Jon would not let Tony Speck know, but going to the drawing room at that point did have its advantages. He took the service lift up (so early in the day to fear the stairs, but there it was) and stopped off at the pantry to retrieve the King’s favourite brand of whiskey – Anchor Haven Single Malt. Jon always made sure that they had a brand-new bottle for the occasion, as the King made a tradition out of everyone having a glass of whiskey to raise in a toast before his after-dinner speech.
The King hated to watch himself on television, so instead at three p.m., as the rest of the country was sitting down to hear his address, he wrote a special address for his own family. It was often long, humorous, slightly risqué, and best enjoyed slightly tipsy.
Jon carried the Anchor Haven bottle to the drawing room, moving slowly to conserve his energy. The pain was already starting. He ignored it and quietly slipped inside. If one had any confusion over what time of year it was, the grand drawing room of Balmoral would very quickly set them straight. Colour and joy assaulted the brain on entrance and did not relent for one’s entire stay. The large room had been decadently draped in lavish Christmas decorations that had been in the royal household for decades, from ancient hanging adornments dangling from the ceiling and faded tinsel around the fireplace to cracked baubles littered on the imposing Christmas tree by the window. Even the two chaise longues in the centre of the room had been adorned with Christmas cushions and there was a smaller version of the tree on the coffee table in between them.
Tony Speck would probably remark that this room represented how they had gotten to this point. Christmas was always Eric Windsor’s favourite holiday, and he seemed to revel in his authority over it. The family had decorated this room, using the decorations they wanted, meaning that the place was dressed as a traditional family Christmas instead of a Hallmark card. Eric often said that Christmas was the only time of year he felt like a normal person.
Outside of the trip to church on Christmas morning, which was a moral duty but also a royal one, the family could be left alone. This Christmas, for obvious blizzard-related reasons, the church trip had to be called off, which no doubt Eric secretly enjoyed. The entire day was to be their own, and this year especially so due to the King’s startling request.
It wasn’t hard to understand that King Eric would eventually ask to be left alone at Christmas, dismissing the staff. Jon wasn’t expecting anyone to actually agree to this, but a planning committee had been liaising with the Royals, and eventually they had all come to an agreement. The Royal Family would celebrate Christmas alone with Tony Speck as their only protection – well, and the high walls and gates of Balmoral – and Jon to serve them dinner.
Jon was not privy to the government’s stipulations, although he had been exposed to one the night before, when Speck had been tasked with gathering up the family’s mobile devices. He even took Jon’s, although he never had it while on duty anyway. ‘We can’t have anyone know that the United Kingdom’s most important asset is up here in the Scottish wilderness alone. I am not risking this family’s lives for the sake of Twitter.’ Many were relinquished willingly, but it had taken a long time to get thirteen-year-old Prince Martin to part with his iPad. The devices had gone into a lockbox and Speck had taken them away, to a location that only he was aware of. The only communication devices left on any personage in Balmoral Castle were Jon’s and Speck’s analogue walkie-talkies.
Jon placed the Anchor Haven on the sideboard by the door and made his way around the centre, carefully avoiding the towering Christmas tree branches and the empty chaise longues. A smattering of wrapped boxes lay underneath the tree, although the pile was not particularly uniform. Had Speck sent him down here just to reorder some boxes, while the duck burnt and the soup spoiled?
‘Oh, there you are, butler.’
The sound jolted him. Prince David’s old and decrepit figure was crouched down in front of the fireplace, almost betraying his modesty in his traditional Scottish kilt. The Windsor family crest, a tradition for each of the family to wear on special occasions, was clipped to the top of the kilt like a belt buckle. He was fiddling with the logs and kindling of the fire, placing and re-placing items with an incompetent confidence that was almost admirable. David got up and dusted his hands, as if he had been doing God’s work. ‘I’ve been trying to get this blasted thing to light for the last hour. I’m rather afraid I’ll overly succeed and burst into flames, and give the rest of my family their deepest wish.’
‘Your Royal Highness,’ Jon said, forcing a smile. David had called him the butler ever since Jon had arrived – it didn’t bear correcting. The timers in his pockets were weighing him down, and he had bigger worries. ‘I often find that particular fire to be somewhat temperamental.’ He advanced and tried to light it himself as the Prince stood back. Within three tries, the fire slowly flickered to life.
‘Ah,’ David laughed, ‘success. Well done, butler. It seems to be all in the wrist. There is a knack to stoking a fire. I would take note, but I hope to never need to reach into the sooty depths again.’ He sank down into the armchair facing the fire and picked up a newspaper that was three days old. ‘How is the weather out there?’
‘Rampant, sir. A true blizzard.’ Jon made sure the fire was not instantly going to go out, before making his way back to the whiskey bottle. He put it onto a tray, along with the King’s favourite square decanter, and took it to the coffee table. The King liked for the whiskey to air for a few hours before drinking, so Jon cracked the bottle open, hearing the seal break, and poured the entire thing into the decanter.
