In a blink, the morning arrives when I have to report for deployment--when I have to leave Sarah. I try to get her to stay at her flat, snuggled under the covers, but she pleads and insists on coming to the airport with me. I want every moment with her that I can have, so I give in.
The sun isn't quite up yet and the air is frigid. On the tarmac, outside the plane that will take me away, Winston, the head of Palace security, meets us. I introduce him to Sarah.
"Sarah, this is Winston, the head Dark Suit. He'll be making sure you're looked after while I'm gone."
Winston bows respectfully. "An honor and a pleasure, Lady Sarah."
She gives him a nod, smiling graciously but shyly, as she tends to be with new people.
I squeeze her elbow and tell her I just need a private moment with Winston. And then I take him aside.
"You're aware of Lady Sarah's plans to join the BCA?"
"I am, Sir."
"You're arranging her security?"
"Yes, Prince Henry."
My voice is as cold as the air. "Your job is to protect the royal family, to secure the future of the monarchy, is that correct?"
He nods, his eyes tireless and unyielding, like a machine. "It is."
"Take a good look at her, Winston. Without her, there is no future for this monarchy, do you understand?"
He bows just slightly. "Completely, Sir."
"I want her covered in security. Only the best men. If she chafes at it, have them go undercover, but I want her protected at all times. No matter what. Is that clear?"
Again, he nods. "Do not trouble yourself about it, Prince Henry. Lady Sarah will be as secure as the Queen herself."
And a small measure of comfort slips into place. I'm not a fool, and there's a terrible conflict that comes with being who I am and loving someone so much. A price. Because by loving Sarah, I'm bringing a level of attention and scrutiny--even danger--into her life that wouldn't be there without me. The only reassurance is that I have the resources to protect her from it. Men like Winston and James, and the hundreds of other noble security men and women who would die to keep me, my brother, my sister-in-law, my grandmother--and now my Sarah--safe.
I tap Winston's shoulder and with a bow, he heads toward the plane.
And I return to Sarah's side, gazing at her face, burning this moment into my mind. I push up the sleeve of my coat and unclip the ID bracelet at my wrist, then I open Sarah's hand and pool the platinum into her palm.
"Keep this safe for me, will you? It'll be good to know the two things most precious to me are in the same place."
She nods and smiles up at me at first, so lovingly . . . but then her face tightens and crumples as she starts to cry. She wraps her arms around me and I hold her close.
"I'm sorry," she says against my coat. "I didn't want to cry."
I kiss her hair, rocking us gently. "You go ahead and cry all you like, love. You're crying for both of us."
For a few more final moments, we hold each other.
And then it's time to let go.
I kiss her softly, deeply. And as I look into her beautiful eyes, I remember words from a lifetime ago. Words that comforted me when I needed comfort more than anything.
I press my palm to Sarah's cheek and smile. "We're going to be all right, you and I. Yeah?"
She takes a deep breath and gives me a smile back.
"Yeah."
Three years later
HENRY KEPT HIS PROMISE. He wrote me a letter a day, every day that we were apart, and it turns out he's a fantastic writer. Most were romantic, naughty--the kind a typical soldier would pen to his girl back home. A few were heartbreaking, a place for him to find solace, to pour out his grief after a difficult battle and the losses that all too often accompanied them. Some were philosophical, a way to sort out his own thoughts and beliefs by conveying them to me. And there were others that were hopeful, that spoke of the future--our future, as well as the future of our country and people and the kind of leader he aspired to be.
And I matched him letter for letter. I found I was bolder, dirtier, in my writing . . . although with Henry's instruction, I've come pretty far on the dirty talk front too. In the moments that he needed my comfort, when the words were too difficult for him to write and he needed my open arms but I wasn't there to hold him, I would send him pages and pages of I love you's--because sometimes there's nothing else that can be said. Other letters spoke of the work I did, the children I met and how all children are the same, no matter where they live or the language they speak . . . they all have the enormous capacity for resilience and hope and to give and receive love. And there were the letters that I wrote of my own dreams for Henry and me, for our children, and the source of strength for our people I hoped one day to be.
All of our letters, his to me and mine to him, are stored in the private safe at Guthrie House. It's odd to think that one day, many years from now, someone could read our letters the way George and Martha Washington's are studied, as a part of history. For us, they were simply words from Henry to Sarah and back again--but we now understand and accept the place we'll one day fill in the world. It's who we are, and we're at peace with it.
When Henry's enlistment was up, he surprised me--found me and came to me--where I was stationed with the BCA. To others, he looked like any rugged, bearded soldier, but I knew him in an instant. Those eyes, that smile--I ran and threw myself into his arms, and that's when we were both reassured that two years apart had only deepened our passion for each other.
