up from the bread he’s spreading with butter. “I’m a stress-eater. And that stuff in there—” He uses the knife to motion in the general direction of the library. “—is enough to tank even me.”

“Henry, it doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything. We can’t just bury something like this.”

“It’s been buried this long. We can just rebury it, pretend we never found it.” I watch in fascination as his sandwich grows: brie cheese, slabs of cheddar, pancetta, a spoonful of blackberry jam—necessary on all toasties in Wesbourne, although the variety depends on the region you’re from—and anchovies.

“Please tell me I did not just see you put anchovies on that thing.” I move the light closer. Yep, they’re definitely there.

“Don’t criticize my masterpiece.” He carefully lowers the whole thing into the hot pan. The scent of butter and cheese carmelizing almost makes my mouth water. “We have to think about this from all angles. If my father isn’t the legitimate ruler, I sure as hell don’t want him on the throne.”

Opinions on our current monarch are divided. Some despise him, others hold him up as a kind of hero for the things he’s done in his two-decade reign.

I don’t have to wonder which camp Henry falls into.

“As far as everyone knows, he is the legitimate ruler,” I say.

He lifts my dangling leg to grab a spatula from the drawer beneath me. Goosebumps instantly rise at the contact. “At least four people know about the diary now.”

“I’m willing to forget about it if you are. And Maisie won’t say a word if I tell her not to.” That leaves the old lady who donated it, but who will believe the ragings of someone with a foot in the grave? Maybe she hasn’t even read it.

“But think about what you’d be giving up.”

I count the advantages on my fingers one by one. “A lifetime in the public eye, enough stress to turn me prematurely gray, and no chance at a normal life. Practically paradise.”

He slips the spatula under his loaded toastie and flips it gingerly onto the other side. “Okay, so it wouldn’t be a walk in the park. But you’d do a better job than my father.”

I laugh in that incredulous way you do when someone says something unbelievable. King William isn’t my favorite person on the planet, but that doesn’t mean I’m better qualified to lead a country, for god’s sake.

What’s disconcerting is that he’s guessed that I want this—which I do, so much it shocks me—but I can’t let him see that. No matter how badly the thought of leading the nation pulls at me, I can’t do this. It would be too destructive.

---