A Distinctly British Take on Events

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/34853704.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M, Other
Fandom: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Relationship: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Beatrice Fox-
Mountchristen-Windsor & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, June
Claremont-Diaz & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-
Mountchristen-Windsor & Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry
Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Percy "Pez" Okonjo
Character: Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz, June
Claremont-Diaz, Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Queen Mary
(Red White & Royal Blue), Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Percy
"Pez" Okonjo, Shaan Srivastava, Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-
Windsor, Cash (Red White & Royal Blue), Amy Chen (Red White &
Royal Blue), PPO Ken Lewis (extra-canonical character)
Additional Tags: POV Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Canon Compliant, Fluff and
Angst, Falling In Love, Enemies to Lovers
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2021-10-31 Completed: 2023-08-02 Words: 142,634
Chapters: 33/33

A Distinctly British Take on Events

by RevJohnO

Summary

Henry's take on his relationship with Alex, starting from their first meeting, continuing to
the cake fiasco at the wedding, and concluding with Henry being told he has to pretend to
be friends with his secret crush by (who else?) Queen Mary. Though other writers have also
had a go at this one, I had to try it also, since (in my opinion) Henry is the most
complicated and attractive character in the entire book! There are probably as many
interpretations of what's going on in his head as there are readers of the novel, which is why
we all find him just as fascinating as does Alex. So here goes!

Notes

I'm not sure how many more chapters there will be, but I have several already written. I'll
be posting Chapter 2, "Weekend in Purgatory," very soon!

See the end of the work for more notes

 Fiasco Fallout

Henry walks over to the champagne fountain, selects a flute, fills it, sips, and one corner of his
mouth tucks in. He hadn’t expected his grandmother to fill the fountain with Dom Perignon, but he
also hadn’t expected something this bad. He has heard of companies in the States that sell boxed
fermented grape juice—he can’t dignify the stuff with the word “wine”—but this isn’t even as
good as he would expect that to be. This tastes like horse piss, he thinks, and then smiles. He
remembers once saying the same thing about a glass of wine in his father’s hearing, and Dad
commenting, “If you recognize the taste, mate, you’re spending too much time with your polo
ponies!"

Christ, he misses his father. Especially today. He’s tried to excuse Philip’s behaviour as wedding
jitters, but it’s been getting harder by the hour. As Philip’s only brother, he knew he would have to
serve as best man, but for weeks, Philip has been even bossier than usual and making snide
comments about how much better it would be if Henry enlisted, so he could wear a scarlet uniform
with gold buttons and shiny braid.

Gran has hinted that she would then induct him into a knightly order—not the Garter, of course,
but maybe St. Michael and St. George—so that he could have a sash across his chest, and that she
might even invest him with a medal or two for a more impressive show. Though he privately thinks
he indeed deserves a medal for putting up with all this nonsense, Henry has pretended not to
understand the hints, so instead Philip has forced him into a gold waistcoat with about a million
glittering buttons. “Can’t let the side down, mate!” he had said. “Got to make a good show!” Every
time Philip calls him by their father’s pet name for him, it sets his teeth on edge.

Gran left an hour ago, her parting shot a fake smile and the comment, “Next we’ll have to start
looking for a suitable bride for you, Henry dear,” her tone implying that the search would be long,
difficult, and likely unsuccessful.

Mum left a few minutes later, her eyes filling as she told Philip and Martha, “I wish you every
happiness, darlings, and if you find half the joy I found with Pip’s father you’ll be very lucky
indeed.” She clearly does not believe that her lost happiness with Arthur could ever be replicated
by anyone else.

All in all, it’s been pretty terrible, but the nightmare is almost over. He’s stood where they told him
to stand and knelt where they told him to kneel, posed for hundreds of pictures, and smiled at the
squealing girls. But the one person whose smile he craves has fixed him with a stare of withering
contempt whenever their eyes have met, before ostentatiously turning his back to chat with one of
the young women who have come with him from Washington. Alex Claremont-Diaz, who has
haunted Henry’s dreams since their first meeting three years ago, and who hates him with a passion
Henry can’t begin to fathom. Well, he can fathom the passion, just not the hatred.
Earlier in the evening, one of Gran’s courtiers had approached him to suggest that he ask the
President’s daughter to dance. The man had said, “Of course, His Royal Highness is busy with his
bride,” an unctuous smirk on his fleshy lips, almost slobbering at the thought of brides and grooms
and the activities they would soon be up to. Henry looked at the man more closely. Marmaduke,
that was his name. Some connection of the Norfolks, a Gentleman of the Queen’s Household for
about a hundred years. Perhaps Henry’s eyes were a bit too piercing, because Marmaduke had
nervously reached up and moved his hair back, settling it at a more natural place for a hairline. Of
course, a suggestion from Marmaduke was really an order from the Queen—the man would never
have dared such a thing on his own initiative. Henry hesitated a moment, but then he smiled. This
would get Alex’s attention, maybe even irritate him a little. He felt a bit guilty using the sister to
get at the brother (deliberately snubbing Alex by sliding his eyes over him when he went to collect
her), but fortunately June was charming and they had a perfectly decent turn around the floor,
which the photographers dutifully recorded.

He noted her resemblance to her brother, the curly dark hair, the beautiful brown eyes, the strong
jaw; and since she was a writer, they soon found common ground for conversation in their mutual
love of literature. Just in time, he remembered that his favorite author was supposed to be Dickens,
but it turned out that she loved Oliver Twist, while Henry proclaimed the genius of Great
Expectations.

A throat clearing beside him snaps him back to the present. It’s Bea. “I’m getting out of here as
soon as I can,” she says, looking around the ballroom. “Thank God this catastrophe is almost over.
Another hour would drive me to drink.” She eyes him sipping the champagne. “I hear the wine is
piss.”

“Straight from the polo ponies,” he says, and they share a smile.

“I saw your dance with the President’s daughter,” says Bea. “She seems nice.”

“She is,” says Henry. “Pretty, too.”

“Almost as pretty as her brother,” smirks Bea. “He’s been cutting quite a swath among the
heiresses. And I’ve lost count how many glasses of wine he’s had.”

“Beatrice,” says Henry severely, “paying such close attention to someone else’s drinking betrays a
certain unhealthy obsession with the beverage.”
She widens her eyes in mock-innocence and says, “Who, me? Oh, God, I think he’s coming this
way. And did I just see him grab something off another tray? I’m out of here. He might make a
scene.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” says Henry. “American Neanderthals don’t frighten me.”

As Bea makes her way toward the door, he thinks of the first time he saw Alex Claremont-Diaz.
Three years ago now, at the Summer Olympics in Rio. Henry was just walking into the Men’s
Diving Finals, the odor of chlorine sharp in his nostrils. Confronted with an array of toned male
bodies in skimpy bathing suits, he asked himself the question so familiar to every closeted gay
man: How would a straight man behave in this situation? He wished someone would write a
guidebook with some basic pointers. He always tried to keep his stare resolutely focused on the
eyes, but he knew sometimes he slipped—as he did just now at the sight of a perfect American
specimen, towel draped around his shoulders, laughing with two young women and a bloke with
his back to Henry.

The swimmer had evidently just completed his dive, and an array of numbers—all in the high-
nines—flashed across the scoreboard. If this bloke ever decided to quit diving, Henry thought, he
could start a new career posing as a Greek god for sculptors. Henry also couldn’t help noticing
that the man’s brief swimsuit—each hip sporting red stripes flanking a blue panel spangled with
white stars, the rest of the suit white in the center back and front—was practically transparent now
that it was wet. The young women didn’t seem to mind.

The bloke turned away from Henry threw back his head and laughed at something the diver said.
His longish hair was a mass of waves and curls, and his skin a golden café au lait. Henry would bet
that the colour wasn’t the product of makeup and a tanning bed, like the strange orange tint of the
ridiculous American billionaire currently conducting a vanity campaign for the Republican
nomination; Henry was sure the boy had no white goggle-marks around his eyes. In fact, Henry
would be surprised if he had any tan lines at all, and smiled at the image the thought immediately
conjured up.

Feeling Henry’s eyes on him, the young man turned, and his eyes lit up in delighted recognition.
His face broke into a genuine smile (probably the last one of those I’ll ever see, Henry thinks as
Alex crosses the ballroom) and his hand was stuck out long before he was anywhere near enough
for a handshake. “Hi, Your Highness,” he said, “it’s a thrill to meet you.”

Henry had always dismissed the adjective “breath-taking” as a cliché, so common as to be virtually
meaningless. But looking into the depths of the warm brown eyes fringed with thick black lashes,
he literally stopped breathing for a second or two. This was the most beautiful young man he had
ever seen. And Henry suddenly realized that the reason certain words and phrases slip into the
lexicon is because, quite simply, they are completely accurate. If someone like this ever loved me,
he thought, it would set me on fire. And then centuries of duty came crashing down on him, as well
as the natural caution of a man who had been in the public eye his entire life, and whose strictly-
closeted sexuality, the sexuality he could never express without a signed NDA from his
prospective partner, had been hidden from the general public for so long that self-protection
reflexively kicked in. I had better stay far, far away.

The young man obviously didn’t know that it was the royal prerogative to start a conversation or to
initiate touch. “You are Prince Henry, right? My sister’s been in love with you since I was a little
kid. She must have had about a gazillion magazines with you as the centerfold.” Conversations
about love-struck teenage girls—who had been proclaiming such inexplicable feelings for almost a
decade—made Henry supremely uncomfortable, but the young man didn’t seem to register his
reaction. “My name’s Alex Claremont-Diaz,” he said. “You probably don’t follow American
politics, but my mom is the Democratic nominee for President. And she’s going to win, too. Our
first female President.”

Henry had taken a Nineteenth Century poetry seminar the year before, mostly to find out more
about the American poet Walt Whitman, but a line from another poet, Emily—Dickinson? yes, that
was it–came to mind as he stared at Alex: my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur, and my eyes like
the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves. Alex’s hair was black, not chestnut, but it was indeed
bold, and his eyes the same warm colour as sweet brown sherry. If this bloke were a dog, Henry
thought, he’d have eyes of just that colour, and his tail would practically be wagging off. He had a
sudden mental image of Alex madly wiggling his arse. Really, a good imagination could be quite a
distraction.

Shaan had been hovering ever since the young American first started making his way over. Henry
plastered on his professional smile, shook the hand still hanging in the air, and said, “Delighted.”
Then he turned to Shaan and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “Can you get rid of him?”

He turned back to Alex and saw several emotions chase across his face, each so clear that Henry
thought, I hope he doesn’t play poker. First shock, then hurt, then anger. The young man abruptly
stopped smiling and turned away, obviously also unaware that one does not leave the presence of
royalty without being dismissed. Henry had evaded the danger he had recognized, but he was
already regretting doing so. He didn’t want this meeting to end, so he called out to Alex’s retreating
back, “Best of luck to your mother in her campaign.” Alex ignored him and kept striding, almost
stomping, away.

Since then, he’s seen Alex a handful of times, and Alex has been cold to the point of rudeness on
each occasion. Henry has sometimes been on the point of asking, “Look, I know I offended you
when we first met, and I’m sorry. Can we have a do-over?” But he’s never quite summoned the
nerve. Instead, he has always responded to Alex’s insults with studied civility, while avoiding him
as best he can. He decides he’ll be faultlessly polite once more as Alex barges into his personal
space.
If anything, Alex is even more beautiful now than he had been three years ago. The rounded
cheeks of a pretty boy have morphed into the lean firmness of a handsome man, and there is no
teenage gawkiness about his physique—he is fit, goddammit. But as always, the handsome face is
sneering. “When you have one of these,” he says, “you should do two champagne fountains instead
of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”

Oh, great, thinks Henry. Perfect. Two bubbling cauldrons of horse piss. Part of him also wonders
who this git thinks he is, criticizing royal arrangements. But instead of voicing either thought, he
merely says in his best cut-glass accent, “Alex. I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”

“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” says Alex with a nasty smile.

“Truly a momentous occasion.” Henry smiles in response, brightly, phonily.

Alex frowns, demanding, “Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you’re above all this?”

Whatever Henry has been feeling all day, it has not been superiority. He says as crushingly as he
can manage, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate
the attention, which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with my sister of all people. You act
like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

The last person on Earth to whom he feels like explaining himself is the angry American
confronting him. He instead merely says, “I’m … a bit more complicated than that.”

“Ha,” Alex says. Was that a slight hiccup?

Henry narrows his eyes and says, “Oh. You’re drunk.”

“I’m just saying,” Alex says, and tries to rest an elbow on Henry’s shoulder. Henry inwardly
snickers as the condescending gesture fails and the arm slips, Alex being three or four inches
shorter than himself. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”
With his grandmother’s most regal tone, Henry chuckles patronizingly and says, “I believe perhaps
you should consider switching to water, Alex.”

“Should I?” Alex’s eyes are almost crossed with the careful concentration of the more-than-
slightly-tipsy. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know
that must be confusing for you.”

“Do you know what?” Henry says innocently, as if just realizing something. “I think you are.”

Alex’s mouth drops open. Henry is enjoying himself enormously. “Only a thought,” he says
politely. “Have you ever noticed that I have never once approached you and have been
exhaustively civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” He takes
another sip of the terrible champagne. “Simply an observation.”

“What? I’m not—” Alex stammers. “You’re the—"

“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry cuts in, triumphant. He turns to walk away.

A rough hand grabs his shoulder. Henry is blindsided for a second—no one, in his entire life, has
ever laid an aggressive hand on him (except in football, but of course that doesn’t count). His eyes
flash as he rounds on Alex and shoves him.

Maybe it isn’t the brightest idea to push a belligerent, drunken American Neanderthal, and Alex
stumbles backward, grabbing Henry’s wrist to steady himself. He bumps into the table holding the
eight-tier wedding cake. The cake shudders, tips, then seems to freeze in midair for a moment
before falling with a crash onto the antique carpet. Henry and Alex both lose their balance and
momentum carries them down, down, down, flat on their backs into the wreckage, Henry’s wrist
still clutched in Alex’s hand.

Henry feels the back of his head slamming into the floor, but something cushions it. Something
squishy. Something sticky. Buttercream flowers coat his hair and push into his ears, then gush up
between his torso and his arms, covering his black suit and his glittery waistcoat. At the same
moment he feels a sting on his cheek and wonders briefly if Alex punched him, before noticing the
broken flute he has held onto through the fall. He reaches up and touches his cheek, and when he
brings his hand away, he sees blood mixed with buttercream and realizes he has just smeared
frosting on his own face.
He glances over and sees Alex staring at the ceiling with a bemused expression, his suit ruined, his
hair a mess, the left side of his face covered with frosting. Henry feels a strong temptation to pick
up a handful of cake and finish the job, but he knows his grandmother would not approve.

His grandmother. Oh, Christ. The dungeons at the Tower yawn before him. Bea, Alex’s sister
June, everyone in the room stares at them in silent horror. The bride and groom are frozen on the
dance floor, and a gathering fury twists Philip’s features. Slowly, clearly, Henry enunciates, “Oh,
my fucking Christ,” and Alex stares at him, eyes widening.

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees someone raise an arm, mobile at the ready. A flash goes off.
Uncaring of the frosting on his hand, Henry covers his eyes and repeats, “Oh, my fucking Christ.”

***

The next morning, Henry awakens to the sound of rain, the dreary, endless rain falling from a
sullen sky for which London is so deservedly famous. He buries his face into his pillow, thinking,
Thank Heaven yesterday was clear for the wedding, and then the memory of yesterday’s disaster
hits him in the gut. Dread coats him like—well, like buttercream coating his suit and hair last
night. Not that he sees any trace of the messy clothes—Shaan had arranged their removal as soon
as Henry had shed them, murmuring comfortingly that he was sure the royal cleaners would be
able to rescue them. Thinking of the horrible waistcoat, Henry had been tempted to say, “Don’t
bother,” but he was too eager to get into the shower to take the time. Even after two shampooings,
his hair feels slightly greasy, and the cut under his eye still smarts. But the real pain he feels comes
from the fear of facing his grandmother, and the mockery and humiliation he knows the tabloids
must have in store for him.

A soft knock sounds on his bedroom door. He hears Bea’s faint whisper. “H? Are you awake?”

He groans in response, and Bea takes that as an invitation to enter. She carries a steaming cup of
Earl Grey, and her expression of grave sympathy, the look one might offer to a friend who has just
received a negative medical prognosis, confirms his worst fears. “That bad?” he asks.