These days, Henry lives at Guthrie House, already working with Parliament and the Queen, to change and better Wessco. And I have my own flat here in the city. Mother complains about the crowds and the noise every time she visits, but she comes anyway. Penny's had a few small parts in several moderately successful television shows and one hugely successful commercial for tooth-whitening cream. She's on a billboard in LA for the same product--and she takes a picture of it at least once a week and sends it to me, because she still can't believe it.
I spend my days working in the Palace library, and as a member of several literacy-promoting charitable organizations. I still struggle with new people and places, but it doesn't hold me back--and like I once told Henry, we all have our quirks.
As for Henry, he gets my nights. Almost all of them, all the time. It's different here in the city than in Castlebrook--the paparazzi are relentless, and there's nothing they'd like more than to get a shot of Henry or me doing the walk of shame in the morning, after having spent the night together. We have to be sneaky.
Lucky for us, sneaky is still Henry's specialty. They haven't caught us yet.
In fact, I was just with him last night, talking about the speech he's giving to Parliament right now. I told him if he was nervous he should just picture me naked, and he said he needed a refresher . . . and there wasn't much talking after that.
I now sit with Prince Nicholas and the Queen, and listen as Henry gives the position of the House of Pembrook on Wessco's potential military engagement. He writes the speeches himself, in coordination with his grandmother, and as I said . . . he's quite the writer.
As he concludes his remarks, Henry slowly meets the eyes of each seated MP.
"This is not an action I take lightly. I have seen the cost of war, and I ache for the loss of every soldier as if they were members of my own family--because they are."
And then his voice changes. Surges in strength and resonance.
"But the world is not always gray. There are moments in time when the line between right and wrong is stark and clear. And each of us must make our choice. It has been said that evil flourishes when good men and women do nothing. And so I ask you to stand with me today, beside me and beside the sons and daughters of Wessco as we declare in one resounding voice, I will not do nothing."
The chamber fills with a cacophony of clapping hands--thunderous applause--and every member of Parliament rises to his feet. To stand with His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Hen
ry.
Later, Henry steps from the platform and makes his way through the throng of chattering Parliament members, shaking hands and nodding as he goes. When he arrives at our seats, his brother immediately embraces him, smiling broadly.
"Well done, Henry. You sounded like an actual politician."
"No," the Queen interjects. "He sounded like a king."
It's the truest compliment she could give, and Henry . . . blushes.
A wicked sense of vindication tickles my stomach, because I've definitely rubbed off on him. Loving Henry has made me wild and brave, and his love for me has made him humble and calm. What a funny pair we are--better than any storybook couple I've read about, and for me that's the truest compliment I could ever give.
Henry turns to Olivia and hugs her warmly. "Look at you, Olive." He gazes at her midsection, where a round burgeoning baby bump strains against her blouse. "I'm going to have to start calling you Pimento--you're all stuffed."
Olivia laughs. And then we file out to the waiting cars and drive to the palace.
AFTER MY SPEECH, Sarah, Nicholas, Olivia, Granny, and I retire to the yellow drawing room for tea. And I broach the subject that's been on my mind a lot lately.
"I want Sarah to move into Guthrie House after New Year's."
My grandmother practically chokes on her tea.
"Absolutely not."
"Why not? She practically lives there now anyway; we may as well make it official."
The Queen raises one sharp eyebrow. "Your definition of official and mine are very different."
I shrug. "The law's on the verge of being been changed--and then there'll be no reason to pretend we don't 'get busy' every chance we get, in every room of the Palace."
After intense lobbying by the Queen and me, we almost have the number of votes in Parliament needed to revise the law. We're hopeful it'll be done within the next year, two at the most, and then I and all future heirs will finally be free to marry whomever we choose. And the first child Sarah and I have--whether it's a boy or a girl--will be next in line to the throne.
"TMI, Henry," Olivia quips.
"Thank you, Olivia," my grandmother says. "My thoughts exactly."
The Queen sets down her teacup. "Small steps, my boy. Tradition still demands propriety. The fact that Sarah accompanies you to functions of state and family affairs would've been scandalous just ten years ago. You're not even engaged."
I wave my hand. "A technicality."
Nicholas chuckles. "You sound awfully cocky for a man who hasn't popped the question yet."
"Just realistic." I wink at Sarah. "I'm irresistible."
My little duck rolls her pretty eyes.
"Be that as it may," the Queen says dryly, "we must set a good example for the young ladies of Wessco." She pats Sarah's hand. "Explain it to him, dear."
My grandmother and Sarah have grown very close in the last year. Granny's taken Sarah safely under her wing and become a wonderful, strong mentor to my lovely girl.
Not unlike Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader.
"Oh, I don't know, Queen Lenora," Sarah replies. "I'm a modern, independent woman. Living with Henry before marriage could be a very good example for the women of Wessco. What's the phrase? 'Try it before you buy it'?"
"'Try it . . .'" the Queen sputters.
