Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Grandmother stands behind her desk, her back to me, gazing out the window with her small hands clasped behind her. My grandfather sits on the sofa, his head bowed, eyes on the floor.
And it’s so unlike him—I can’t help but stare. Willing him to look up at me. Wordlessly begging him to prove me wrong.
“Sit down, please, Nicholas.”
The Queen never says “please.” Not because she’s rude, but because monarchs do not request—they command.
So it’s that small, simple word that tells me everything I need to know. And any thread of hope I’d been holding on to crumbles to dust.
Grandmother turns, her gaze not really on me but at some point close to me. Her voice is shaky and soft.
“Your father and mother . . .”
She trails off for several seconds, then tries again.
“Your parents’ plane . . .” And again, the words fail her.
The silence stretches on until it becomes its own suffocating, unbearable thing.
“Just say it,” I whisper. “I already know. Just say it.”
In the end, my grandfather speaks for her.
“The plane has been recovered, Nicholas.”
I won’t understand until decades later—when I am a husband and a father myself—how excruciating the next words are for him. For both of them.
“There were no survivors.”
And for a moment, there’s no air, no light, I’m falling down and down—the walls closing in, compressing me. I stare hard at my hands. Focusing on the lines of my knuckles, a small cut at the base of my pointer finger, the translucent white beds of my fingernails. Because I don’t want to think about them; I don’t want to see their faces in my mind.
Smiling and beautiful, teasing and tender and alive.
I hear my dad’s words again . . . the last words I will ever hear him say.
Look after your brother. He needs you.
My throat throbs. I try to clear it, but it only aches more.
“I’ll tell Henry.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Grandfather says—making me turn to look at him. The lines on his face have become crevices; his eyes that always sparkle with vitality and wit are dull now. “It’s not your responsibility.”
Look after your brother. He needs you.
“I want to tell him. It should come from me.”
Because Henry can’t find out like this—not in this room with these stuttering starts and stops, and words Grandmother can’t bear to speak aloud. It’s already going to shatter him, but perhaps . . . perhaps if I can say it just right, it won’t destroy him completely.
Grandfather stands, his jaw tight and his back straight.
“Then I’ll come with you.”
The walk to Guthrie House is heavy and silent. Outside my brother’s door, Granddad puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you certain, Nicholas? I can be the one to tell him.”
I grit my teeth and look up at him.
“I’m certain.”
He nods, somberly.
“I’ll be right out here.”
In the sitting room, Henry has pushed the furniture and the rug against one wall, and is kicking a red rubber ball against the three-hundred-year-old plaster on the opposite side. It bounces back to him and when he sees me, he scoops it up, tucking it under his arm.
“Can we go outside yet?”
The palace has been on full lockdown since we returned—a prison of gold and marble. No one leaves or enters the grounds and no member of the royal family is permitted outdoors for an extended period of time.
“No, not yet.”
He grumbles, flinging himself back onto the sofa.
“I’m so bored, Nicholas.”
My stomach churns with sickness, because more than anything, I don’t want to do this. I would give my life to not have to do this.
“I need to tell you something, Henry . . . something terrible.”
He sits up, holding the ball in his lap, his green eyes wide with innocence.
“What is it?”
I sit down on the opposite end of the sofa, my knees shaking.
“They’ve found the plane.”
“Where was it? Are Mum and Dad coming home now?”
My stomach twists tighter.
“No. They’re not coming home.”
He blinks, his small brow scrunching.
“Why not?”
My throat burns with tears I will not shed and the words come out in a voice of ash.
“They died, Henry. The plane crashed and Mum and Dad died.”
The red rubber ball slips from his hands and bounces across the floor.
“That’s . . . that’s not true.”
I want to close my eyes, but I don’t. I look my brother in his tortured face and beg, “Henry, please—”
He stands up, his hands squeezed into fists.
“I’m going to tell Dad.”
“Henry, try to under—”
“I’m going to tell Dad you said that and he’s going to be so angry with you!”
“Henry, please don’t make me say it again! Please.”
For several agonizing moments, he’s silent. His lower lip quivers, but he doesn’t cry. He glares at me like he hates me . . . like he hates the whole world.
“Get out.”
I reach for him. But he backs away.