“Well,” she says, “I suppose it could be worse.” True enough, Henry thinks. I could have broken
my leg when I fell. “Actually, the tabs have been surprisingly supportive. Alex is the one getting all
the bad press—they think he started it, and a few papers are suggesting that cut under your eye
came from him thumping you. Everyone’s furious about an American ruffian ruining the wedding,
and one headline even says his actions could lead to a second British-American war. It’s a joke, I
think.”

“Third,” says Henry.

“What?”

“It would be the third. In addition to their Revolution, there was that dust-up they call the War of
1812, when our troops invaded Washington and burned the White House and the Capitol Building
—in 1814, as it happens. They’d burned our Capitol in Toronto, so it was payback.”

“You’re probably the only one this side of Oxford who would know that,” says Bea. “The point is,
no one thinks this is your fault. Well, Philip, of course. . . .”

“Of course,” says Henry. He pauses. “Any word from Gran?”

“Um,” says Bea. She looks down, clearly unwilling to say what she has to say next. “She wants to
see you at Buck House after church today, at two o’clock. She wanted Mum there too, but Mum
says she’s too upset. I asked if I could tag along for moral support, but Gran said no.”

“Of course not,” says Henry. “Cold-blooded murder is best carried out without witnesses.”

“True,” says Bea. “But knowing Gran, the wheels are already turning to spin this to the royal
advantage. And poor Alex--just imagine what his mother will have to say to him when he gets
home, which, since his sister hustled him out and straight to Heathrow, he should be doing right
about now.”

Henry snorts and takes a sip of tea. “Yeah, poor Alex. My heart breaks for him. But I wonder how
he got to the airport. I can’t imagine a limo driver wanting that mess smeared into his upholstery.”

“Staff arranged for him to get a shower before he left Buck House, and he borrowed a jumpsuit
from the maintenance crew,” says Bea. “Shaan told him not to bother about sending it back, but
that we’d see to getting his clothes to him after they’re cleaned.” Again Henry thinks, Why bother?
The suit is just as fucked as he and I are.

At two sharp, Henry is standing outside the door of the Green Drawing Room at Buckingham
Palace. He is dressed as if for a funeral, dark suit, starched white shirt, black tie, his shoes polished
to mirrored perfection. He is freshly shaved, and miracle of miracles, he thinks he has washed the
last of the oiliness out of his hair. If only he could make his stomach stop cramping.

He knocks, and he hears his grandmother say, “Enter.” He opens the door, takes a step, bows,
another step, a second bow, and then approaches her. She is standing—never a good sign; she’s
receiving him with the formality she would accord a total stranger. But her tone is polite, if icy, as
she says, “Henry, dear.” She does not invite him to sit.

“Your Majesty,” he says. It doesn’t seem the right moment for Grandmother, much less Gran.

“Have you seen these, dear?” she asks, gesturing towards the Sunday papers on the tea table. “The
press seems to be having a field day.”

Actually, he has seen them. Each of them prominently features a photo of him and Alex flat on
their backs in a pile of cake. Whoever took that picture must be making a mint from the royalties,
thinks Henry. No pun intended.

“Fortunately, no one seems to hold you responsible, dear,” says the Queen. “Aside from Philip, of
course. But he has other duties to attend to.” Henry closes his eyes with a slight shudder—Philip’s
marital duties are the last thing he wants to think about. “I suppose one really couldn’t have
expected better behaviour from that . . . boy,” the Queen says, acid contempt dripping from her
well-modulated voice. “But we really can’t count on the continuation of favourable
coverage. Every gutter rag will be searching for a new angle to sell more newspapers, and they
may well swing round to attack you.” She pauses to let that sink in, waiting for Henry to look
sufficiently shaken before adding, “Fortunately, my senior press officer has come up with a
strategy of damage control.”

Some response seems expected. “Ma’am?”

“We’re inviting Mr. Claremont-Diaz for a visit this coming weekend.”

“What?” Henry remembers that one does not shout at the Monarch, so he controls his tone. “I
mean . . . Ma’am?”

“We’re inviting him back to England. We have just released a statement that the unfortunate events
at the reception yesterday were a terrible accident, and that despite only rarely being able to meet,
you and Mr. Claremont-Diaz have actually been close personal friends for several years. His visit
will clear up any misunderstandings about the nature of your relationship.”

“But, Gran!” He forgets formality in his agitation, but his shout emerges more like a wail. “He
hates me! He’s unspeakably rude every time we meet, and this time was the worst of all! He
grabbed me! And then he pulled me down into the bloody cake!”

“Language, Henry,” she says. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz is coming, and you are going to receive him in
as polite and as friendly a manner as you can manage, given his background and lack of
breeding.” The words hang unspoken in the air: and his ethnicity.

Henry has read that his ancestress Queen Victoria had been remarkably free of class and racial
prejudice (it makes sense, Henry has always thought; if you’re the pinnacle of society, you
probably don’t care about petty distinctions of who is more inferior to you, noble or commoner,
white, brown, or black). But Gran obviously does not share her great-great-grandmother’s
tolerance, and her contempt for Alex’s brown skin is obvious. To Henry, she offers a small smile,
probably meant to be encouraging but actually even more frightening—like an asp baring its fangs
and preparing to strike. “I know this will be difficult, dear, but I also know that you can do it.” She
means to sound like Queen Elizabeth rallying the troops facing the Spanish Armada, but he feels
more like Elizabeth’s father Henry VIII has just threatened him with the block.

“But how can I pretend we’ve been friends for years?” he says. “One knows things about friends. I
know almost nothing about him!” It’s not quite true. He has read compulsively about Alex since
Rio, and his obsession has led him down all sorts of Internet rabbit holes. Just the other day he read
a speculative piece about Alex having had a steamy encounter with a mystery brunette after an
environmental fundraiser. The article broadly hinted that the lady in question might be the Vice
President’s granddaughter, Nora Holleran, with whom Alex had had a fling a few years ago and
whom Henry vaguely remembers from the Olympics. She had attended the wedding yesterday with
Alex and June. The press has dubbed them “The White House Trio,” and despite school and career
commitments, they’re always lending their names to one good cause or another (all carefully
chosen, Henry suspects, by the President’s advisors to appeal to their age demographic).

Recalling him to the present situation, his grandmother replies, “That will not be a problem. One of
his mother’s aides was on the phone this morning with your equerry compiling a list of Mr.
Claremont-Diaz’s traits, interests, and . . . peculiarities.” A hint of steel creeps back into her look
and tone. “You will study it and commit it to memory. We don’t want the press catching you in any
unfortunate errors. Or, should I say, any more unfortunate errors, like your encounter
yesterday. Thankfully, we already had your pre-approved biographical information on file in the
Press Office to give to them.” The piffle about mutton pie and Dickens. “Do you have any
questions, dear?”

“Why do we have to host him? I don’t want him downstairs all weekend.”

“Since we suffered the loss of 55,000 pounds for the wedding cake, we thought it only fair that he
should have his schedule disrupted and suffer the jet lag, not you.” Henry has a sudden suspicion
(if not certainty) that it’s the cost of the wrecked cake that bothers her far more than negative press
and Henry’s humiliation, because despite being one of the richest women on Earth, his
grandmother is notoriously tight-fisted. She has a way of going round Buckingham Palace flicking
off lights in what she thinks are unoccupied rooms, more than once plunging unnoticed
housemaids into complete darkness. “But the White House insisted that you pay them a visit in
return, given your share of responsibility for the incident,” she continues, a faint accusation in her
tone. “The Prime Minister is invited to a State Dinner in late January, and you will accompany her.
But that gives you four months to prepare for your next American interaction.” She pauses. “Any
more questions?”

He wants to say, Just one. How do I get out of this? But what’s the point? If the grey men of
Whitehall have decided that this is the tack he is to take, he might as well just sail with the
wind. There really is no appeal. “No, Ma’am,” he says.

“Good,” she says. “I would offer you tea, but you have some studying to do, don’t you?” She
gestures toward a folder near the newspapers on the table. “You may go, dear.” This time she
offers her cheek for a formal kiss of submission. He takes the folder, kisses her, and backs away
without turning. He reaches behind for the doorknob, opens the door, and escapes, closing the door
softly.

He had half-hoped his mother might be outside to offer a comforting hug, to ask, “How did it go,
my baby?” But of course she’s not. He pulls out a handkerchief, wipes his brow, then straightens
his shoulders and heads down the hall. When he passes the ballroom where yesterday’s reception
had taken place, he glances in to see a cleaning crew working on the antique rug. They had been
talking and laughing, but they fall silent when they see him. He nods distantly and keeps walking.
 Weekend in Purgatory
Chapter Summary

Henry's POV on the follow-up weekend after the wedding fiasco.

Chapter Notes

After I posted this separately, I noticed that there is a way to add this as a new chapter
to my earlier story. Sorry--I'm not exactly computer savvy! I like to amaze twenty-
somethings by telling them that the first computer I ever saw was probably bigger than
the kitchens in most people's apartments, and could do about half as much as their
phones! Anyway, this chapter is really long, but CMQ packed so much good stuff into
this section that there was really very little I could leave out. Enjoy my take on Henry's
POV to these events!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Saturday arrives all too soon. Pez is on a trip to Nigeria for the Okonjo Foundation (Philip did not
invite him to the wedding; Pez may be Henry’s best friend, but “he’s not exactly our sort, is he,
mate?”). Henry has been frantically texting him twenty times a day, and Pez has let Henry
whimper and complain and stress-obsess, constantly reassuring him that he’ll be just fine and that
it’ll be over before he knows it. But finally, even Pez’s patience wears thin, and his support
switches to Tough Love. He texts bracingly, “Buck up, mate. You’re not getting out of it and that’s
that.” Henry hates it when he’s wrong and Pez is right, even though he should be used to it after all
these years.

Alex is scheduled to arrive this afternoon. To while away the time before he shows up, Henry goes
to the stables for a ride. His mount today has a bit of an American back story--in the eighties
Henry’s grandparents had gone to Kentucky to purchase some mares to improve their stables, and
the stallion is one of the descendants. Henry has always been amused by the photo from that trip—
his grandparents standing next to some Kentucky politician (Henry thinks he’s a senator now) with
a striking resemblance to a turtle, whose smile is so tight it looks like it pains him. His
grandparents are grinning broadly, but it’s probably because instead of facing the politician, they’re
pointedly looking at the horse.

The stallion’s easy stride and the smoothness of his jumps combine to calm him. After all, how bad
can this be? At least there won’t be any wedding cakes nearby; that’s an improvement right there.
The wind cools his flushed face, and Henry finds himself smiling—at the contrast of the warm sun
and the cool breeze, the beauty of the blue October sky and the bronze autumn leaves, the
familiarity of a horse between his legs, and—on some level, he suspects, although he is reluctant to
recognize it—the anticipation of seeing Alex again. His spirits rise to meet the challenge he knows
Alex is bound to offer. He imagines Alex has also never met a challenge he can resist, and Henry is
determined not to disappoint. He can hardly wait for the parry-and-thrust of their upcoming
interaction.

Alex’s first words as he emerges from the car are just the sort of remark Henry expected. “I’m
going to throw up on you,” he announces out of earshot of the attendant press, his face plastered
with a politician’s smile.

Henry offers an equally phony smile in return, as he swings one leg over the horse’s broad back
and slips down. “Hello, Alex,” he says. “You look … sober.”

“Only for you, Your Royal Highness.” Alex gives a mock-bow.

“You’re too kind.” He notices Alex smiling in self-satisfaction at Henry’s tone; Alex must think he
is provoking him. Henry has already shed his riding helmet, and now he removes his glove and
extends his hand. He wonders if this is the first time they’ve shaken hands since Rio; none of their
subsequent meetings has been friendly enough even for perfunctory gestures of goodwill.

Alex looks down at Henry’s hand hanging in the air, and for a second Henry thinks he will refuse
it. But no, the photographer would immortalize the moment, and the video (there’s bound to be
someone lurking nearby recording their meeting on a mobile) would post and be trending before
the clock could strike the next quarter-hour. The politician’s smile is still frozen in place as Alex
shakes his hand and says, “This is idiotic. Let’s get it over with.”

“I’d rather be waterboarded,” Henry answers with a sunny smile. “Your country could probably
arrange that.”

Alex throws back his head and laughs. Is this just for the photographer’s benefit, or is Alex
enjoying this too? He says through a rictus smile and clenched teeth, “Go fuck yourself.”

Henry’s eyes widen with surprise. Not at Eton, not even at uni, had anyone ever been so
disrespectful. He hopes there are no sharp-eyed lip-readers who will be watching the video later.
But again, he finds himself enjoying the exchange as he answers, “Hardly enough time.” Alex
smiles in appreciation, like a member of an opposing team approving a well-hit cricket ball.

Shaan approaches. “Your Highness,” he says, “the photographer should have what he needs, so if
you’re ready, the car is waiting.”
Henry turns to Alex, his smile impersonal. “Shall we?”

The ride from the stables to Kensington is mercifully brief, and both young men stare blankly out
the window, not exchanging a word. No arrangements have been made for a meal together; no one
expects them to maintain the façade of friendliness for an entire evening, and Henry imagines Alex
will be served a something on a tray before jet lag sends him to an early bed.

Tomorrow will be a big day—a Sunday morning interview show, church with his grandmother (as
a Catholic, Alex is excused from attending, so once more he will not be introduced to the Queen—
a relief to all concerned). Then in the afternoon, a visit to a children’s cancer ward to distribute a
load of books, hoping to relieve some of the tedium and pain Henry witnessed firsthand with his
father. Then another round of photos before Alex departs. Okay, the bloody cake cost 55,000
pounds, but Henry thinks he will have more than paid for it by the time this weekend in Purgatory
is over.

But tonight, Henry feels at sixes and sevens, restless, as if today’s meeting with Alex left
something unfinished. It’s hard to believe that the young American who has haunted his dreams
for so many years is right downstairs in the guest quarters. It’s the closest continuous proximity
they’ve ever shared. Henry gets out his phone and opens a text from Pez. Caught the snaps of your
meeting this afternoon. Looks like all went well—how are you doing?

Henry texts back, Where do I start? I’m just glad that if there’s a video out there it shouldn’t also
have audio. After a minute, Pez replies, Do tell! So Henry does, in exhaustive detail, analyzing
every look, obsessing over every gesture, searching for shades of meaning in every word. He goes
on for several minutes, his thumbs flying as he taps out his story.

Pez answers, Well, if even the episode at the wedding couldn’t curb your unrequited fascination
with the bloke, nothing ever will! But all you have to get through now is tomorrow, then he’ll leave
and you may never see him again. There’s no guarantee his mum will get re-elected!

Henry texts back, I should be so lucky! They have a few exchanges about the Okonjo Foundation
and its myriad projects, then Henry signs off with, Well, I’d better get ready for bed—I need to
look rested for the cameras tomorrow. After they disconnect, he gets into a T-shirt and pyjama
bottoms, sticks in his earbuds, and tries to wind down with music.

Unfortunately, the singer is whingeing about lost love and a hopeless future, and it has the opposite
effect of relaxing him—if anything, sleep feels even further away. He decides that a Cornetto
would be just the ticket, but when he checks his freezer, he’s out. But, he thinks, I know where I
can find an ice cream. Alex had been offered a choice of snacks for the guest kitchen, and he
seemed to have gone out of his way to be difficult—Helados is not an ice cream brand readily
available in the neighborhood of Kensington Palace on short notice. Sniffily, the staff had said that
they hoped Cornettos would do. Henry makes a snap decision, not even pausing to put on slippers
before padding downstairs to the guest quarters.

He yawns and flicks on a light in the hall. This is a silly idea. He hesitates before entering the
kitchen. Maybe he should just go back to bed. He would certainly have done so had he not still had
the earbuds in, because then he would have heard—

Alex is in the kitchen sitting on the countertop, engaged in a video chat. As Henry tears out his
earbuds and straightens his posture, he hears a voice demanding, “Hey, is that—” Alex quickly
disconnects and stares at him. He is also in sleepwear and looks rumpled, a pair of glasses perched
on his nose. He seems as shocked and as exposed as Henry feels, as if they had walked in on each
other just stepping out of the shower before they can grab towels.

“Hello,” says Henry. “Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos.” He gestures towards the refrigerator.

Alex looks utterly baffled. “What?”

Henry takes out the box of ice cream cones from the freezer and points to the brand name. “I was
out. Knew they’d stocked you up.”

Understanding breaks across Alex’s face, then a faint sneer. “Do you raid the kitchens of all your
guests?”

