Page 93 of Thrones We Steal

“She found it.”

I pull the best poker face I can muster and glance at Henry. He meets my eyes, then says in a bored tone, “Mrs. Schumann, tell me more about you. I think under different circumstances you and I would have been great friends.”

She positively simpers at him, and her skin becomes translucent in the sunlight. She launches into a narrative of her past, both as a child and an adult. Henry steers us toward a bed overflowing with early summer flowers: delphinium, irises, peonies, while asking questions and chuckling at her answers.

I’m the ignored third wheel, but it’s a position I’m willing to overlook, provided Mrs. Schumann tells us something that proves the diary is legitimate.

After wandering the entire path of the garden for ten or fifteen minutes, all of which are filled with nothing but anecdotes from her past, Mrs. Schumann slows down. “I believe I need to sit down, Your Royal Highness.” Clouds are forming in large quantities now, and the sun has to wrestle them for any small opening through which to shine.

Henry leads us to a small wrought-iron bench nestled in the embrace of a giant oak tree. A squirrel scolds our disruption of his sanctuary as we sit down.

“I’ve certainly enjoyed our chat, sir. But I know you came for more than that. And I’m not going to waste your time. I know you have a country to run.” She looks at me before returning her gaze to Henry. “You want to know how I came to have the diary.

“Like I said, it was my grandmother’s. Which is why I was so angry when that nitwit Caleb donated it. He has no respect for history or family. Can’t even come visit his own grandmother. Always gallivanting around the globe somewhere.” She waves her hand in frustration. “But I’m getting sidetracked.

“My grandmother was a housemaid in the palace before she got married. Served under King William the Second. They had done some remodeling in the servants’ quarters and her room must have been a lady’s maid’s room before, see, or she’d never have found it.”

We stay silent, hoping she’ll continue.

“It was wedged in the fireplace, is what she said. Hidden behind a loose brick. She’d never have found it but for a tumble she took one day. Fortunately, it was summer time and no fire was lit. But she tripped and stumbled backwards into the fireplace. When she went to pull herself out, she grabbed onto a brick but it was loose. That’s when she discovered the book.

“I found it one day, in the attic of her cottage. I was young, no more than fifteen, enamored by everything about the royal family. I had dreams of working at the palace myself. So when I found the diary in the attic, saying it belonged to the queen’s maid, why, I couldn’t hardly contain myself.

“I took it to my grandmother. She was on her sickbed, but her mind was still sharp, see. We didn’t know then that she’d never get out of bed again. She told me the story I just told you, about finding it in the fireplace. She told me to keep it safe. And I did, until that little twat Caleb got rid of it.” She scowls at him in retrospect.

The garden is bathed in silence but for the gentle breeze in the trees and the twittering of the birds. I recognize the trill of a European robin calling its mate. I’m afraid if I speak the woman will clam up again.

Finally Henry says, “That’s an incredible story, Mrs. Schumann. Did you end up working at the palace then?”

He couldn’t have pleased her more. “I certainly did. Served your great-grandfather, I did, as housemaid. Not for long, of course, because I fell in love and got married. But those were some of the best years of my life.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if there were employment records kept back then, would you? Maybe a book or register of who was hired and their position?”

She waves her hand. “Oh, sure. The butler did all of the hiring back then. I’m sure it’s quite different now. He had a big black book he wrote everything in. I watched him write my name when I was hired on. Very formal-like and all that.”

Where is he going with these questions? I look at him, but he keeps his eyes on Mrs. Schumann, and a smile tugs at one side of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you saw where he put it when he was done, did you?”

She laughs, a shrill cackle that startles the robins. “I sure did. He had a shelf behind his desk, a whole bunch of books on it. Don’t know what they all were, but that one went up there with them. I doubt they’re still there though,” she adds. “Everything’s gone to all those computers and whatnot.”

This seems to satisfy him, because he stands and says, “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Schumann. It’s been the highlight of my week. Now let’s get you back inside.”

She titters and blushes at this, something I didn’t realize was still possible at her age. We say our goodbyes, and as I walk briskly to the car, I realize that this was my last hope, and now it’s gone. I’ve become society’s pariah, Henry’s practice target, and a stranger to the people I love.

For better or for worse, I’m stuck in this role that I no longer have any desire to play.

28

“Tattoo” - Jordan Sparks

The air has cooled considerably by the time we reach Henry’s car. The clouds churn into a thick gray soup, completely obliterating what might have been a beautiful sunset. A rumble of thunder echoes in the distance.

“She was butter in your hands,” I mutter as he opens my door.

“What can I say? I know how to handle women.”

“You should hand out complimentary barf bags.”

He throws his head back and laughs, and the sound reverberates through the still evening air. After he climbs into the driver’s seat, he says, “Celia Eleanor, are you jealous of an old woman?”

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