‘By God, it really is primordial, isn’t it?’ David slid his glasses down his nose while wafting the broadsheet and spying on Jon. ‘We really are all alone here. Anything could happen.’
‘Sir?’ Jon asked, more than a little thrown by the foreboding comment.
Before David could explain, two melodic laughs came from the corridor beyond, and the door flew open as two elegant women glided in. The twin Princesses were by no means identical, but they were very much alike. It appeared that both Princess Emeline and Princess Maud had grasped their freedom with both hands, as they seemed in high spirits. They were truly beautiful, even at this early hour. The nation’s sweethearts around the clock.
‘Isn’t this a scream, Jon?’ Maud remarked gleefully upon seeing Jon, and it took a moment for him to realise that she was referring to the pile of dirty plates in her arms.
‘May I take those, Your Royal Highness?’ Jon said.
‘If you must,’ Maud said, almost sadly. ‘It would save me trying to find the kitchen again.’
‘We’ve just been having a leisurely stroll without any aides snapping at our heels,’ Emeline said. ‘The place is quite peaceful, really.’
‘I hope you didn’t set foot outside,’ David’s voice called, and this time (much as Jon had), the sisters jumped. David’s form was now masked by the high chairback, making him invisible to his nieces.
Their moods soured almost instantly, turning the air in the room into a thick soup of distaste and revulsion.
‘Didn’t see you there, Uncle,’ Emeline said, using an inherited royal civility that was often a wonder to behold. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘And Happy Christmas to you too, Emeline. And to you, Maud.’
Maud’s mouth twisted into a small smile of recognition – that civility fighting through – before turning. ‘I have to get back to my family. I left Thomas and the boys watching the latest episode of The Monarch. I want to be there when Matthew finds out that Evan Peters is playing him. He does enjoy him.’
‘Oh, that blasted television programme,’ David moaned. ‘I’d warn them off that if I were you. A load of sensationalist nonsense used to sell advertising space.’
Maud stopped her retreat at this. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Uncle. Are you so distressed by the manner of the production? Or are you worried that they’re just about to get to the bit with the assault allegations?’
‘I didn’t punch anyone!’ David huffed.
‘It’s on film, Uncle. And why did you punch her anyway? Maybe they’ll include that too.’
‘Maud!’ A harsh hiss that signalled the arrival of their matriarch. Princess Royal Marjorie Windsor-Nueberner stood in the doorway, in a pink suit with a long skirt. Marjorie was the very image of an elderly stateswoman, but was really anything but. Among the Royals, she was known to be the most problematic in recent years. Servants could barely hide their discomfort when they learned that they were assigned to her. Marjorie was a woman who had the pleasure of living like a queen but also the curse of knowing she would never be one. ‘Please, don’t talk about that codswallop on Christmas, and apologise to your uncle.’
Maud rolled her eyes and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry, Uncle.’ She left, but not before seeing the whiskey on the coffee table and turning her nose up at it. Princess Maud did not like whiskey and always found a way not to drink it.
‘Thank you, Margey,’ David said, after Maud had left.
‘Oh, shut up.’ Marjorie staggered into the room, and Jon saw with horror that she might still be slightly inebriated, or (possibly worse) already inebriated again. Maybe breaking out the whiskey so early was not a good idea – it was not to be touched until three p.m. Emeline saw her mother’s state too, and went to her, linking her arm with her mother’s and guiding her to the chair next to David’s. Once she was done, Emeline went over to the Christmas tree and started sorting the presents, thankfully relieving him of a job.
‘May I get you any breakfast, Your Royal Highness?’ Jon said, already making mental calculations in his head about what he could make in the time he had.
‘No, no,’ Marjorie fussed. ‘Unless a liquid breakfast is on the cards.’ She had noted the whiskey.
‘I’m sure I could easily procure some orange juice, ma’am.’
Marjorie glared at him icily. ‘You know what I mean. Don’t be smart, Jon. It’s not becoming of someone of your background.’ Jon would give Marjorie the benefit of the doubt and assume she was referring to his profession and not the colour of his skin. Concessions had to be made, and tongues were forever bitten.
‘We should be getting ready for church now. All this tradition gone – opening presents on Christmas Day and not Christmas Eve, no church . . . We don’t even weigh ourselves anymore! My husband is really making his mark.’
‘I hardly think us not going to church is Eric’s doing, Margey,’ David said.
‘No, I suppose not. How is the weather?’
‘Rampant. It’s a true blizzard,’ David said, parroting Jon’s words.
‘A white Christmas, all alone at the ’Moral. Anything could happen, eh, David?’ Marjorie cackled.
There that phrase was again. An odd sensation was forming itself in Jon’s gut, besides the pain. It was a sensation that everything was not quite right. A sort of vibration, a sixth sense, Jon thought, until he realised that the vibrating was real, and Marjorie and David were looking at him with perplexed expressions on their faces.
‘Jon dear, I surmise from your buzzing trousers, you may have somewhere to be.’
One of the egg timers had gone off.