“Only when I can’t sleep. Which is always. Didn’t think you’d be awake.” He waits for Alex to
offer him a cone, then wonders if Alex will tell him no, he can’t have one. But finally, Alex nods.

Henry should just take the Cornetto and go back to his bedroom, but he feels reluctant to end this
chance encounter. Casting about for a topic, he says, “Have you practiced what you’ll say
tomorrow?”

Instantly offended, Alex snaps, “Of course. You’re not the only professional here.”

“I didn’t mean—” Henry wonders if Alex knows how hostile the British press has been towards
him over the past week. “I only meant, do you think we should, er, rehearse?”
“Do you need to?”

“I thought it might help.” Maybe he could give Alex a few pointers about dealing with the tabs on
this side of the pond. The American press can be brutal, but it’s usually more political than
personal.

Alex hops down off the counter and says, “Watch this.”

He lines up an image of Henry’s hand with its signet ring and the box of Cornettos, a swatch of
plaid pyjama bottoms also clearly visible. Then he slaps on a filter and reads aloud as he types,
“Nothing cures jet lag like midnight ice cream with @Prince Henry. Geotag Kensington Palace,
and posted.” Likes and comments immediately pour in, and Alex says, “There are a lot of things
worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.”

Henry frowns, wondering if he’ll get flak about the jim-jams. “I suppose,” he says doubtfully.

“Are you done? I was on a call.”

Who does this git think he is? The brief truce shattered, Henry folds his arms across his chest
defensively. He says, “Of course. I won’t keep you.” He picks up his Cornetto and then pauses in
the doorway. Looking back over his shoulder, he says, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

He leaves Alex staring after him, open-mouthed.

***

Sunday, 8:15 AM. The motorcade waits in the courtyard, and as Alex comes out Henry says
politely, “Good morning.” Alex grunts in reply. It’s their last word before they get to the studio.

“Prince goes first, then you,” says Shaan. Suddenly Alex transforms before their eyes, putting on
an air of dazzling American charm as easily as the sunglasses he pulls from his pocket. Looking
over the rims, he winks. “Go ahead, Your Royal Highness. Your subjects await.”

They step out of the car and the crowd goes wild. A girl with spiky blue hair holds up a sign with
an obscene suggestion, which Security quickly confiscates. Camera shutters click. Alex swaggers
up beside him and throws an arm around his shoulders, saying breezily, “Act like you like me!”

Insincere as he knows the gesture to be, Henry savors it, thinking, I do like you, I so entirely do.
Pathetic. He manages a laugh and throws an arm around Alex as well, and Alex gives his shoulder
an approving squeeze. “There we go.”

The hosts of This Morning, Dottie and Stu, are middle-aged former soap stars whose fading careers
have luckily segued into a talk show gig. A quick brush-up with hair and makeup and the two
young men head onto the set. Though there is a certain tension in the studio at the sight of Henry
and Alex together, the audience nonetheless goes wild. They wave, and Alex gives the giggling
Dottie a kiss on the cheek. As he shakes his hand, Henry thinks Stu looks a bit jealous.

“Well,” says Stu. “How are you, Your Royal Highness? Mr. Claremont-Diaz? I’ll bet it’s a surprise
for you to be seeing each other again so soon—especially after. . . .”

“After my brother’s wedding?” Henry has indeed rehearsed this with Shaan, hoping for just the
right touch of rueful amusement.

“Well, that was quite a contretemps,” says Dottie.

“Indeed,” says Henry equably. “Of course a total accident, and poor Alex has taken quite a
drubbing in the press for it, especially since it was all my fault.”

“Sir?” says Stu.

“I had a pair of new shoes for the wedding, of course,” says Henry, “and I forgot to have the soles
roughed up. You know Her Majesty always has the soles of her shoes sanded so she doesn’t slip on
wet sidewalks, and the floors at Buck House can be deuced slippery. I slipped and Alex tried to
keep me from falling, we knocked into the table, and the next thing we knew we were lying on the
floor covered in frosting.” It gets a bigger laugh than it deserves, but the tension is noticeably
dissipating. He glances at Alex, who looks surprised but manages a nod.

“Well, I’m sure that’s very generous of you, Sir,” says Dottie. “But at least it gives you a chance to
get together again, and for Mr. Claremont-Diaz a chance to see our homeland once more.” She
turns to Alex, whose attention seems to have wandered. “What do you think of jolly old England,
then, Alex?” she asks, aggressively teasing him.
Alex blinks and focuses. “You know, Dottie, it’s gorgeous,” he says. “I’ve been here a few times
since my mom got elected, and it’s always incredible to see the history.” A beat, then he adds,
“And the beer selection.” The audience laughs yet again. “And of course, it’s always great to see
this guy.”

He raises his clenched fist and Henry thinks for a confused moment that Alex is actually going to
punch him this time, but then he realizes Alex is merely inviting a best-mates fist bump.
Reluctantly, Henry taps his knuckles to Alex’s, knowing that this moment will replay endlessly
online and be enshrined on the front page of every tabloid in the country tomorrow. He manages a
smile.

A quick change of clothes at KP and then church with Gran. She has seen the broadcast and gives
him a rare word of approval. “That was a nice touch about the sanded soles,” she says. “Mr.
Srivastava’s suggestion?”

Right , Gran—I couldn’t possibly have come up with something clever on my own. But it’s not
worth telling her that it was actually his idea. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says. “I’ll tell him you approve.”

“Now, just the hospital photo-op after lunch,” she says briskly. “You have my permission not to
stay for dessert. You don’t want to be late.”

When he gets back to Kensington, he finds Alex already waiting in the car. “About time,” Alex
says acidly, their successful morning apparently forgotten.

Henry is determined not to rise to the bait. “Hullo, Alex,” he says. “Lunch with Her Majesty. Got
away as quickly as I could. Hope they gave you something decent to eat.”

“It was better than breakfast,” Alex says grumpily. “What kind of dumbass country eats beans on
white toast at breakfast? I always heard Brits can’t cook for shit.”

“Sorry,” says Henry. “Luckily, you’ll be tucking in at the White House dinner table tonight.”

“Yeah,” says Alex. He seems to make a conscious effort to change his mood. “I’m sorry—I know
I’m being a pain in the ass. Finishing Georgetown in three-and-a-half years is a bitch, and I’ve got
a shitload of work to get done tonight before class tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s what six-hour transatlantic flights are for, and this will be over before we know it. I
hear the kids are really looking forward to my visit.” Oops. “Sorry—force of habit; I usually do
these things solo. Our visit, I mean. But they may not know who you are. They know who your
mother is, of course, but sick kids usually don’t pay much attention to the likes of us.”

“Bullshit,” says Alex. “They all know Prince fucking Charming.”

“The few who do know us,” says Henry, “will probably tease us about the wedding.”

“Cake-gate?” says Alex with a rueful grin. “I can take it.”

Cake-gate leads to a discussion of the American habit of adding the suffix -gate to every political
scandal, a legacy of Watergate back in the 1970’s. The ride passes almost amicably, but the mood
evaporates as soon as they arrive at the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. Henry wonders if
Alex feels as embarrassed as he does by using what should be a simple act of kindness for a photo
op.

As Henry had feared, no one seems to know who Alex is. Henry introduces him, saying, “Alex’s
mum is the President of the United States—isn’t that exciting?” The children ask what it’s like to
live in the White House, and whether Alex has flown to England on Air Force One. Alex laughs
and explains that Air Force One is only thus designated when it is carrying the President. “But
Mom is busy today,” he says, “so you’ll have to make do with me and Henry.” He grabs a book
and grins, “Who’d like to hear a story?”

Henry starts making the rounds of the wards, visiting children who are too sick to come into the
lounge. He sees his father in every single one of them, which is probably why he finds these visits
so fulfilling—he can feel Arthur’s presence right beside him. Before he knows it, an hour has gone
by, and a nurse bustles in as he is deep in conversation with a little girl named Claudette, whose
bald head is wrapped in a bright orange headscarf bearing the Alliance Starbird, discussing her
admiration for Princess Leia. “She’s so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo.”
She giggles a bit self-consciously about kissing, then asks, “Who’s your favorite?”

Henry makes a show of considering. He says, “I always liked Luke. He’s brave and good, and he’s
the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or
who your family is—you can always be great if you’re true to yourself.”

“All right, Miss Claudette,” the nurse interrupts them, adding, “You two can go. It’s time for her
meds.” Two? Then he hears a throat clearing behind him, and he startles—he hadn’t realized Alex
was in the room, evidently listening. Alex is not meeting his eyes.

Claudette wails, “Miss Beth, Henry says we’re mates now! He can stay!”

Beth says, “Excuse you! That’s no way to address the prince. Terribly sorry, Your Highness.”

“No need to apologize,” says Henry. “Rebel commanders outrank royalty.” He winks at Claudette
as he salutes her, and she lights up from within.

As they leave the room, Alex strolls up beside him. He says, “I’m impressed.” As Henry looks at
him inquiringly, Alex amends, “Not impressed. Just surprised.”

“At what?”

“That you actually have, you know, feelings.” Henry is just starting to smile when there is a sudden
shout down the hall, a pop which very much sounds like gunfire, and one of Alex’s Secret Service
agents, a mountain of a man named Cash, grabs them, tears open the closest door, and shoves them
in, barking, “Stay down!”

The push knocks them into each other and they fall to the floor of what seems to be a supply
cupboard, hospital paraphernalia clashing and clattering all around them. It’s a nightmare replay of
the Buckingham Palace fiasco. Henry says, “Oh God,” as he feels Alex falling on top of him, and
Alex snarkily responds, “You know, we have got to stop ending up like this.”

Trying to twist from beneath Alex’s weight, Henry demands, “Do you mind?”

Alex snaps, “This is your fault!”

“How is this possibly my fault?”

“Nobody ever tries to shoot me when I’m doing presidential appearances, but the minute I go out
with a fucking royal—”
“Will you shut up before you get us both killed?”

“Nobody’s going to kill us. Cash is blocking the door. Besides, it’s probably nothing.”

“Then at least get off me.”

“Stop telling me what to do! You’re not the prince of me!”

Typical smart-aleck response. But the body he has fantasized about for years is pressed against his,
and combined with the burst of adrenaline engendered by the shock and the suddenness of the
situation, a familiar heaviness is pooling in his loins. And he is very much aware of the smell of the
young man, a combination of coffee and shower gel and something else underlying, something
almost leathery, very masculine, very enticing. Oh God, he begs in desperation, don’t let me get a
stiffy! Aloud he says, “Bloody hell,” and uses all his strength to push off the floor and roll. Now
Alex is the one on the floor, mashed up against a shelf of cleaning supplies. Henry very much
doubts that being the one on top is going to lessen the physical sensations he is suffering.

“Can you move over, Your Highness?” Alex whispers. “I’d rather not be the little spoon.”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” says Henry. You have no idea how—er—hard. “There’s no room.”

Alex shifts a bit, much to Henry’s relief. “Well, guess we better make ourselves comfortable.”

Henry casts his eyes upward towards an uncaring Heaven, and says, “Fantastic.” Something—
national pride? after all, England has nowhere near the gun violence of the United States—compels
him to add, “For the record, nobody’s ever made an attempt on my life, either.”

“Well, congratulations,” says Alex. “You finally made it.”

“Yes, this is exactly how I always dreamed it would be—locked in a cupboard with your elbow
inside my rib cage.” His arousal is morphing into anger, which is safer, and the only physical
interaction he would like to have with Alex right now is to punch him in his smart mouth. Despite
the dim light he can see Alex smirking in response as he pokes his elbow, hard, into Henry’s side.
It hurts, goddammit.
He yelps and grabs Alex by the shirt, yanking him sideways and pinning him to the floor with his
thigh. This young American does have a way of making Henry lose the tight control over himself
he has always been taught to exercise, and yet, it’s oddly exhilarating. He had been correct back in
Rio—Alex can set him on fire, but instead of destroying him, it’s freeing him to be more of his real
self than he has ever allowed himself to be.

“So you do have some fight in you.” Alex sounds pleased. Then he starts bucking his hips to knock
Henry off, and oh God, Henry thinks he might pass out. He bears down with all his weight, breath
gasping, heart pounding, and voice strangled as he demands, “Are you quite finished? Can you
perhaps stop putting your sodding life in danger now?”

“Aw, you do care,” says Alex. “I’m learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart.”

Henry takes a deep breath and lets it out and slumps off to the side. His heartbeat slows as the
adrenaline spike recedes, and he says wearily, “I cannot believe even mortal peril will not prevent
you from being the way you are.” A silence falls, each of them caught up in his own private
thoughts. They both brace their feet against the facing wall, and so even though they’re still
mashed shoulder-to-shoulder against each other, at least their legs are no longer tangled.

Alex is the first to break the silence. “So, uh,” he says, “Star Wars?” It sounds accusatory, and
Henry immediately becomes defensive.

“Yes, Alex,” he says condescendingly, “believe it or not, the children of the crown don’t only
spend their childhood going to tea parties.”

Alex says, “I assumed it was mostly posture coaching and junior polo league.”

Henry says, “That . . . may have been part of it.” And ballroom dancing and etiquette and endless
diction lessons, for fear that a servant’s dropped “h’s” might creep into our speech. And always in
the background, always, the terror of Gran’s disapproval.

“So you’re into pop culture, but you act like you’re not.” Alex’s challenges are no longer
enjoyable. “Either you’re not allowed to talk about it because it’s unseemly for the crown, or you
choose not to talk about it because you want people to think you’re cultured. Which one?”

How about another alternative, Alex? That I’ve been hiding who I really am for so many years that
it’s become second—no, first—nature? And that now I hardly know how to be my real self with
anyone? So I just stick with the official Prince Charming persona. He says nervously, “Are you
psychoanalyzing me? I don’t think royal guests are allowed to do that.”

Alex says heatedly, “I’m trying to understand why you’re so committed to acting like someone
you’re not, considering you just told that little girl in there that greatness means being true to
yourself.” If only Henry could trust the vehemence in Alex’s voice, could believe that Alex really
wants to get to know him better, and that he wouldn’t be disgusted if he did.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if I did, I’m not sure that’s any of your concern.”

“Really?” He can’t see Alex’s expression in the dim light outlining the door, but his tone is
vehement. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m legally bound to pretend to be your best friend, and I don’t
know if you’ve thought this through yet, but that’s not going to stop with this weekend.”
Involuntarily, Henry’s fingers twitch against Alex’s forearm as the full import of what he’s gotten
himself into suddenly dawns on him. “If we do this and we’re never seen together again, people
are gonna know we’re full of shit. We’re stuck with each other, like it or not, so I have a right to be
clued in about what your deal is before it sneaks up on me and bites me in the ass.”

Henry sees an appalling vista of hostile meetings and phony camaraderie stretching into infinity.
No. He can’t. He knows he won’t be able to maintain the façade forever. So—maybe this is his
chance. Maybe they can finally clear the air, finally have the do-over he’s so often been on the
verge of requesting. He takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “Why don’t we start with … you
telling me why exactly you hate me so much?”

Alex doesn’t try to deny it. “Do you really want to have that conversation?”

“Maybe I do.” They can’t go forward by going around it—they’re going to have to go through it.

“Do you really not remember being a prick to me at the Olympics?”

Like yesterday. “Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?”

“No,” says Alex heatedly. “It’s the time you were a condescending prick to me at the diving finals.
You really don’t remember?”
He remembers everything from that day, from the Greek god in the transparent swimsuit to the
tropical flower in Alex’s pocket. He’s glad Alex can’t see his face. “Remind me?”

“I walked up to you to introduce myself, and you stared at me like I was the most offensive thing
you had ever seen. Right after you shook my hand, you turned to Shaan and said, ‘Can you get rid
of him?’” The fury of remembered insult fills Alex’s voice, and Henry wonders if Alex has gone
over that day as obsessively as he has for the past three years.

“Ah.” Henry pauses, then clears his throat. “I didn’t realize you’d heard that.” Shit. How could he
have been so stupid? Alex isn’t deaf.

“I think you’re missing the point,” says Alex, “which is that it’s a douchey thing to say either
way.”

“That’s . . . fair.” Douchey doesn’t begin to cover it.

But Alex isn’t going to make this easy for him. “Yeah, so?” So what are you going to do about it,
Henry?

Henry suspects that he’s also been guilty of other passive-aggressive behaviour—maybe not as bad
as his grandmother’s way of couching hurtful comments in seemingly anodyne remarks, but close;
never saying anything you could challenge as being cruel, but each word hitting like a small stone.
He just hopes there’s nothing else specific that Alex holds a grudge for. “That’s all?” Henry asks.
“Only the Olympics?”

