Page 39 of Nobody in Particular

Although I’m sure removing me from the line of succession would break him, it would still be preferable to the potential outcome should I take the throne and shirk my duties. Though there’s no legal requirement for me to have children, and the throne would simply pass to Uncle Albert’s line if I were unable to for any reason—as it would have if I were never born—I’m not sure if I could bear the shame that would be piled on me for the rest of my life should I willfully refuse.

Not to mention, our family is on shaky ground as it is. Stepping outside the lines when ruling a majority-Catholic country is quite the dangerous activity as it is. Doing so only a decade after that terrible referendum is practically begging for a re-vote.

Truthfully, it’s not the prospect of having a child I oppose, anyway. It’s the idea of pregnancy itself that chills me. Whenever I pictureit, I think of Mum, lying in a hospital bed, her skin so translucent I could trace a perfect map of her veins. I think of the snippets of information I gathered eavesdropping until I scraped together a shaky understanding from snatches of conversations. I had lost yet another would-be sibling, and had very nearly lost my mother in the process. And though nobody discussed it with me directly, I took a grave lesson away. New life cannot be formed without gambling an existing life. And I’m rather attached to the idea of my continued existence. I suppose I’m selfish like that.

If I set aside the pregnancy issue, I don’t mind the idea of having a child at all. In another life, one where my choices didn’t carry an entire bloodline of pressure behind them, I may have had children of my own free will. Only in that life, I would have wanted my wife to carry them.

“Thank god,” Alfie says mildly. “I wouldn’t want to hear what your father would say if you told him you were planning to go child-free.”

“Plans aren’t always the biggest factor,” I point out. “My mother struggled enough to have me, and she was trying rather a lot harder than I imagine I will. Luck could be on my side.”

“That’s not funny, Rosie.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, just short of a snap. “I’m sure I’ll spend half my adult life creating a horde of heirs. The universe will see to it just to spite me.”

“Why would you say that?” Alfie asks.

“Just a pattern I’m noticing.”

“Oh, yes.” Alfie snorts. “You’re unbelievably beautiful, unbelievably rich, and unbelievably powerful, all by birthright. When will the injustice end?”

“Shut up,” I say, fighting a smile.

That’s when the skies open. There are no warning drops. Rather, we’re unloaded upon in a diagonal sheet of roaring water. The crowd shrieks and squeals, and scrambles to take cover in the cathedral. Alfie moves to follow after them, but I grab his arm and nod at a wooden gazebo only a few feet behind us. Arm in arm, we run through the rain and take shelter beneath it, gasping andlaughing. The guards do the same, and take their spots not too far from us.

“Christ,” I moan, lifting my arms as well as I can. They’re laden down by the weight of my sodden peacoat, and I’m dripping so heavily the water is bouncing off the concrete ground beneath me.

Alfie looks much the same. He runs his hands down his face to wick off as much water as he can, then takes one look at me and bursts into peals of laughter. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Mm. Thanks very much.” I shoot daggers at him as he approaches and tries his best to push back the hair sticking to my forehead in tendrils.

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. More awkward. He gives me a funny look, and then takes a step back to get a better look at me. “Much better,” he says, referring to my hair, I think. “Just let me…” He comes closer again and fiddles with my coat collar. “There.”

He’s extremely close to me. So close that it takes me by surprise. I notice, with his hands only inches from me, that he’s wearing the watch “I” gave him.

“Thank you,” I say, but it’s rather difficult to speak at full volume to someone standing so near, so my voice comes out quite softly. Something about that rings an alarm bell in the back of my mind, but I’m slow to cotton on to just where the danger is.

The paparazzi are still standing right where we left them. Most of them have pulled the hoods of their waterproof jackets up, and they have umbrellas. Some of them have started to make their way closer to the gazebo.

Alfie looks pensive. “I wish we saw each other more, Rosie.”

“Oh. I did only just see you at Mum’s birthday… and the rugby game…”

He lowers his lashes and looks down at me. “It’s not nearly enough though, is it?”

The thought hadn’t really occurred to me. But it feels rude, even for me, to continue disagreeing, so instead I say nothing. I just look back at him, hoping he changes the subject to something that makes a little more sense.

I realize too late, far too late, that I look in his eyes for too long. Too long, given how close he’s standing to me. Too long, given his hands are still resting on my collar, from when he was fixing it.

Too late to pull back before he leans in to kiss me.

At first, I barely process what’s happening.

The only thing I’m aware of is Danni’s name echoing inexplicably in the back of my mind.

When I return to myself, I freeze. I don’t kiss him back, but I don’t pull away. The first thought that springs to mind then is that if I pull away it would be an obvious rejection. In front of all of those cameras. I can’t do that to him.

I suppose my stillness somehow gives the impression that I’m not opposed to the kiss, because he wraps his arms around my neck, looping his fingers through the soaked strands of my hair. In response, I place an awkward hand on his arm, half for show, half so I can give him a subtle push. I’m horribly aware of his lips on mine, of his closeness. It feels unnatural, wrong.

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