And then she looks at Sarah's face.
"Are you teasing me, Sarah Von Titebottum?" she asks sternly.
Sarah's expression sobers, but the sparkle in her eyes remains.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry. Your grandson is a terrible influence."
In more ways than one.
I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively and Sarah throws me a mock frown before reassuring the Queen.
"But I agree with you: I won't be moving into Guthrie House until after the wedding. We've enjoyed so much support from the people, we shouldn't risk offending the more conservative citizens . . . no matter how tempting the idea may be."
My grandmother nods. "Well said, child."
And I pout. "But that will take so long. I don't want to wait."
The Queen has no pity. "Then I suggest you get the ball rolling, Henry. If you like it, you should put a ring on it." Then she adds proudly, "I told Beyonce that once."
We all laugh. Because apparently the Queen has a sense of humor.
Who knew?
But still . . . it's good advice.
Sarah tells me the best happily ever afters end with a wedding. But if you've seen one royal wedding, you've basically seen them all--glossy commemorative magazine cover-worthy photos of the stunning white dress with lace sleeves, the dashing groom in his military uniform, the gold, horse-drawn carriages, the crowds, the adorable flower girls.
The real story is the one that comes before. The one that only a handful of people get to know and even fewer get to see.
For us, it happens at The Horny Goat. Sarah looks stunning in a dark plum dress. She still doesn't like to stand out, still is not a fan of loud colors, but these days her fashion choices are more vibrant and fearless--just like her.
I like to think I had something to do with that.
Nicholas and Olive are with us, Penelope and my brother's bouncy sister-in-law Ellie Hammond too, as well as our friends--Simon and Franny, Willard and Laura, Annie, Sam and Elizabeth. Macalister and Meg are behind the bar, and James and big Mick are at the door, joined by two members of my brother's security, Tommy Sullivan and Logan St. James.
The gang's all here.
Onstage, in a chair with my guitar, I tap at the microphone and the crowd goes hushed.
"My father used to put together jigsaw puzzles in his spare time; it was a hobby for him. Huge, complicated puzzles with thousands of pieces. I remember pushing my toy cars around on the carpet while he sat at a table in his study, patiently putting together one piece after the next."
I see Nicholas smiling softly, because he remembers too.
"And sometimes, there were pieces, just one or two, that were odd, that didn't seem to fit in anywhere. He would put them off to the side and I would think, maybe there's something wrong with them, maybe they're broken. But then . . . he would find the piece they fit with, their match--and when the two pieces were joined, you could see what they were supposed to be. Where they fit and how important they were to the whole picture."
I scan the crowd, searching for my Sarah's dark eyes, and when I find them they're already filling with tears.
Because she knows what's coming.
"The official account of tonight will be very proper and appropriate and . . . fucking boring. But that's okay. Because those of you here, those of you who mean the most to Sarah and me, you'll know the true story of how it all happened. That once upon a time, a pitiful lad met a shy, lovely lass and together they became something more . . . something strong and beautiful and forever. And one night he sang her a song, in a fantastic rickety old pub--a song with a question in it. And after he played the very last note, she said yes a thousand times."
My lips slide into a grin. "At least . . . that's how I'm hoping it'll go."
I bring my fingers to the strings and play the opening notes of "Marry Me" by Train.
And as I sing every word, lyrics about forever not being enough time and wearing out I love you's, about love showing the way and promises to sing to her every night, I look at Sarah the whole time and she doesn't take her eyes off me for a moment.
She's already nodding when the last guitar notes ring out, when I leave the stage and stand before her and sink down, not on one knee but two--and I offer her my mother's ring--a flawless, oval diamond upon a bed of glittering smaller diamonds, set in a shiny platinum band.
"I love you, Sarah. You already know that, but I promise to tell you and show you every single day, just the same. I promise to keep you safe, always, so you're never afraid to be bold and brave...even when it scares the hell out of me. I will cherish your sweetness, and be inspired by your strength and kindness. And I promise you a life fil
led with adventure and excitement and fun, and enough laughter and love to fill the pages of a thousand books."
I smile up at her, my throat tight with emotion and my heart close to bursting.
"Will you marry me, Sarah?"
And with happy tears streaming down her face, my beautiful girl goes down on her knees with me, and she takes my face in her hands and whispers, "Yes, Henry. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes, yes, yes, yes . . ."
I pull her against me, and we seal our words with a long kiss. And the claps and cheers of those who know us best and love us most fill the air.
And that, that's the story you won't see on television or read in the history books. The tale of an unruly prince who found the queen of his heart, and learned how to be a King.
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Nicholas Arthur Frederick Edward Pembrook, Crowned Prince of Wessco, aka "His Royal Hotness," is wickedly charming, devastatingly handsome, and unabashedly arrogant--hard not to be when people are constantly bowing down to you.
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