Alex might have shrugged if they hadn’t been pressed so close together. He says, “I mean, that was
the start.”

“I’m sensing an ellipsis.” What else, Alex? Please tell me. I’m so, so sorry.

“It’s just….” Alex fumbles to express himself, an obviously unfamiliar experience for the fluent
young man. “I don’t know. Doing what we do is fucking hard. But it’s harder for me. I’m the son
of the first female president. And I’m not white like she is, can’t even pass for it. People will
always come down harder on me. And you’re, you know, you, and you were born into all of this,
and everyone thinks you’re Prince fucking Charming. You’re basically a living reminder I’ll
always be compared to someone else, no matter what I do, even if I work twice as hard.”
Henry feels something he never expected to feel for Alex: empathy. Henry knows how difficult
acting the part of Prince Charming can sometimes be: days when he’s tired or grumpy, days when
he wants to slop around in ratty old sweats and not bother to shave, days when he just wants to be
human. Henry has been implicitly told that there is something unacceptable about himself—his
sexuality—but he can hide that. Alex can never hide his ethnicity, and Alex is obviously well
aware that people like his grandmother will always look down on him. Henry’s heart echoes the
words Bea had spoken the morning after the wedding: Poor Alex.

“Well,” he says aloud. “I can’t very well do much about the rest. But I can tell you I was, in fact, a
prick that day. Not that it’s any excuse, but my father had died fourteen months before, and I was
still kind of a prick every day of my life at the time. And I am sorry.”

A silence settles. Have they actually reached across the divide which has always separated them
and communicated? Henry clears his throat, but he can’t think of anything to say. Then Alex says,
“Well, good to know you’re not perfect.” Henry rolls his eyes, but he’s not really offended. He
knows Alex is taking refuge in the familiar safety of antagonism, because he wants to go there
himself.

But he refuses to do so. He takes his courage in hand and says, “Return of the Jedi.”

“What?”

“To answer your question, yes, I do like Star Wars, and my favourite is Return of the Jedi.”

“Wow,” says Alex. “You’re wrong.”

The reply is so characteristic that Henry doesn’t know whether to express his indignation or to
laugh. Indignation wins. “How can I be wrong about my own favourite? It’s a personal truth.”

“It’s a personal truth that is wrong and bad.”

“Which do you prefer, then? Please, show me the error of my ways.”

“Okay, Empire.”
He shakes his head. “So dark, though.”

“Yeah, which is what makes it good,” says Alex decisively. Is there anything about which this
bloke holds no definitive opinion? “It’s the most thematically complex. It’s got the Han and Leia
kiss in it. You meet Yoda. Han is at the top of his game, fucking Lando Calrissian, and the best
twist in cinematic history. What does Jedi have? Fuckin’ Ewoks.”

They’re arguing again. “Ewoks are iconic.”

“Ewoks are stupid.”

“But Endor.”

“But Hoth. There’s a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the
Empire of the series.”

“And I can appreciate that. But isn’t there something to be valued in a happy ending as well?”

“Spoken like a true Prince Charming.”

Henry knows he’s a romantic, and but he’s not about to give up his dreams just because he’s
trapped in a supply cupboard with this American Neander—wait. He can’t just go down that road
of glib dismissiveness. “I’m only saying. I like the resolution of Jedi. It ties everything up nicely.
And the overall theme you’re intended to take away from the films is hope and love and…er, you
know, all that. Which is what Jedi leaves you with a sense of all most of all.”

Alex is turning towards Henry as if he’s about to say something, but the door opens and Cash is
looming on the threshold. They blink like owls at the sudden harsh light from hall. Cash says,
“False alarm. Some dumbass kids brought fireworks for their friend.” He looks down at them and
smiles. “This looks cozy.”

“Yep, we’re really bonding,” says Alex as Cash grasps his hand and pulls him up.

The ride back to Kensington is quiet. So much has happened, and so quickly, that they are both still
 processing events. They’ve just pulled in and are climbing out when Henry’s phone vibrates. He
reaches into his pocket and pulls it out to see Pez on the caller ID.

Staff is stowing Alex’s bags in the boot of the car which will take him to the airport, a footman
carrying a Kensington Palace garment bag—they must have been able to rescue the suit. Suddenly
Alex grabs Henry’s phone. Christ. If Alex opens the text he’ll see—but Alex is just opening a
contact page. “Here,” he says. “That’s my number. If we’re gonna keep this up, it’s going to get
annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We’ll figure it out.”

The relief is so overwhelming Henry almost forgets to answer. “Right. Thank you.”

Alex says, “No booty calls,” and Henry chokes on a laugh.

Chapter End Notes

As always, many, MANY thanks to my dear friend gaytriforce, for advice,

suggestions, formatting, and overall support and encouragement. And of course, to
Bobbie--yesterday (11/4) was our 32nd wedding anniversary, and it's been quite a
journey--thank you, Sweetie, for being beside me all these years!
 Damage Controlled--Or Just Starting?
Chapter Summary

CMQ tells us that Alex came back from his post-wedding damage control visit to
England to hang out with Rafael Luna (and to indulge in some low-key, never-to-be-
acknowledged flirting with him), and then became an official member of Ellen's re-
election campaign staff. But what about Henry? Here's my take on what he was up to
in the weeks after Alex's second trip to the UK.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Outwardly, things return to normal. The press coverage of Alex’s visit is almost uniformly
positive, with everyone cooing about how warm their friendship appears to be. People runs a four-
page spread about the visit with a couple of quotes purportedly from Alex about how he “cherishes
their shared life experiences as sons of world leaders,” causing Henry a rueful smile—he thinks of
his reclusive mother, and how even his grandmother, though Queen, has almost no political power;
hardly in the same class of world leader as The President of the United States. He knows Alex can
be smooth, but this sounds more like a speechwriter. Henry finds that he actually prefers the salty-
tongued smart-aleck who shared his weekend.

Since this is People, there are also several photographs, and not one of them in a pile of cake: the
handshake outside the stables, a couple in the hospital (Alex reading a story to the children, Henry
kneeling to make eye contact with a little boy in a wheelchair), and finally, pictures of them sitting
together on the couch as they chat with Dottie and Stu. The first shows the fist-bump, and in a
second, Henry is smiling while Alex gazes at him with seeming adoration. Omfg, a tweet reads,
make out already. He snorts, and wonders how Alex reacted to that!

Philip and Martha return from their honeymoon, which has evidently been quite a success. Philip
now calls her Mazzy, and she calls him Pip. They whisper together and touch frequently
—newlyweds. Philip is in a genial, even gloating, mood (and Henry does not enjoy Philip’s tales of
their nightly activities; Henry is no prude, but he always thinks as his brother winks and smirks,
Really, Philip.…). Philip tells him that he’s prepared to put the disaster Henry caused at the
wedding into the past, and that he never wants to speak of it again. Of course, as he continues to
remind Henry every time he sees him, the subject is now closed forever, but….

Yes, life seems normal again. Various charity meetings take up most of Henry’s days, and he gets
roped into escorting the Queen to church (formerly Philip’s duty, but Philip keeps begging off with
leering references to the succession). Anti-anxiety pills get Henry through the services. At
luncheon afterward, the Queen never fails to remind him that his gap year is ticking by (Christ, he
thinks, I just finished Oxford in June), and has he given any thought to which branch of the military
he would prefer? She thinks the Marines might be feeling neglected.
“The white belt on the dark blue jacket would set off your physique, and the red stripe down the
trouser leg would emphasize your height,” she says, but not in a flattering way; more like an
interior decorator deciding which painting would look better over the chimneypiece. He repeats
that he has no desire to go into the military just now. The mention of trousers with red stripes
makes him think of a Greek god with red stripes on the hips of his wetly-transparent swimsuit—
and a handsome young man laughing at something the swimmer had just said….

The Internet is silent about Alex’s current activities—attending classes and swotting for exams is
hardly news-making, especially for Alex—but he haunts Henry’s thoughts all the same. At night,
when Henry can’t sleep, when music can’t distract him, he is so greatly tempted to text him that
resisting is almost a physical pain. But, he tells himself firmly, No. It’s only been seven days,
eleven hours, and (he checks the time on his mobile) nineteen minutes since Alex left for the
airport. He doesn’t want to seem needy or pathetic.

All in all, it had been easier when Alex made no bones about despising him; this public friendship
and (in Alex’s case, or so Henry imagines) lingering private disdain is terrible. He makes my life
real torture, Henry thinks melodramatically, and smiles as he thinks of potential headlines if he put
such a thing into an email and the papers somehow got hold of it.

He decides to distract himself with a movie. Star Wars? The Empire Strikes Back? He thinks
defiantly, Ha! and calls up Return of the Jedi. He comes to the scene where Luke, Han,
Chewbacca, and the droids are captured, and the Ewoks under the leadership of Chief Chirpa
march them away. The scene focuses on the Chief, a single metre tall, twittering furiously.

Suddenly Henry’s mobile is in his hand; he takes a screenshot and calls up Alex’s contact page.
This bloke looks like you. It’s the just the right note of snarkiness. He is about to send it off when a
thought occurs to him: this is the first time he has ever contacted Alex—what if Alex just deletes
the message? So he adds, This is Henry, by the way.

Though he doesn’t really expect a response, he's still disappointed when he doesn’t get one. So
when Pez calls the next evening suggesting a brief getaway to Australia—“We can go for a few
days and be back before we’re even missed”—he is in the mood for one of Pez’s adventures,
though as always he can’t get over how Pez throws away time and money.

A twenty-three-hour flight each way for three days of sun? (Not exactly a trial in the Okonjo
private jet, but still.) But autumn rains are lashing at the windows while Pez is speaking, and the
air is distinctly chilly. Henry says, “Yes, please!”

Southern Australia is hot and sunny, and though of course Henry has to slather himself with
sunscreen, he’s still glad he came. The paparazzi follow them to the beach, but Henry makes a
bargain—a few snaps of him emerging from the surf and one smiling in the sunshine, and they
promise to leave him alone. “Great!” says Pez, “We can go for a pub crawl tonight!”

This is usually code for picking up some casual partners, but Henry begs off. “I’m really
knackered,” he says, “and I think I might actually sleep tonight.” He tells himself it’s because
Shaan isn’t there with his NDA’s, but he knows the real reason—an image of curly black hair,
dancing brown eyes, and a cheeky grin above a chin dimple.

That evening, Pez stops by Henry’s room on his way to the bars, to try one more time to persuade
Henry to come along. Henry waves him off with a smile. “Have fun,” he tells Pez, “but don’t bring
home any souvenirs you’ll either have to get treatment for, or else pay child support on for the next
quarter-century.”

“Really, H,” says Pez with a shrug, “you know I’m more careful than that.”

“Actually, I don’t,” says Henry. “You’re a lot more reckless with your partners than I could ever
risk being. I can understand the appeal of the twins in Scotland last year, but I hope the bit about
the inclusion of the sheep is completely imaginary.”

“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” says Pez archly.

The day after they get home, Pez invites him to a Halloween party one of his celebrity friends is
throwing—“They’d be thrilled beyond belief if you showed up, darling, and you can come as
Adam in a fig leaf to show off your tan!”—but Henry laughs and refuses. Going out in October
practically naked only invites thoughts of shrinkage, not to mention a revival of Page-Three models
with himself as the centerfold. Besides, he’s already been warned that the beach photos will be in
People tomorrow.

The pictures aren’t just in the magazine the next day—his photo graces the cover, captioned
PRINCE HENRY FLIES SOUTH FOR WINTER. Henry’s ears redden slightly when he sees it.
He hadn’t realized the swimsuit was that revealing, but at least a summer of swinging polo mallets
and tacking sail has kept his pecs in shape. The sun highlights his chest hair patch and his two
days’ growth of beard (he hadn’t bothered to shave on the flight), but, he thinks critically, he
doesn’t look scruffy; he looks vaguely surfer dude-ish, and they’ve adjusted the tint to make him
look as if he has more of a tan than he actually did at the time.

He shrugs. His father always said, “Never worry about publicity, son; somebody else will be front-
page news tomorrow.” Probably no one will even notice the magazine.
He opens his phone the very next day to find a message with a screenshot of the People cover:

<agcd@eclare45.com>

you have a lot of moles. is that a result of the inbreeding?

Of course. If anyone would see the cover and rag him about it, it had to be Alex—but Henry feels
quite unreasonably elated, even more buoyant than he had in the Pacific.

Two days later, The Daily Mail, of all things, gives him the perfect reply. The headline of one of its
feature articles reads, “Is Alex Claremont-Diaz going to be a father?” and he takes a screenshot,
writing beneath it, But we were ever so careful, dear.

He wonders if Alex will think it’s funny, if Alex even suspects him of having a sense of humour.
He gets his answer a few minutes later. LOL. making me laugh got me kicked out of Zahra’s weekly
debrief, but it was boring anyway. thanks!

Henry replies, At your service, Sir.

It soon becomes a thing, checking his phone first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and
keeping it in his shirt pocket on vibrate all day long. He never knows when a message may arrive,
an essay dissecting some political topic in minute detail or a scatological remark about a right-wing
pundit critical of Alex’s mum.

Sometimes Henry thinks Alex isn’t so much talking with him as he is writing stream-of-
consciousness narratives about whatever happens to be on his mind at a given moment. In his
darker moods, Henry doubts that Alex much cares about who he’s talking to, as long as he has
someone to pay attention to his manic rants. “It’s like he’s using me for mental masturbation,” he
tells his therapist, “and I’m just supposed to enjoy watching him wank off with that crazy brain of
his! Next thing I know, he’ll probably be sending a naked selfie just to shock me!” (Okay, that part
is wishful thinking.)

“No, Sir,” she says decisively. “He knows he can expose himself to you in the most intimate way,
and he obviously trusts you to be gentle. Now, shall we explore how you are sexualizing his
communication so much that you’ve even got me doing it?”
No, it’s not just Alex’s beautiful face and body that have him in thrall; it’s his mind, his manic,
brilliant brain, which is capable of deeply incisive analysis one moment and of going off on the
craziest tangents the next. Little as Henry may want to admit it, he is hopelessly in love. He knows
the feeling will never be returned—after all, Alex is straight—but it doesn’t matter. The man
possesses him, heart and soul. (Yes, he knows it’s a cliché. It’s truly humiliating just how sappy
love has made him.)

Henry has been in—well, maybe not love, but at least infatuation—before. But the relationships
always crashed and burned, because the more he would come to care, the tenser he would become,
the moodier, the darker, until he would drive the man away with sharp words and heavy silences.
For years he’s kept to one-night stands because he has come to believe that combining sex with
love just destroys good friendships. It’s why he and Pez have never done anything; the relationship
matters far too much to both of them to mess it up with sex (though he suspects it’s also because
Pez seems more like his brother than Philip ever has, and the thought of sexual intimacy with Pez
feels more than a bit incestuous). He long ago decided that some people just aren’t cut out for true
romance and he fears that he might be one of them, though he also knows there’s nothing he desires
more.

He doesn’t much like the person he becomes when he falls in love. But loving Alex is different.
He is deeply attracted to Alex sexually—his nightly fantasies, waking and sleeping, are clear
evidence of that—but instead of becoming angry and tense, he is lighter, funnier, happier. He tells
Alex of being made to get a spray-on tan (“I thought you just got back from a beach holiday, dear,”
said the Queen acidly, “but you look like you’ve been hiding in a cave,” forcing him into a tanning
salon before the photo is taken for the royal Christmas portrait) and it actually comes across as
quite amusing.

Boring meetings become endurable when he starts mentally composing a jokey summary to post to
Alex later on. And though he can feel other people’s disapproval when his mobile starts vibrating
and he pulls it out to read the message (and his mouth twists into—there’s no other way to describe
it—a goofy grin), he doesn’t really care. One day, he’s listening to Philip droning on about money
and investments and he finds himself tapping out a message: In world’s most boring meeting with
Philip. Don’t let the papers print lies about me after I’ve garroted myself with my tie.

“Are you paying attention, Henry?” demands Philip. “That’s your problem—you can’t seem to
keep your mind focused on anything. The subject is closed forever, of course, but maybe if you’d
been watching where you were going at the reception….”

Late that night, his phone buzzes. A text: was it a meeting about which of your cousins have to
marry each other to take back casterly rock?

This has been happening more and more lately. Instead of leaving messages, they’re actually
communicating in real time, as if they’ve memorized each other’s schedule and instinctively know
when they’re both available. The five-hour time difference hardly seems to matter.

