Page 92 of Thrones We Steal

The fact that I lost my heart to Henry in spite of all of it feels like a low-budget rom-com. He took me apart like some battery-operated toy, found out exactly what makes me run, but instead of putting me back together, he just left the pieces scattered across the carpet.

But he’s not the only one who knows how to wield a knife. And if he ever gets within an inch of my heart again, I plan to do some destroying of my own.

* * *

I sit up straighter as the car slows and quickly swipe at the corners of my mouth. Fortunately they are dry. It couldn’t have been more than a tiny snooze. Hopefully Henry was too preoccupied to notice.

“You need more sleep.”

Not preoccupied then. “I get plenty, thanks.”

He pulls the car onto a paved driveway, marked by a sign announcing we’ve arrived at the care home. A three-story brick manor house stands on top of the slope leading down to the driveway, which ends in a car park. Two turrets frame the house and various chimney stacks peek out of the roof. Large windows give the house a gaping, inquisitive look.

As I move to open my door, he stills me with a hand on my arm. “I’m serious. You’ll get sick if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“I told you, I’m fine.” I push the door open and climb into the sunshine.

As we approach the front door, I wish for the millionth time that Maisie had come along. I’m uneasy tackling this with just Henry. He’s on a streak, breaking my heart. What if he does something that sends me completely over the edge?

Like slipping my hand into his and squeezing. The action sends fingers of sensation through my arm and into my belly. I hate that his touch still has that effect. I’m about to yank my hand away when he drops it.

The foyer of the home is as grand and imposing as the exterior, only it smells of antiseptic and old people. A chill clings to the air like fog, enough to penetrate past the blazer I’m wearing. I shiver and glance out of the window where a garden beckons, dazzled in sunlight.

A young receptionist in nurse’s scrubs assures us Mrs. Schumann will be right out. She practically trips over her own feet when Henry smiles his thanks. I roll my eyes at her retreating back.

Mrs. Schumann is escorted into the foyer by a male nurse several minutes later. We introduce ourselves and each press a kiss to her wrinkled cheek.

“Oh, I know who you are.” Her short curly white hair bounces as she chuckles, which morphs into coughing. “I may be in a care home, but I still follow the news.” She’s wearing a bright floral house dress, and someone has applied blush to her papery cheeks, making her look alive and energetic, like an origami crane come to life.

“Would you like to use our reception room?” The nurse motions to a doorway on the left.

“Actually, I was wondering if Mrs. Schumann might like to take a stroll in the garden.” Henry bestows that heart-wrenching grin on our elderly hostess, and she positively blooms under it.

“That sounds lovely,” she says and takes the arm he offers, leaving me to follow in their footsteps.

The garden is small but meticulously kept, its wide paths swept free of debris. A gentle breeze wafts a perfectly blended perfume as it rustles through the flowers. The glow of the sun soaks into my pores, and I silently, regrettably, and reluctantly thank Henry for the suggestion that we leave the cold manor.

Mrs. Schumann’s heel catches on an uneven section of the walk, which causes her to stumble, and I step up to assist her on the other side. She doesn’t even spare me a glance, enamored as she is by Henry.

“When they told me who was coming to visit, I could hardly believe it. Of course, I know why you’re here. Seems the only thing I’m good for these days is giving interviews. The nurses always turn them down for me. I don’t want no pesky reporter poking into my business. But with you”—She beams at Henry—“I’ll make an exception.”

Never one to resist an adoring female, Henry returns her ridiculous smile and pats her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I’m flattered you’d make the time for me.”

She giggles like a schoolgirl. “Just think what the girls will say when I tell them Prince Henry himself kissed me. They’ll be fit to be tied.” She chuckles again, leading to another coughing fit.

“Do you want some water, Mrs. Schumann?” I ask, coming to a stop and halting our progress along the path. “I’d be happy to fetch a cup.”

“I’m fine. Stay.” Her tone holds authority. This woman was obviously a commander of something in her day, even if it was just the quilting bee.

I stay. Henry snorts under his breath, and I glare at him over Mrs. Schumann’s head.

“Mrs. Schumann, as you’ve already guessed, we’re here about the diary,” I say. There’s been enough fawning over Henry today to last several lifetimes. “I actually worked at the Historical Society when your grandson donated your items. We would love to know how it came to be in your possession.”

A smattering of clouds conspires to cover the sun. Her eyes feel like the pricks of two needles as she analyzes me. There is certainly nothing wrong with her vision, whatever her age might be. I’m currently being turned inside out and thoroughly inspected. I only hope she turns me right side out when she’s done.

“It was my grandmother’s,” she finally says, when she’s completed her assessment of me. If her slight lip curl is any indication, I didn’t pass. She must be Team William, which is ironic, considering she’s the reason all of this was uncovered in the first place.

“Do you happen to know how she got it?” I add as much sugar to my voice as I can tolerate without gagging.

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