(11 years before Royally Screwed)

 

“She’s a battle-ax with a chunk of concrete where her heart should be.”

~Prince Nicholas, Royally Screwed

 

Nicholas

 

THREE DAYS AFTER THE CELEBRATION of my sixteenth birthday, I’m in the yellow drawing room being lectured by Her Majesty the Queen.

“These cards will be kept by your guests as treasured mementos forever. One day, they may be displayed in museums throughout the world.”

Because these days, if her mouth is moving in my direction—she’s lecturing me.

“And they cannot look like a gaggle of chickens stepped in ink and walked over them. Honestly, Nicholas,” she tsks. “You will write them again.”

My last two birthdays have been more political events than parties. An opportunity for scheming and strategizing, for bumbling bureaucrats to engage in the time-honored tradition of royal arse-kissing, and for supporters to offer their tithings of loyalty.

I haven’t received any firstborn offspring yet . . . but there’s always next year.

Because this is my life now.

“Which ones should I rewrite?” I sigh.

“All of them.”

“All of them? There’s three hundred cards here!”

“Do not whine—it grates on my ears. And if you had done them correctly the first go around, you wouldn’t need to write them again. There’s a lesson in that, if you’d bother to acknowledge it.”

I adjust my voice to a perfectly calm, logical tone that isn’t at all a whine.

“It took me two days to write them. I’m scheduled to return to school tomorrow afternoon.”

And she couldn’t care less.

“Then I suggest you get started straight away.”

Frustration punches through me—making me want to tear my hair out and declare any future acknowledgment of my birthday a death penalty offense. I want to get up and walk out. I want to stand up and tell the Queen precisely where she can shove her bloody thank-you cards, and her lectures.

I used to hang on her every word, obey every command without question. Because when you’ve been flung into the deep end and you don’t know how to swim, you’ll grasp anything that might keep you afloat. I thought her wisdom would buoy me.

But now I think she just likes bossing me around. Even at this very moment, she can’t resist twisting the knife.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Prince Nicholas?”

I literally bite my tongue. It’s going to be bleeding by the time I get back to school.

“No, Your Majesty.”

I push my chair in closer to the desk . . . and pick up the pen.

“Good,” she says, then marches from the room.

I begin writing the first card, but when I glance back at the list, I realize I’ve misspelled the recipient’s name. Nigel Altringham—it’s a stupid name anyway.

“Fucking hell!” I slam my hand on the desk.

“I could use some air.”

Granddad’s voice comes from behind me—from the sofa in the rear of the room. He’d been so silently observing my exchange with Grandmother, I’d forgotten he was there.

“How about a walk, Nicholas?”

“I have cards to rewrite.”

He stands beside me.

“The cards aren’t going anywhere. They’ll still be here when you get back. Come on.”

The air is cool and windy as we walk through the gardens and past the pond, to the wooded area of the grounds where the leaves have changed to their full autumn colors. Grandfather picks up a thick branch along the way, using it as a walking stick.

“There was a time, when your father was just about your age, that he bristled at his duties as well.”

“Dad did?”

“That’s right.”

We rarely speak of my parents. It’s still too fresh, too hurtful, the missing of them too sharp.

“He always seemed to handle things so effortlessly,” I say. “He was perfect at everything—the perfect father, perfect son, a perfect prince.”

“He told us he was going to run away and join the circus once.” Granddad grins. “To be a lion tamer or a fire juggler.”

I chuckle.

“No one is perfect, Nicholas. And everyone was young once. But your father trusted that the Queen had his best interests at heart. That there was always a purpose to her demands.”

I shake my head, scowling.

“I just don’t understand why she has to be an insufferable bitch about it.”

And the next thing I know, I’m on my back. Down on the damp ground—my grandfather’s walking stick pointed in my face.

“She may be your grandmother, but that’s my wife you’re speaking about, boy.”

The old man actually tripped me. It’s a little embarrassing how easily he managed it.

But still . . . I get his meaning. So I meet his eyes and nod.

And he holds out his hand, pulling me to my feet.

“Your future is your grandmother’s utmost concern—her only priority. It may not feel that way, but that doesn’t make it any less of a fact.”

I think about his words—and the indisputable truth I know deep down is behind them.

“And how you speak of the Queen will always reflect more on you than it ever would on her. Remember that, yeah?”

“I will, Granddad. Sorry.”

He forgives me with a pat on the shoulder. We turn and start heading back to the palace. As we walk, I feel his eyes on me and glance over to find them sparkling with mischief.

“What?” I ask.

“She hates them too.”

“You mean the thank-you cards?”

He nods. “She would outlaw them if she could. She whines every time she has to write them.”

“Whines?” I laugh. “Grandmother? You’re joking.”

“I’m not. She is the queen of whining.” His voice goes high-pitched. “Edward, my hand is sore. Why must there be so many, Edward? I’ll never get them finished—never!”

We’re still chuckling as we walk back through the door to the drawing room.

Where the Queen is waiting, with folded arms and a frown.

“Where did you go off to?”

“Just taking in the air,” Grandfather says. “It’s not good for the boy to be cooped up inside all day.”

I keep my head down and slide back onto the chair.

Grandmother’s gaze darts between us suspiciously.

“What are you two grinning about?”

I glance up, shrugging.

“Nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Nothing at all,” Grandfather agrees.

She cocks her head.

“I don’t believe you.”

My grandfather shifts closer to her, speaking in a low voice.

“You’re looking very pretty today, Lenora. Do you believe that?”

Her tone goes a bit airy.

“Well . . . thank you.”

“I’ve always loved this color on you,” he tells her. “And the way the neckline falls—absolutely ravishing.”

“Edward,” she says softly. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s go to our rooms and see if we can figure it out together.”

Dear God, my grandparents are flirting with each other. This is what hell must be like.

Suddenly the three hundred thank-you cards don’t seem so bad.

“You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you, Nicholas?” Granddad asks.

“Yes, I’m fine. By all means, go. Please . . . go.”

They scurry from the room, whispering words I’m thankfully unable to hear.

And I sit at the desk . . . and laugh to myself.

“The Queen whines.”

Somehow knowing that makes me feel lighter, better. . . and it’s all just a bit easier to bear.