Ha, Henry types back. It was about royal finances. I’ll be hearing Philip’s voice saying the words
“return on investment” in my nightmares for the rest of time.

An immediate snarky response: the harrowing struggle of managing the empire’s blood money.

Henry writes, That was actually the crux of the meeting—I‘ve tried to refuse my share of the
crown’s money. Dad left us each more than enough, and I’d rather cover my expenses with that
than the spoils of, you know, centuries of genocide. Philip thinks I’m being ridiculous.

A pause, and then a five-word response: i am low-key impressed.

Henry doesn’t know how to answer that one, and evidently it silences Alex as well; it’s the last he
hears from him that night.

Sometimes he wonders if Alex is truly blasé about this—what should he call it? It’s not really a
friendship, but acquaintanceship seems too cold to describe the weird dynamic between them.
Acquaintances are the people he knows from his charity committees, people with whom he works
on important projects and exchanges superficial pleasantries, but whose personal lives he knows
nothing about—are they married? do they have children?—and certainly nothing about their
political opinions or their taste in music and cinema.

But Alex is not a friend, either—he’s not someone Henry would turn to with a real problem (much
as he might like to), or trust with the secret of his attraction. The mere thought of that makes him
sweat.

After all, Alex is straight, isn’t he? Isn’t he? Alex sends out mixed signals. He seems to operate out
of a baseline assumption of his own heterosexuality (and Henry’s, for that matter), but he never
mentions dating anyone or says anything about a woman’s looks. He does, however, comment on
Henry’s appearance more than anyone else Henry has ever known. There’s a teasing exchange
about his ties—Alex thinks they’re boring—and then a couple of weeks later, Henry gets a five-
kilo carton of campaign buttons with Alex’s face on every single one of them.

Henry thinks of the get-up he had worn for the Guy Fawkes parade he had participated in on the
Fifth of November. Guy Fawkes Day commemorates an attempt to blow up Parliament along with
pretty much the entire royal family on November 5, 1605, and each year the foiling of the
 seventeenth-century terrorist plot is celebrated with fireworks and bonfires and torchlit parades.
The organizers of this year’s event had invited Henry to march in the parade wearing the costume
of the then-heir to the throne, Prince Henry, but he had refused, saying, “That’s a bit on the nose,
don’t you think?” (Besides, the seventeenth-century Prince Henry had died young, and Henry has
no intention of doing that, no matter how stressful his life may sometimes feel!)

So instead he appeared as his ancestor King James I (talk about on the nose, Henry had thought,
since James was one of England’s most notorious queer kings), with Bea at his side as James’s
queen Anne of Denmark. In his hand Henry had carried a miniature of James’s lover, George
Villiers, the future Duke of Buckingham; it wasn’t strictly correct, since James didn’t even meet
Villiers until 1614, but he had been the true love of James’s life. Looking at Alex’s face smiling
out from the campaign buttons, it almost feels like wearing one would be the modern-day
equivalent of carrying the Villiers miniature.

Focus, Henry, he tells himself sternly. He pulls out his mobile and texts, Is this your idea of a
prank?

The response is immediate: just trying to brighten up that wardrobe, sunshine.

Henry gives a snort of laughter, but affects a mock-scolding sternness: I hope this gross
miscarriage of campaign funds is worth it to you. My security thought it was a bomb. Shaan almost
called in the sniffer dogs.

As usual, the reply makes Henry laugh: oh, definitely worth it. even more worth it now. tell Shaan i
say hi and i miss that sweet, sweet ass xoxoxo.

Henry automatically texts back, I will not, as he thinks of the guidebook for closeted gays he had
yearned for in Rio. Is Alex just teasing—or is this a tease? (And if Alex is noticing a bloke’s sweet,
sweet ass, how come it’s Shaan’s and not Henry’s? He’s been told by some in a position to know
that his own arse is pretty damn sweet!)

He remembers his thought from the month before—that life was back to normal. But nothing has
been normal since the wedding—and nothing will ever be normal again, as long as his life contains
the dazzling, challenging, puzzling presence of Alex Claremont-Diaz

Chapter End Notes

Look for Chapter 4 at the end of this week!

 Balls-Out Bananas Boxing Day
Chapter Summary

Henry gets an unexpected invitation for New Year's Eve.

Chapter Notes

CMQ wrote two perfect episodes--the Great Turkey Calamity and Alex's Christmas
Eve phone call to Henry--so perfect that I don't think there's really anything I can add
to them. But what about June and Nora's invitation to Henry for New Year's Eve?
Since it's over-hearing the tail-end of Alex's Christmas Eve call that gives June the
idea to invite Henry to New Year's Eve, she didn't have a whole lot of time to get the
invitation issued, and Henry had very little time to make arrangements. Here's my take
on how things might have worked out.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mid-afternoon on Boxing Day, caller ID notifies Henry of an incoming call from “BLBNT
WHTHSE.” It isn’t Alex, and Henry can’t think of anyone else at the White House who might be
calling him. Intrigued, even concerned (is Alex okay? After all, he sounded pretty desperate night
before last), Henry answers. “Hello?”

“Henry?” The voice of Alex’s sister June, with its faint Southern drawl, falls pleasantly on his ear.
“This is June Claremont-Diaz. You know, Alex’s sister? How are you? How was your Christmas?”

“Fine,” he says. Actually, he had barely been able to keep his eyes open for most of the day; by the
time he had calmed down sufficiently from Alex’s Christmas Eve call to go to sleep, it had been
time to start getting ready for church with Gran. And the Christmas turkey had almost knocked
him out right there at the table. “I hope yours was the same.”

“Yes, fine, thank you,” says June. “Nora--Nora Holleran, the Vice President's granddaughter--she's
here with me.”

“And my Christmas wasn’t fine,” says Nora, “probably because we’re Jewish and we don’t
celebrate it. But Hanukkah's been great. We started Sunday and still have four nights to go.”

“Parties every night for eight days? Presents included?” says Henry. “Sounds fun.”
“Yes, for sure,” says June. “But to get back to the reason I called you.” Her voice takes on a
different, diffident tone. “Maybe it’s much too late in the day,” says June hesitantly, “but I thought
I’d ask you just the same—what are you doing New Year’s? New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, June!” says Nora. “Are you going to start singing to him? Are you going to
‘wonder whose arms will hold him good and tight, when it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night’?”

“That would make two of us,” says Henry. He has no plans for the evening. Pez has been inviting
him to be a plus-one at various glitzy celebrity bashes, but nothing sounded appealing. He just feels
inexplicably sad that he won’t be seeing Alex—not that there was ever any reason to think he
might.

“Well, here’s the thing,” says June. “You know how Alex, Nora, and I—‘The White House Trio,’
the press calls us—have taken over the East Room—pretty much all the State Rooms—for a party
on New Year’s Eve, every year since my Mom became President. It’s a fundraiser—”

“Aren’t they all,” Nora interrupts lazily.

“Pretty much,” says June. “This year, it’s in aid of immigration. Those poor people need help.
They’re desperate to get out of the situations in their own countries. The Republicans like to push
all this nativist garbage, and Fox News has programs about migrant caravans full of rapists and
drug dealers as if all immigrants are evil incarnate, especially if they’re brown or black. And as if
anyone in this country not descended from the indigenous peoples already here when the
Europeans arrived is not descended from immigrants too! All these people want is a shot at a better
life, like our grandparents did—”

“June,” says Nora, “don’t get on your soapbox about immigration. I’m sure Henry agrees with you,
and throwing punches at Republicans is not a valid reason to interrupt his Boxing Day.”

Is Nora making a pun about Boxing Day and boxing? Her humour is sometimes a little too veiled
for Henry to follow.

“Yes, sorry,” says June. “So, here’s the thing.” She hesitates, then says all at once, “Alex would
love for you to come to our New Year’s Eve Party Tuesday, but he’s never going to ask you.”

Henry says, “Wait a minute. He told you he wants me there?”

“Are you kidding?” says Nora. She snorts inelegantly. “Not in this life. Never in a million years.”

“He wants me there? Or he doesn’t? I’m confused.”

June is silent for a moment, then says slowly, “You have to understand my brother. He’s a
complete charmer, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and everyone loves him.”

“Everyone wants to ball him,” says Nora.

Me too, thinks Henry. Aloud he says, “Go on.”

“But he uses that charm as a shield,” says June. “People think they know him, but they really
don’t. A lot of girls have gotten into his pants—well, probably fewer than you think; he doesn’t
screw around much—but almost no one gets close. Nora is the only one I’ve ever known who
managed to be both his lover and his friend—”

“But not for long,” says Nora. “It was mostly just to get the inevitable out of the way. We both
knew we had to fuck eventually. But I sensed from the start that I could only be one or the other,
and I opted for friend. Not that he’s bad in bed—he’s great, actually; his tongue can do things—”

“Nora,” says June, “I’m right here. I don’t want any graphic details, and I doubt Henry does
either.”

“You might be surprised,” says Nora cryptically. Henry manages to ignore her.

“Anyway,” says June, also ignoring Nora, “here’s the thing. When we were kids, Alex was the
most open, the most friendly little boy you’d ever want to meet. He was such a little sweetie—you
would have adored him.” Henry thinks, I adore him now, but of course he doesn’t say it.

“Then our parents started fighting, all day, every day. The joy in the house was just...gone. And
one year, Alex went to summer camp. He came home to find that Dad had left. Just left. Moved to
California, not even close enough for weekend visitation, just a month in the summer and huge
fights every year over who would get us for Thanksgiving and who would get us for Christmas.”
“Oh,” says Henry. He doesn’t know what else to say. He can just imagine the hurt and the
conflicting loyalties Alex and June must have suffered, and his heart aches.

“When Mom came to Congress and Dad was already in the Senate, it got better, though not much.
More like an armed truce, with the weapons still locked and loaded. So the older Alex got, the
more he retreated behind that wall of charm, and of course behind his impressive intelligence—
that helps keep people distant, too.” She pauses.

“Back in Texas, he had lacrosse buddies and debate team partners and all that stuff, but he really
only had one close friend, Liam, who he’s known since elementary school. But then we moved
into the White House and Alex started at Georgetown, and he and Liam just sort of drifted apart.
They never speak now, and they were like brothers.”

Then in a rush, “I’m sorry, I know all this falls into the category of way, way too much
information. And I feel like a real bitch talking about him behind his back this way. But Christmas
Eve, as you know, our parents had a humongous fight at dinner. Picture it—pinecones and holly
berries and the two of them with steak knives, waving them around like they were about to run
each other through. Alex freaked out and told them both off—good for him. He left the dinner
table, and later I went to see how he was doing. He was on the phone. I figured it had to be with
Nora—she’s the only one he ever talks to about this shit.”

“But I was at my parents’ house in New England celebrating Hanukkah,” Nora says.

“And then I found out—he was talking to you, of all people. In the middle of the night on
Christmas Eve. And you were listening. And he was hanging on your every word. I don’t know
what was more amazing—that he trusted you enough to share all this garbage, or that you were a
good enough friend to care. He also told me he had called you the night before the turkey
pardoning ceremony and he had insisted on housing the turkeys in his room to save taxpayer
money, and he had no one else to turn to when the turkeys terrified him—”

“Such a chicken about turkeys gobbling,” interjects Nora. “What a wimp.”

“And again, you listened, calmed him down—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he can get pretty
manic when he gets upset. He said you teased him and joked with him and sent him to sleep in my
room—thanks a lot, by the way; I came home to find used coffee cups and dozens of textbooks and
class notes on the bed—you never saw such a mess!” She pauses once more.
“You’ve been a real friend to him, something he hasn’t had in a long, long time. And that’s why I
want you with us New Year’s Eve. So does Alex, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’m sorry this is
so late, but in fairness to myself, we sent out the ‘Save the Date’ notes in September, and at that
point you two were too busy hating each other and pulling each other down into wedding cakes for
me to suspect that you’d ever become civil, let alone friends.”

“I never hated him,” says Henry. “I just couldn’t figure out why he hated me so much. I hadn’t
realized just how much my being such an arsehole at the Olympics had hurt him.”

“Cue the violins,” says Nora. “In the meantime, are you coming or not?”

“Well. . . ." says Henry.

“Bring somebody if you like,” says June in a rush, before Henry can say a firm no. “We’d love for
the White House to be the venue where a rumor gets started about the potential bride of England’s
most eligible bachelor, now that Philip’s taken.”

“Like Philip was ever in the same league,” scoffs Nora. “Henry, I know he’s your brother and you
love him I’m sure, but he always struck me as a pompous twit. At least you can be nice when
you’re not being a stuck-up asshole.”

“Jeez, Nora,” says June, “can you slather on your signature charm a little thicker?”

“If she didn’t say things like that,” says Henry, “I wouldn’t know who was in the room with you.
Anyway, I’d very much like to accept your invitation, at least tentatively. Let me see what I can
arrange. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“God, I really hope we can pull this off,” says June.

“I can’t wait to see Alex’s face when he sees you on the list,” says Nora. “He’ll shit his pants.”

“I hope he doesn’t have quite that reaction to the thought of my being there,” says Henry dryly.
“Again, let me see what I can arrange.”
“Have a very merry Boxing Day,” says June. “Don’t eat too many leftovers from yesterday.”

“They don’t have leftovers,” says Nora. “They send them all down to the beggars at the palace
gates. It’s called noblesse oblige. Pretty fucking condescending, if you ask me.”

“No one asked you, Nora,” says June. “Sorry, Henry. Let us hang up before my best friend here
irretrievably offends you forever. Goodbye for now. I hope we see you Tuesday.”

“Me too,” says Henry. “Thanks again. Goodbye.”

Henry rings off and thinks for a moment. While he considers, June texts him an invitation with the
words HRH Prince Henry of Wales and guest filled in to present to White House Security when he
arrives. The obvious person for his plus-one is Bea, but she already has plans—her support group
is meeting for an alcohol-free party, where they will ring in the New Year with only the stimulants
of good company, good food, and good music. Bea usually finds the antics of the totally-inebriated
amusing, but he doesn’t think she’d want to trade her friends for a bunch of drunken strangers at a
“balls-out bananas” New Year’s Eve party.

Which leaves one person, who would certainly enjoy what promises to be a knees-up. And who
has the added asset of his own private plane.

“Henry, darling,” says Pez. “How too terribly wonderful of you to call your very own best mate
forever and to cheer his otherwise friendless Boxing Day! My parents simply showered me with
presents yesterday, but they had to dash back home today and they left poor little Pezza all by his
lonesome!”

“Didn’t they invite you to go with them?”

“Oh, of course, but I promised David and Victoria I’d stop by for tea. I’ve got oodles of things for
their little ankle-biters. And I promised to go to a couple of homeless shelters this evening and play
Father Christmas. Then tomorrow I’m off to Norfolk for a few days’ peace and quiet before the
usual round of parties and establishing non-profits starts up again in the New Year.”

“Speaking of the New Year,” says Henry, “what do you have planned for New Year’s Eve?”

“H!” he shouts. “Are you coming with me to Sir Paul’s charity bash? He’ll be thrilled to know that
everyone’s favorite Prince Charming will be there! Or do you have to stay close by Her Majesty?
Are you stuck with charades at Sandringham and panto at the Palace? How unutterably dreary!”

“Actually, no to both,” says Henry. “I’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve party in Washington,
and they told me to bring someone along. I asked myself, ‘Who do I know with his own private
plane who would be willing to give me a lift across the pond in exchange for a chance to see the
White House?’ And you were the first one I thought of.”

“Probably the only one you could think of who meets those requirements,” begins Pez, “especially
the part about a plane to get you to DC when you’ve yet to purchase a reservation for New Year’s
Eve, one of the busiest and most overbooked air travel days in the entire year….” Then the second
part of Henry’s question hits him, and he actually stops mid-sentence. “Wait! Did you say, ‘the
White House’? As in ‘The White House’? The Presidential Palace, which is the home, nay, the
shrine, of that living goddess you danced with at your brother’s wedding? That White House?”

“Yes, Pez,” says Henry, smiling. “The very same. I—we—have been invited to the White House
for the ‘Legendary Balls-Out Bananas White House Trio New Year’s Eve Party.’ What a vivid
name for a party, by the way. A bit different from La Fete Champetre, but it’s a new world.”
Henry listens while Pez makes inarticulate sounds of glee. “So I take it you’re in?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me from it—nay, not even your grandmother in high dudgeon backed
up by an executioner and his block!”

“You’ve obviously never encountered that aspect of her character,” says Henry. “So it’s a yes? I’ll
let the goddess, whose name is June, by the way, know that she may expect an acolyte.”

“And in gratitude,” says Pez, “not only will I fly you across the ocean, I will see to your wardrobe.
I don’t want you showing up looking anything like your brother.”

“Nothing too wild,” says Henry warningly. “I’m not wearing a feather boa.”

“H,” says Pez, “you cut me to the quick. You know I am a model of restrained good taste.”

“Tell me,” says Henry, “what exactly are you wearing right now?” Pez is silent. “Point made.”

“Tell you what,” says Pez, “wear your blue Armani and a white shirt, your father’s gold cufflinks,
 and I’ll choose your tie. You’ll knock everyone dead.” His voice takes on a teasing note.
“Especially your new best mate. Or may I call him your own true love? I take it he’ll be there.”

“Since it’s the White House Trio hosting the party, not the White House Duo, I’m sure he will,”
says Henry. “And no, you may not call him that.”

“Just remember who has the keys to the jet, Romeo, if you want a kiss at midnight from your
handsome swain.”

Small chance of that, thinks Henry. Aloud he says, “I’m ringing off, Pez. Call me when you’ve got
flight details.”

“Just give it to me all night,” sings Pez, perfectly mimicking Carly Simon’s signature contralto.
“Give me the full moon, and if I can’t take the whole of you, give it to me anyway….”

Henry ends the call, smiling. Then it really hits him, the wonder and the glory of it. I’m going to
see him, he thinks. This is going to be the best New Year’s Eve of my entire life. I can hardly wait.

Chapter End Notes

If you like this, take a look at my other work, "Together Forever," to which I will be
adding a chapter as Thanksgiving gets closer. If you haven't read "Together Forever,"
it takes place in 2053, and the guys have been married for thirty years. In this
upcoming work, Henry and Alex are gathering the family for a Thanksgiving
celebration at the brownstone, and their son Raf has a surprise announcement!
 Blame It on the Snowflakes
Chapter Summary

You're standing in the moonlight, and you've just watched the beautiful young man
you've spent three-and-a-half years carrying a torch for get a New Year's Eve kiss
from his former girlfriend. Feathery snowflakes dust his black curls with diamonds,
and his deep brown eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, are staring deeply into yours.
And you've just drunk an entire bottle of champagne. What would you do?

Chapter Notes

If you've never seen Venessa Kelley's painting of this scene, go to vkelleyart on

Tumblr and look it up. The look on Alex's face as Henry kisses him is priceless!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

This has been the worst New Year’s Eve of my entire life. I can hardly wait for it to be over.

Standing in the frozen White House Rose Garden under a bare linden tree, Henry huddles in his
overcoat. Looking through the windows, he can see into the East Room, where the raucous crowd
is still exchanging New Year’s kisses. Moodily, he checks his watch: twelve-fifteen D.C. time,
five-fifteen back home. Just shy of twenty hours since Pez arrived at Kensington yesterday
morning, carrying a long rectangular box wrapped in blue paper with a gold-and-silver bow. “My
promised supplement to your otherwise dreary wardrobe,” said Pez. “Open it immediately! And
prepare to have your life changed!”

The box contained a narrow silk tie of coppery mustard. “It complements your hair,” said Pez.

“I do not have ginger hair,” said Henry crossly.

“I know, it’s blond,” said Pez airily, “but in some lights, there is most definitely a coppery glow.
And speaking of hair, what do you think?” He had dyed his own a startling pastel pink, and he did
a little pirouette so that Henry could admire it from all sides. “And wait until you see what I’m
wearing tonight! People will positively squint at my magnificence!”

The flight over was uneventful, and Henry had put in his earbuds, hoping that some gentle music
would calm his anxiety. Shaan would have had one of his little yellow pills to help him relax, but
he was in New Delhi for the holidays; so Henry hoped that the liquid notes of Handel’s Water
Music would do the trick instead. They did, and he actually managed to doze a bit, his feet propped
up on a windowsill. Pez snapped a picture of him smiling dreamily, and posted it with the caption:
USA bound! #YoungAmericaGala2019.

Minutes later, Henry’s mobile buzzed: ATTN: will be wearing a burgundy velvet suit tonight.
please do not attempt to steal my shine. you will fail and i will be embarrassed for you.

Henry smiled and immediately texted back: Wouldn’t dream of it.

They arrived in plenty of time to get ready and be fashionably late for the party. The British
Ambassador was on holiday, but he had told his staff to welcome them. Henry and Pez were
installed in separate spacious bedroom suites with attached baths, where they could grab quick
showers and shave.

Eying his reflection critically, Henry had to admit that Pez was right: the colour of the tie did suit
him. And when he looked down at his father’s gold cufflinks gleaming on his wrists, he could feel
Arthur’s comforting presence encouraging him to have a wonderful time at a wonderful party in
the company of “his own true love.” Pez’s teasing nickname for Alex was stuck fast in Henry’s
brain, and nothing short of dynamite was likely to dislodge it. He had taken a deep breath,
straightened his shoulders, and gone downstairs to join Pez in the limo which would take them to
the White House.

How did it get so bollocksed-up? thinks Henry disconsolately, stamping his feet to keep them from
freezing in the ankle-deep snow.

Alex’s face had lit up with genuine pleasure when Henry and Pez walked into the room, and true to
form, he made a comment about Henry’s appearance. “Nice tie.”

“Thought I’d be escorted off the premises for anything less exciting,” Henry replied, and then June
joined them and Pez started madly flirting and swept her off to dance.

That had left him with Alex, who took him to the bar; then drinks in hand, they had made the
rounds of the room together. Alex introduced him to aides and staffers who blushed and
stammered, a response that Henry had grown used to over the years, but still didn’t understand.
Was he really that intimidating? He knew that people reacted strongly to the combination of his
royal blood and James Bond looks, but since he knew himself to be nothing special, he could never
understand why. Nor could he figure out how to get past it and put people at their ease.
At one point, Henry coughed a bit—“Just a little tickle,” he said, “the forced air in airplane cabins
always dries my throat”—and Alex handed him a boiled sweet which he said was a cough drop. As
he popped it in, Henry peered at its wrapper. It had a hatched diamond pattern, one cell
proclaiming, “A PEP TALK IN EVERY DROP!” and the others filled with slogans like “High-five
yourself!” and “Turn ‘can-do’ into ‘can-did’!” Henry smiled. Only in America would people seek
encouragement and positive reinforcement from cough drop wrappers.

Then June had come over for a little tete-a-tete. She repeated her thanks for his attendance and said
how happy she was to have met Pez. As they chatted and laughed, Henry felt someone’s eyes on
him. He scanned the room and saw that it was Alex, who looked away as soon as he realized that
Henry had felt him staring.

Pez led June back to the dance floor, and Henry wandered the room, bored and a little lost. He tried
to strike up a few conversations, but as they always did, strangers had one of two reactions to him:
the blushing and stammering he had experienced earlier, or else (he had often encountered this with
political types) they would first-name him and ask for his mobile number.

Extricating himself as politely as he could, he would look for Alex in the crowd; and strangely, he
would always find him staring back, as if Alex was actually amazed by his physical presence. It
couldn’t compare to how amazed Henry was by actually being with Alex—for New Year’s Eve, no
less—even if they weren’t spending as much time together as he would have liked. (He suddenly
wondered: would Alex have liked that too? Alex’s gaze following him around the room gives him
a sneaking suspicion that the answer might be yes.)

It was past eleven-thirty when Alex left the crowd to join Henry. “You don’t dance?”

“No, I do. It’s just that the family-mandated ballroom dancing lessons didn’t exactly cover this.”

“C’mon, it’s like, in the hips. You’ve got to loosen up,” said Alex. He put his hands on Henry’s
hips and squeezed. If Alex were gay, Henry would have taken this as a come-on, but Alex was
straight. (Wasn’t he?)

He told Henry, “Watch me!” Henry took a swig from the champagne bottle he’d been clutching for
the past hour and said truthfully, “I am.”

Henry was about to make some further comment when suddenly Alex interrupted him to emit a
crazy laugh and shout, “Shut up! Shut your dumb face, this is my shit!” Alex threw his hands up in
the air while people started cheering and shimmying to a rhythmic, pulsing beat. Alex said, “Did
you seriously never go to an awkward middle-school dance and watch a bunch of teenagers dry-
hump to this song?” Was he kidding? Henry had gone to an all-boys boarding school where dry-
humping was confined to the dorms after lights-out. He said, “You absolutely must know that I did
not.”

Alex shouted across the room, “Nora! Nora! Henry has never watched a bunch of teenagers dry-
hump to this song!”

Nora yelled, “What?,” as if Henry had just confessed he didn’t know where babies came from. She
grabbed Alex and demonstrated dry-humping with great enthusiasm. Henry turned scarlet, as
embarrassed as he would have been had he discovered them rutting on a couch in one of the side
parlours.

The evening had taken a weird, eroticized turn, and Nora seemed to enjoy Henry’s discomfiture.
She may have said that she and Alex were only friends, but there was something proprietary in the
way she danced with him, as if warning Henry that Alex belonged to her.

A moment or two later, Alex pulled Henry into a group chanting down the seconds to 2020, but as
the clock struck Nora caught Henry’s eye just for a second before pulling Alex in for a sloppy kiss
on the mouth. Alex laughed and made a face of exaggerated disgust, saying, “You taste terrible!”
Nora laughed and planted another loud, smacking smooch. Henry put down the bottle and struck
out madly on his own, striding down the hall as if he knew where he was going.

A female Secret Service agent stepped into his path and asked politely, “May I help you, Your
Royal Highness?”

Henry said, “I just need a breath of air.”

“The Rose Garden is right outside,” she said, gesturing to a glass door, “but you might want to get
your overcoat, sir. It’s pretty cold out there.”

Which is how he has come to be standing in the ankle-deep snow. The frigid air feels good on his
burning cheeks, and it has also sobered him, at least a little (he still feels squiffed, but better than
he did back in the Residence). He idly scans the sky, looking for constellations, but the
combination of Washington light pollution and the wintry cloud cover defeats him.
He hears something behind him: a small crash, a soft but emphatic “ Shit!” He turns around and
sees Alex picking himself up from having tripped over a bench, brushing snow off the knees of his
velvet trousers. Alex carefully makes his way over, and Henry realizes that just like at the
wedding, Alex is very, very drunk. He also knows that Alex has left the dancing and all the people
lining up to kiss him to come looking for Henry. Without an overcoat. It matters far more to him
than it probably should.

“What are you doing out here?” asks Alex.

“Looking for Orion,” says Henry.

Alex laughs and says, “You must be really bored with the commoners to come out here and stare at
the clouds.”

Henry mumbles, “‘m not bored.” He tries to keep his tone neutral as he asks, “What are you doing
out here? Doesn’t America’s Golden Boy have some swooning crowds to beguile?”

Alex smirks as he answers, “Says Prince fucking Charming.”

Henry makes a face and says, “Hardly.” A little silence falls.

Alex says, “You didn’t really answer my question, though.”

An unexpected wave of irritation sweeps over him. “You can’t ever leave well enough alone, can
you?” How can you stand there, Alex, all sexy and beautiful and utterly desirable, and look at me
with those eyes, when you’d freak out if I told you I want you so much I can hardly stand it?

Wow. Alex isn’t the only one who must be very, very drunk. Henry leans his head back and bumps
it against the tree trunk, and the little flare of pain startles him enough to help him regain a bit of
self-control. He answers tiredly, “Sometimes it gets a bit . . . much.”

Alex leans against the tree too and nudges their shoulders together. Henry voices his own deepest
wish: “D’you ever wonder what it’s like to be some anonymous person out in the world?”
Alex says, “What do you mean?”

“Just, you know,” he says, “if your mum weren’t the president and you were just a normal bloke
living a normal life, what things might be like? What you’d be doing instead?”

“Ah,” says Alex. “Well, I mean, obviously I’d be a model. I’ve been on the cover of Teen Vogue
twice. These genetics transcend all circumstance.” Henry rolls his eyes. “What about you?”

“I’d be a writer.” Definitely drunk. He’s never confessed that aloud to anyone before.

“Can’t you do that?”

“Not exactly seen as a worthwhile pursuit for a man in line to the throne, scribbling verses about
quarter-life angst. Besides, the traditional family career track is military, so that’s about it, isn’t
it?” He thinks of Philip and his endless hints about enlistment, which might irritate Henry even
more if he didn’t know that Philip is only repeating what he hears from their grandmother.

Light, feathery snowflakes start to drift down.

Alex is beautiful in the moonlight, the snow dusting his dark curls with diamonds. The brown eyes,
with their thick fringe of black lashes--eyes set in with a sooty finger, an Irish friend of Henry’s
used to say--are warm with concern, as Alex struggles to understand what Henry is trying to say.
Utterly enchanting. Henry stares at Alex for a long moment, and then hears himself saying, “I’d
date more, probably, as well.”

Alex laughs. “Right, because it’s so hard to get a date when you’re a prince.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“How? You’re not exactly lacking for options.”

“The options I’d like . . . they don’t quite seem to be options at all.” Because it’s you, Alex, Henry
thinks with frustration. I want you. I’ve wanted you for three-and-a-half years.
Alex looks completely uncomprehending. “What?” he asks.

“I’m saying that I have . . . people . . . who interest me.” It’s you, you bloody twit. Do I have to hire
the skywriter Pez was going to get to ask your sister out?

Alex says, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” Alex is smiling but obviously bewildered. God, those eyes. He’s so bloody desirable.

“You really don’t?”

“I really, really don’t.”

It’s all just too much. The champagne fizzing in his veins. The jealousy he felt when Nora caught
his eye at midnight, then laughed and kissed Alex on the mouth. The longing he feels for this
beautiful man who has been driving him crazy, in one way or another, for over three years. The
certainty that Alex would one day set him on fire, the fire that is sweeping through him right now,
torching all of the inhibitions that have helped him keep Alex at arm’s length.

He looks to the sky, as if imploring aid from an uncaring universe, and then looks down and
catches the gleam of his father’s cufflinks. He feels Dad’s hand on his back, pushing him forward
into whatever God and Fate have prepared for him. He mutters, “Christ, you are as thick as it
gets,” and he takes Alex’s face in his hands and kisses him squarely on the mouth.

There is a dull roaring in his ears. Alex appears frozen in shock. Then Alex moves, but it’s not to
break away; he leans in, and his lips part. Instinctively, Henry slips in his tongue, and Alex’s
tongue moves to meet his. Christ.

And then—
 Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Half-sick, Henry curses, mumbles an apology, and turns and runs. He risks one look over his
shoulder. Alex stands frozen in place, his eyes on the ground in stunned bewilderment and one
hand lightly touching his lips.

Chapter End Notes

Next installment of this piece coming very soon! Also, check out "Together Forever,"
where I'll be posting a Thanksgiving chapter this week!
 Kiss and Never Tell
Chapter Summary

Running away from the New Year's Eve kiss he gave Alex, Henry can hardly believe
the mess he's gotten himself into. Fortunately, he has Pez, Shaan, and an irritable
actress who's into lesbian S & M to help him cover his tracks!

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Henry blunders along the colonnade, frantically searching for some way into the Executive
Mansion. He comes to a glass-paned door and rattles it, but it’s locked. He peers into a dimly-lit
oval room and sees couches, chairs by the fireplace, a large Victorian desk flanked by a United
States flag and another bearing the Presidential Seal. Christ, is this the bloody Oval Office? Just at
that moment he hears a throat clearing, and a deep voice says, “May I help you, Your Royal
Highness?” It’s a stern-faced Marine. Henry is tall, but this guy towers over him.

“I’m sorry,” Henry babbles. “I went outside for a breath of air and got all turned round and I got
lost and I’m trying to find some way back into the Mansion so I can collect my friend because I
just got a message—emergency back home—family stuff—you know. I’m so sorry—"

“Of course. Please follow me, Sir.” The Marine leads him firmly away and through another door
along the portico.

“Look,” says Henry, “you must think I’m mad, but I really do need my friend. And our limo. I have
to get back to the Embassy now. Could you send someone to fetch him and to order the car? His
name’s Percy Okonjo, and he’s got pink hair, and he’s wearing a flowered Gucci jacket—"

“I know who he is, Your Royal Highness,” says the Marine. Of course he would—it’s his job. “I’ll
order your car, and fetch Mr. Okonjo. I hope everything is alright for you and the Royal Family.”

“Oh, it will be,” Henry continues to babble, “but I do need to get to the Embassy straightaway.”

“If you would care to wait here, Sir,” says the Marine. Henry takes out his wallet to offer a tip, and
the Marine permits himself a small smile. “No need for that, Sir. It is my pleasure to serve you, as
a guest of the President and of the United States of America. If you please, Sir.” He indicates a
large parlour entirely decorated in green. Though green is one of Henry’s favourite colours, right
now he thinks the colour looks as nauseatingly bilious as he feels.

A moment later, Pez and June come rushing in, wide-eyed with shock. What’s that on Pez’s
mouth? Bet he didn’t have to steal his New Year’s kiss. Pez says, “H?” There is no trace of his
usual jaunty off-handedness.

June looks terrified. “Please tell me there’s nothing wrong with the Queen—”

“Oh no. God, no,” says Henry shakily. “But we have to go now. Pez, are you ready? Thank you for
a lovely time, June. We’ll have to do it again next year.”

The Marine enters and says, “Your car is here, Sir. If you’d care to follow me—"

“Can’t you wait just a minute?” says June. “I’m sure Alex would want to say goodbye. I think I
just heard him come in from outside—you must have seen him out there—”

“No,” Henry nearly shouts. “Pez, now.”

June hurries with them down to the Diplomatic Entrance, and they leave her standing in the
doorway, her eyes fearful. For once, Pez keeps his mouth shut until they are in the car and pulling
away. Then he asks in a small voice, “What’s going on?”

Henry says, “I’ll tell you on the plane.” He says to the driver, “To the airport. Private jet area.”

“We’re leaving the country?” says Pez. “We’re not even stopping at the Embassy? Christ, Henry,
at least tell me why.”

It’s not until they’re strapped in for takeoff and the jet is taxiing down the runway that Henry can
draw a full breath. He closes his eyes, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. As he moves, he
hears a faint crackle and reaches into his pocket—it’s that silly candy wrapper from the cough drop
Alex gave him. He hadn’t spotted a bin to drop it into, so he’d put it in his pocket and forgotten all
about it. He’s glad about that now, because he knows he’ll keep it forever. A second tear follows
the first.
“You’re really scaring me, Henry,” says Pez. “Tell me.”

Henry whispers, equal parts shocked and horrified, “I kissed him.”

Pez’s pupils dilate. “What?” he says, and swallows. “What happened? Did he thrash you? Did he
order you out of the country? Or do we have to get out before he puts you on a no-fly list and we
get arrested?”

Henry can still hardly speak. “No,” he says. “He rather… kissed me back.”

“What?” says Pez again. “How?”

“He… opened his mouth, and I just automatically...you know, snogged him, and… his tongue
touched mine back… ”

“Stop. Let me get this straight, so to speak,” says Pez. “You finally screwed your courage to the
sticking place, grabbed him, kissed him on the mouth, snogged him and he snogged you back, then
you dropped him on his arse in a snowbank and now you’re fleeing the country.”

“More or less,” says Henry miserably.

Pez looks at him for a moment, then starts to giggle. Just a trickle of laughter at first, but it’s soon a
raging torrent, and Pez is laughing so hard that tears are running down his cheeks. “Stop laughing,”
says Henry sulkily. “You’ll ruin your mascara.”

“It would be makeup well lost,” gasps Pez. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” But then he looks at Henry, and
gusts of laughter shake him once more. “Look, I’ve known enough of your lads over the years, so I
know you’re no virgin. But were you always this clueless? You kissed him and he obviously didn’t
hate it—maybe he was even intrigued. Why didn’t you adjourn to his bedroom and see where
things led?”

Henry fumbles for an answer. “All those others over the years—they were just… I don’t know,
screws. It sounds terrible, but I was randy, and they were there, and willing, and it was fine, but…
especially after Rio--” He breaks off. “This was Alex. It meant something. Maybe everything. And
I was scared. So I ran away.” He heaves a gusty sigh. “And now, Pez, if you’re really my best
mate, we’ll never speak of this again. I just want to forget it, and hope that Alex is so drunk he’ll
think he imagined it.”

“A kiss from Prince Charming?” scoffs Pez. “Not likely. And because I am your best mate, we’ll
speak of this again, probably again and again and again, until you either get him out of your
system, or you figure out how the two of you will spend the rest of your lives together. Either way,
I’ll always be here for you, though I do reserve the right to rag you about this mercilessly until the
end of time. The mental image of you dropping Alex Claremont-Diaz on his arse in a snowbank in
those ridiculous velvet trousers is just too precious ever to abandon.”

“I didn’t actually drop him on his arse,” says Henry. “He was still perfectly upright when I ran.”

“Perfectly upright, or perfectly erect?” says Pez, and starts laughing again.

They’re midway over the Atlantic when Henry gets the first text: wtf, man? He ignores it.

A few minutes later, a second: where’d you go? we need to talk. He briefly considers blocking
Alex’s number, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Several hours go by—presumably Alex is sleeping off the party. But that evening, another text: we
have to talk. you’re not dead, are you?

The following day, he gets a text from June. He had sent her a bread-and-butter letter on Palace
stationery as soon as he got home, thanking “you, and the others,” for a “memorable evening.” She
couldn’t have received it yet, and she sounds worried. I don’t want to intrude, but I have to make
sure everything is okay. Alex says to tell you hi and that he’s sorry he didn’t get a chance to talk
before you left.

He texts back, Fine, thanks—it was the usual Palace kerfuffle over nothing. I’ve sent an official TY
you should be getting in a day or two, but thanks again—I’ll never forget the evening. Tell Nora I
said hi. That sounds unnecessarily rude, so he changes it to Tell Nora and Alex I said hi.

A few minutes later, a text: june says you said hi. wtf, henry—why are you ghosting me? He
doesn’t reply. He wanders the halls of Kensington all night, even stopping by the kitchen of the
guest apartment. In his mind’s eye he sees Alex perched on the counter, watches him line up a
picture for Instagram of Henry’s hand with its signet ring holding a Cornetto, hears him saying,
“There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.” Henry puts
his face in his hands.
In the morning, he summons Shaan, who has just returned from his holiday break in India. “I need
to do some damage control,” he tells him.

Always imperturbable, Shaan doesn’t turn a hair; he merely reaches into the breast pocket of his
jacket and pulls out a small notebook and a pen. “Of course, Your Royal Highness,” he says. “Tell
me what we’re dealing with.” It’s actually quite a relief to tell him what happened, and Shaan
scribbles notes while Henry talks. Henry knows that Shaan will not judge, and that he will know
exactly what to do to extricate Henry from the mess he’s gotten himself into.

When Henry finishes his story, Shaan nods. He clicks his pen shut and closes his notebook with a
snap. “Right,” he says. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to send you—well, not on a date, more like
morning coffees in a very public venue with a young lady who has reasons of her own to want
some positive publicity. Mr. Okonjo might know of someone suitable. And I’m sure People would
love to run the pictures.” He re-opens his notebook and makes a few final notes, probably to
remind himself to contact the People correspondent. Shaan says, “Let’s see what I can set up for…
tomorrow? You’re free until the afternoon.”

Around teatime, Henry gets a call from Pez. “I just got back to Shaan,” says Pez. “I found the
perfect young woman. She’s carving out a niche as costume drama ingenues—she played Lady
Gwendoline in the second season of Downton Abbey—but the thing is, she likes to spend her
weekends at lesbian S & M parties. Not exactly ingenue behaviour. Her agent is afraid he won’t be
able to keep the rumours quiet much longer, but morning coffee with Prince Charming might
scotch them for a bit. And since she’s an actress, she can pretend to be attracted to blokes quite
convincingly—even one as clueless as you.”

“Thank you, Pez,” says Henry. “I’m being sincere—I am truly grateful.”

“I promised I’d always be here for you.”

“You also promised you wouldn’t stop ragging me.”

“Yes, I was just getting to that part. Has your swain picked himself up out of the snowbank?”

“I haven’t spoken to him,” says Henry. “I know I’ll have to one day, but it’s just too soon.”

“’The course of true love never did run smooth,’” Pez quotes.
“Yes, I know. Shakespeare,” says Henry, and finishes the quotation. “‘Love is a familiar. Love is a
devil. There is no evil angel but love.’ Of course, Shakespeare never met you, my evil angel.”

“More’s the pity for him. I could have corrected his opinion about the gullibility of Black men, as
evidenced by Othello.”

“Pity for him indeed,” says Henry. “But I am the most fortunate of men. Thanks, mate.”

Henry is at a small London coffee shop the following morning, one of those exclusive little places
with a glass-walled enclosed porch, the perfect spot for celebrities to people-watch and for people
to watch celebrities. And there she is, Emily Stokes-Howard (Henry is willing to bet she was born
plain Emily Stokes, and is no relation to the Duke of Norfolk). She is small, blonde, fragile, with
the face of an angel and an air of virginal innocence.

Obviously a good actress, she plays the scene convincingly and directs him deftly, hissing, “Take
my hand, idiot,” and, “Take me round the corner over there, dolt.” He can see that the spot she has
selected is mostly concealed, but just exposed enough. She lines up a perfect angle for snooping
photogs and whispers, “Lean in and kiss me, arsehole. Do I have to tell you everything?” And he
thought his grandmother was tough. He wouldn’t want to get on Emily’s wrong side with a whip in
her hand.

The pictures are in People the following week, clear enough to prove it’s them and fuzzy enough to
look candid, not posed. The courtiers (who really run the show at the Palace) are pleased, and his
grandmother gives a rare word of approval buried in a lecture about the unsuitability of actresses.

Henry is pleased with the article too, but he feels a pang when he turns the page and sees a feature
about a Smithsonian exhibit on Ellen Claremont’s Presidential campaign, a display which Alex had
helped create. Alex is quoted extensively about his mother’s history-making election, but in the
photos which accompany the article his face looks drawn, tense, as if he’s worried about
something. Maybe about what sort of vibes he’s sending that would invite a bloke to kiss him.

A week or two later, Henry is going over his schedule of upcoming engagements when Shaan says,
“And of course, there’s the State Dinner in Washington Friday night.”

“What?” says Henry. “I thought we cancelled that. Surely the wedding debacle is forgotten by
now. See if you can get me out of it. Plead a subsequent engagement.”
 “One does not brush off the President of the United States by saying that something better has
come along,” says Shaan. “The Prime Minister called to confirm just this morning. She’s a bit
miffed that you’ve been invited to stay at the White House, while she has to cadge a bed at the
Embassy.”

“I’ll switch,” says Henry. He’s starting to sweat a bit. “I’ll stay at the Embassy. I owe the
Ambassador anyway, after skipping out on his hospitality on New Year’s Eve. He even had his
staff pack up the stuff Pez and I had left when we got ready for the party and send it to us. I really
need to distribute some thank-you gifts to them. Get me some photos to sign, and some of the usual
little gifts we hand out--”

“You’ll be stopping at the Embassy before the dinner to shower and change. You can distribute
your thank-you gifts then. But with respect, Sir, as far as sleeping quarters are concerned, the
arrangements have been made,” says Shaan. “The president specifically said how much she is
looking forward to having you stay. So that’s that, unless of course you want me to explain to the
her that you’re uncomfortable staying at the White House because you kissed her son.”

“God, no,” says Henry. “So I really can’t get out of it?”

“Afraid not, Sir,” says Shaan.

Very well. He can do this—the blood of kings runs in his veins. He can face down any number of
Presidential offspring, and roar like the heraldic lion on the royal coat of arms.

The only problem is, he feels more like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz.

Chapter End Notes

Next up: the White House banquet!

 Nightmares Can Become Dreams-Come-True
Chapter Summary

Sick with anxiety, Henry returns to Washington for the first time since he kissed Alex
on New Year's Eve. He had tried to get out of the visit, but Shaan explained that it is
bad diplomatic form to blow off the President of the United States. So now Henry is
here for the White House dinner he had committed to after the wedding cake disaster,
and the evening takes a turn he could never have foreseen.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Henry sits in the back seat of the Embassy limousine with the Ambassador and the Prime Minister,
the driver expertly maneuvering through the DC traffic. Tiny Union Jacks fly from the corners of
the front bonnet of the Bentley, and a police escort both precedes and follows them on
motorcycles. In the distance, he can see the White House lit up like a postcard picture.

The Prime Minister is in a glittering red evening gown, while the Ambassador wears a perfectly-
tailored dinner jacket which sports several decorations from the Diplomatic Corps. They both look
impressively British and formidable, determined to put these rebellious colonists firmly in their
place. Maybe I can sic them on Alex, Henry thinks. Christ. Alex.

Henry, on the other hand, is trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Black suit, white shirt,
black tie; he wouldn’t look out of place at a funeral. He would have added a heavy black veil if he
thought he could carry it off and that it would offer some concealment. As the Prime Minister and
the Ambassador discuss their upcoming Presidential meeting, Henry concentrates on trying not to
spew.

In a few minutes, he’ll see him.

Oh, my fucking Christ.

He considers asking the driver to circle the block to give him one more minute to collect himself,
but he doubts the others would agree to it. Besides, it’s too late; the police escort has turned off
Pennsylvania Avenue into the White House drive. He wants to hide in the car while the others get
out, but he remembers Shaan’s words to Alex outside the studio before the Dottie-and-Stu
interview: Prince first, then you. The door next to him swings open, and he steps out to clicking
flashes from a bevy of photographers. He briefly considers running around to the other side of the
car, pulling the driver out and tossing him to the pavement, and then speeding away. Instead, he
wills his feet to start moving.

The president is in the ground-floor Diplomatic Reception Room. He’s meeting her for the first
time, and she smiles and says, “Welcome to the White House, Your Royal Highness, or should I
say, welcome back—June and Alex were so thrilled you could join them for New Year’s Eve.”

Her husband Leo, Alex’s stepfather, shakes his hand with a warm smile, and then they turn to the
Ambassador, saying, “Your Excellency.” The Ambassador replies, “Madam President, may I
present the Prime Minister?” It’s just like a hundred other receptions Henry has attended, but none
of those had ever included someone rocking back and forth on his heels near the photo line. Henry
feels a mad impulse to turn tail and run, but one look at Alex keeps him moving forward. The
beautiful brown eyes with their thick dark lashes are narrowed and blazing, and Alex’s hands are
clenching into fists, then unclenching, then clenching once more.

A serious-looking woman in a severe black evening gown is standing behind Alex’s shoulder. She
hisses, “All right, photos.”

Henry can manage only a single syllable: “Oh.” June smiles warmly at him, and Nora stands next
to her, looking amused. She glances to her left, where Alex stands. Alex’s eyes bore into his, and
Henry wonders: is Alex going to hit him, or hug him?

Neither, as it turns out; as Alex had said that night in the Kensington guest kitchen, Henry is not
the only professional here. Warm handshake, fake smile, but also a sotto voce comment: “Hey.
Cool to see you’re not dead or anything.”

Henry replies, “Er.” Good job, Henry; maybe you’ll manage a consonant in an hour or two. Both
June and Nora give him air kisses so as not to get their lipstick on his cheek.

An aide approaches and says, “This way, Your Royal Highness,” and conducts him upstairs to the
State Dining Room, where he will be seated next to the Prime Minister. Other dignitaries from his
table are starting to assemble, and he greets them as he has been taught to do: a couple of Senators,
a Supreme Court Justice, some probable important Democratic donors. All of their faces are a blur
with Alex just across the room.

The menu includes Beef Wellington, and pilau with basmati rice and slivered almonds. For dessert,
there is Eton Mess, a light confection of meringue, strawberries, and raspberries, which Henry had
enjoyed every year at Eton after the annual cricket match against Harrow.

Henry would normally have relished the meal, but it does not help his appetite that every time he
looks up from his plate, Alex is glaring at him. He focuses on his rice pilau with as much
concentration as if he’s trying to figure out the recipe. The meal is winding down (Henry cannot
think of a single intelligent remark he has made all evening, but politicians prefer to monopolize
the conversation anyway, so it’s okay) and the entertainment is starting. It’s a vaguely familiar
British indie rocker whose singing reminds him of Mr. Wobbles demanding a treat.

Suddenly he feels a peremptory tap on his shoulder. It’s Nora, her usual cool, amused smile
playing across her lips, a purposeful gleam in her eyes. She says, “Hey! Brit boy! I see why they
call that dessert a mess, but we’ll get something better. There’s profiteroles over by the chocolate
display.”

“I’m game,” he says, grateful for a distraction. They get up and walk over to a buffet where there
are fancy little pastries and a stack of dessert plates. Nora says, “Ooh, yummy!” He smiles, but
then suddenly feels an arm as hard as steel wrapping around his waist. He turns and his eyes grow
wide.

“Hi,” Alex says. Nora smirks; whatever Alex has planned, she must be in on it. Alex says, “Sorry
to interrupt. Important. Um. International Relations. Stuff.” He swings Henry around and marches
him away with surprising strength. Henry has no choice but to go with him, though not without
protest.

“Do you mind?” demands Henry.

“Shut your face,” says Alex briskly. They stop at a set of double doors, where a Secret Service
Agent stands. She looks at Alex doubtfully. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?” she asks.

“Probably not,” Alex says. The agent opens one of the doors and Alex pushes Henry into the
room. It is decorated entirely in red, which might prove convenient for concealing bloodstains.

“What on God’s earth are you doing?” says Henry.

“Shut up, shut all the way up, oh my God,” says Alex. His eyes flash as he wraps Henry’s tie
around his fist. Then he shoves Henry against the wall and crushes their mouths together.

Henry is slack-jawed with shock. Of all the turns this evening might have taken, this is the last one
he could have predicted. A punch in the mouth, yes. A kiss on the lips, no.
As the shock fades, his head is spinning with one crazy emotion rapidly succeeding another, joy
and arousal and disbelief and hope. He can’t choose among them, so he just kisses back; his tongue
meets Alex’s and it’s incredible, better than any kiss he has ever known. Is this just a crazy dream
from which he will awaken gasping and pasted to his pyjamas? No, this is real, and it’s Alex
grabbing him, and snogging him. But it can’t be. Can it? No—but it is. No, this is mad. He breaks
away, gasping, “Wait!” Alex steps back, wild-eyed, panting. Henry says, “Should we—”

“What?” demands Alex.

“I mean, er, should we, I mean, I dunno, slow down?” He grimaces, cringing so hard that one eye
closes. “Go for dinner first, or—” He doesn’t know how to do this. Every date he has ever had has
followed a set pattern: an approach, an indication of where this is expected to lead, an assent, a
signature on an NDA, bed. All tidy and arranged. He’s known randiness, of course, but never the
mutual passion which is sweeping him and Alex along. It’s the difference between a gentle river
punt—enjoyable, quiet, predictable—and riding the waves in a raging sea in the midst of a howling
typhoon.

Alex glares at him. “We just had dinner.”

“Right. I meant—I just thought—”

“Stop thinking.” Alex crowds up close to him again.

Suddenly the most delicious excitement curls through his gut. He feels his chest heaving like an
ingenue in a Regency Romance. He gasps, “Yes. Gladly.”

There’s a table beneath a portrait of some Founding Father and Alex shoves Henry onto it,
knocking away a candelabrum. Instinctively, Henry’s thighs fall open and Alex pushes up between
them. Their arms convulsively clutch one another and their hands run up and down each other’s
bodies. Their lips crush together messily, and their throats emit involuntary, almost animal growls.

He feels Alex’s hand on his thigh, moving up and up and up, and he knows that if Alex’s fingers
go any higher he will explode. He slams down his hand to stop him, his nails digging in of their
own accord.

“Time’s up!” calls the Secret Service Agent through the door.
They freeze, their breath coming in short, rapid gasps. Alex takes a step back and looks at him, and
if Alex’s appearance is anything to go by, Henry knows he must look like he has just been
ravished. Well, fair enough. He almost has. Good thing they ended up on a table instead of one of
the couches.

Panting, he says helplessly, “I’m going to die.”

Alex says, “I’m going to kill you.”

He feels weak, wiped out, almost boneless. Almost. “Yes, you are,” he rasps.

“People are gonna be coming in here soon,” says Alex, running a quick hand through his curls.
Henry gets off the table and stands, his thighs quivering. Alex leans down (was he really just
squeezing that beautiful arse?) and picks up the candelabrum and puts it back on the table. One
candle is crooked and another has fallen out and rolled away, God knows where. Alex looks at him
critically and says, “Fuck, you look—fuck.” He reaches up and starts patting Henry’s hair back
into place from where his hands had twisted it.

But hairstyle isn’t Henry’s primary concern. As he tucks his shirt in, Henry knows his stiffy must
be as obvious as the White Cliffs of Dover. Christ. But he has one surefire method of dealing with
that which he discovered in his adolescence, when the sight of a bloke in a pair of tight jeans would
set off something he needed to conceal. He pictures his grandmother in full regalia at a State
Opening of Parliament, cold-eyed and glaring, her mouth tight with disapproval. For good measure,
he starts humming God Save the Queen.

“What are you doing?” demands Alex.

“Christ,” he says, “I’m trying to make it—” he gestures at his trousers front—“go away.” He
realizes, with an inner sigh of relief, that he’s succeeding. Works like a charm, every time. He
sometimes wonders how his grandfather ever managed to father Catherine and her sister.

“Okay, so,” says Alex. He is obviously formulating a plan. “Yeah. So here’s what we’re gonna do.
You are gonna be, like, five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night, or else I am going
to do something I will deeply regret in front of a lot of very important people.”

“All right…”
“And then,” says Alex, and he grabs Henry’s tie again, up near the knot, and Henry gulps. Alex
watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Alex says fiercely, “And then you are going to
come to the East Bedroom on the second floor at eleven o’clock tonight, and I am going to do very
bad things to you, and if you fucking ghost me again I’m going to get you put on a fucking no-fly
list. Got it?”

A little moan almost escapes Henry’s throat. Fear? Anticipation? Disbelief? Crazy, incredible,
thrilled-beyond-fucking-belief joy, or some combination of them all? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t
care. All he can do is whisper a gravelly response: “Perfectly.”

It’s just past 10:45. Henry paces the pink bedroom where he is supposed to sleep tonight. It’s
called the Queens’ Bedroom, after several Queens slept there during and after the Second World
War. It’s the traditional guest suite for visiting royalty, though Henry has read that it was also
Winston Churchill’s favourite bedroom. Henry might find it very pink, if his brain was capable of
rational thought at the moment.

He has brushed his teeth, removed his dinner jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves. He had left his
father’s gold cufflinks at Kensington this trip, remembering the trouble they had gotten him into on
New Year’s Eve; but right now he wishes he had them, because he needs to feel his father’s
presence. It’s nearly six years since Philip’s friend seduced him, but he feels far more nervous than
he did on that occasion, than he has ever felt in his life. It’s like he had told Pez on the plane going
back to London: all the others had just been screws. This is Alex.

10:49. Maybe he could count the roses on the patterned carpet. One, two, three, four… This is
idiotic. Why had Alex said eleven? He had to know Henry could be ready by 10:45.

10:51. Sod it. He steps out of the bedroom into a yellow sitting room, a huge Palladian window to
his left looking out over the grounds. To his right there is a passage, then a stair landing which
leads into a long central hall with a few scattered chairs and settees, a bookcase or two. Also, the
Secret Service Agent from outside the Red Room is there. It’s as if she’s been waiting for him.

“Excuse me, um, uh… ”

“Amy, Your Royal Highness.”

“Yes, thank you, Amy. I’m supposed to meet Alex—”

 “Of course,” she says. “Just turn right here,” she indicates, “and it’s the first door on the right. June
is on the left, but I think she’s got Miss Holleran with her.”

“Thank you, Amy,” he repeats nervously.

“My pleasure, Sir,” she says. “Have a very good night.”

“Thank you.” He approaches the door of Alex’s bedroom. Music drifts from under the door across
the hall, and the sound of feminine laughter. He doesn’t think they can hear, but all the same, he
takes care to knock softly. The door swings open, and Alex stands there. He looks tense, keyed-up,
but a smile is playing over his lips. Henry says, “Sorry I’m early.”

Alex asks politely, an element of mischief sneaking into his grin, “Find your way here okay?”

No, Alex, I got lost and I’ve been wandering the halls for an hour with the ghost of Abraham
Lincoln. Christ, he’s as nervous as a bride. He says, “There was a very helpful Secret Service
Agent. I think her name was Amy?”

Alex’s smile takes over his entire face. Reaching out a hand, he says, “Get in here.”

Moments of pure joy are rare in this life; some people never experience any at all. And for Henry,
the knowledge of just how close he came to losing this moment of joy—not once but twice, maybe
even three times—makes it even more precious. This is beyond joy; this is euphoria. He hesitates
just for a second, savouring it. Then he takes Alex’s hand and steps into the bedroom, closing and
locking the door behind him.

Chapter End Notes

Coming up: even the most beautiful night of love has a morning after. Stay tuned!
 Where Do We Go From Here?
Chapter Summary

Most romantic comedies end with the first kiss (or, in modern fiction, the first night of
love). But in writing RWRB, CMQ was both wiser and more realistic: that first night
of love is only a prelude to taking up our normal, everyday lives the next day. And
then we have to figure out an answer to the question confronting Henry and Alex after
the White House banquet: where is this relationship going? Everything between them
has changed, despite Alex's claim that they're just, "what we always were, just, you
know. With blowjobs." It's never that easy, Alex!

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Prime Minister arrives very early the following morning—6:00 AM—to pick Henry up for the
ride to the airport and the plane that will return them to England. It may be only 6:00 in the States,
but it’s already late morning in England. As always, there’s a pile of papers in her lap as she scrolls
through the emails on her mobile.

She barely lifts her eyes to acknowledge him, and Henry is fine with her silence. It’s only been a
few hours since he left Alex, and he had lain in bed for hours staring at the ceiling with a dreamy
smile. He had just dropped off when his phone alarm notified him that it was time to get up,
shower, and get ready to leave.

Still, common courtesy demands that he at least make an effort at polite small talk. “Did you enjoy
your Presidential banquet, Prime Minister?” he asks.

“In my opinion, Your Royal Highness,” she says, not looking up from her mobile, “it was nothing
special. And I can’t say that I was very impressed by the President.” This response is somewhat to
be expected. After all, a staunch Conservative like the Prime Minister is unlikely to find much
common ground with a Liberal Democrat like Ellen Claremont. “But I hope you got on, Sir, with
the Presidential offspring. I saw the son taking you into one of the side rooms while the so-called
entertainment was going on.”

“Oh, yes, Alex and I had quite a nice little visit,” says Henry discreetly.

“I’m glad the misunderstanding about your relationship has been cleared up, Sir,” she says. She
glances at another email. “Bollocks,” she says, “I go away for twenty-four hours and all hell breaks
loose. Will you excuse me, Sir?” Her thumbs start tapping furiously as she replies.
“Of course.” Henry is happy to have a few moments of peace and quiet. He wonders, did he only
imagine last night? No, he’s sure it happened; but he can also hear Alex saying, “And you know
this doesn’t, like, change anything between us, right? We’re still… whatever we were before, just,
you know. With blowjobs.”

All right, so Alex might just be exploring his curiosity about something he had always felt drawn
to. But intuition tells him that this is not going to be just a one-night stand. Alex had said that they
could “do this again, anytime you want.” (You want to come to England tonight, Alex? I’m
available.)

And when Henry had stood in the doorway, uncertain how to leave, Alex had rolled his eyes and
said, “For fuck’s sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth. You can kiss me goodnight.”
Henry had shouted with laughter—later wondering if June and Nora, just across the hall, had heard
him—but then put everything he had into one last, fierce kiss. He wanted to give Alex something to
remember him by.

It’s not until Shaan meets him at the airport that afternoon that Henry realizes that Alex has given
him a souvenir as well. As soon as Shaan sees him, his eyes narrow, and murmuring, “Excuse me,
Your Royal Highness,” he grabs Henry’s jaw and twists his face to the right. “I anticipated
something like this,” he says. He reaches into his suit coat pocket and hands Henry a small tube
shaped rather like a lipstick.

“What’s this?” says Henry.

“A concealer stick,” says Shaan imperturbably. “There’s a toilet over there,” he says, nodding
towards a small sign. “Take a look on the left side of your neck. I believe the practice is to smear a
little of the concealer on, then blend it into the surrounding skin.”

Henry hadn’t noticed anything this morning when he shaved, but once he looks in a mirror, he sees
the biggest hickey he has ever had. Vigorously dabbing and rubbing, he inwardly blesses his
equerry. He can only imagine the speculation in the tabs if someone snapped a photo of this.

He is excused from church with the Queen the following morning—she says she needs him rested
and refreshed from jet lag by Monday—but later, that afternoon, Pez stops by for tea. They had
previously arranged this get-together so that Henry could tell Pez all about the Presidential dinner.
He remembers how terrified he had been about seeing Alex again. That anxiety now seems like
ages ago.
“So how did it go?” says Pez, sweeping into the music room and plopping down on one of the
brown velvet couches. “He obviously didn’t kill you the way you thought he might. I told you
everything would be fine—” He stops mid-sentence and looks more closely at Henry. His pupils
suddenly dilate, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “You dog,” he smirks.

“What?” says Henry.

“You think I don’t know a concealer coverup when I see one?” says Pez. “You two did it!” He
starts chanting, “Henry and Alex, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

Henry grins. “I’m glad it’s just the makeup that tipped you off,” he says. “For a minute, I was
afraid I was walking funny.”

“Whaaaat?” shouts Pez. “Did he—”

“No, of course not,” says Henry, blushing a bit. “Alex is adventuresome, but I don’t think he’s
ready for that yet.”

“I want details. I insist,” demands Pez imperiously. “I want to know everything. Tan lines—moles
—freckles—I don’t suppose you thought to take a tape measure, did you?”

Henry turns even more red, though he also can’t contain the smile dimpling his cheeks. “A
gentleman never kisses and tells,” he says. “My lips are sealed.”

“Still?” says Pez. “Wow. Those were some sticky kisses!”

It’s decidedly odd, Henry thinks frequently over the following week. I’ve never been in this sort of
quandary before. As Pez had rightly pointed out on the trip back to England after the New Year’s
Eve party, Henry is no virgin. He’s been in this situation with other blokes—a kiss and a cuddle
which led to an encounter, which then sometimes led to another and another, and sometimes led to
nothing at all. But he’s never been so uncertain about where to go next.

Maybe because no relationship ever meant so much. Can he even call this a relationship?
Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to mess it up—again.
All he can think about is when and how they can meet again (without seeming like he’s pressuring
Alex, whose emails have reverted to offhand snarking sprinkled with sexy innuendo and
complaints about how busy he is, between the campaign and his school assignments—Christ, this
is so complicated!). It isn’t until he’s going over his schedule of upcoming engagements with
Shaan the following week that he gets an idea which might actually work out. “And of course,
there’s the charity polo match in Connecticut this weekend,” says Shaan. “Polo in February. What
were they thinking of? It’s going to be an indoor arena, so at least you won’t be playing in the
snow, but it’ll still be cold. We’d better take your woolies.”

“Connecticut?” says Henry. “As in, the USA?”

Shaan looks at him strangely. “Yes, Sir,” he says. “That’s the only Connecticut I know.”

Henry can hardly wait for a decent hour DC time to call Alex and tell him about it. “It’s a charity
polo match in…” Where was it again? “Greenwich, Connecticut? It’s ten thousand dollars a seat,
but I can have you added to the list.”

“Jesus fuck,” says Alex, but Henry can hear the smile in his voice. “That is obscene. What are you
raising money for, monocles for babies?” He hears Alex making an aside to someone about
clearing his schedule for the weekend, so Henry smiles when Alex says into the phone, “Look, I
guess I’ll try to make it, but I’m really busy right now.”

He’s getting to know Alex better every time they talk. This is the Alex equivalent of throwing his
hat into the air and shouting, “Whoopee!”

Henry and Shaan get in Friday night so that Henry will be rested for the match on Saturday. Damn,
he thinks, I wish I had told Alex I was coming in early. Maybe we could have arranged—

Stop, he thinks. You’re seeing him tomorrow, which is sooner than you had any reason to expect.
And for all he knows, Alex has a quickie with someone (Nora?) scheduled for tonight.

But he doesn’t really think so. At least, he doesn’t really think about it. He really doesn’t. Sort of.

The next day dawns bright and clear—Henry had been a bit afraid about the roads for Alex driving
up from Washington, but the National Weather Service says that the only snow falling in the States
today is over the Rockies.
Henry spends the morning putting his borrowed horse through its paces—always a tricky situation
with a strange mount—but the animal seems the perfect combination of dash and imperviousness.
Henry doesn’t think that this horse is likely to throw him, which is the last thing he would want
with Alex watching.

The match is set to start after lunch. He’s just coming out into the arena when he notices a small
flurry of activity in the stands—and sure enough, it’s Alex taking his seat. He looks wonderful, all
kitted out in J Crew, as he peeks from behind a woman with a taxidermied pigeon on her hat. Henry
is mostly aware of those blazing eyes as Alex stares fiercely at him, but Alex also can’t quite
conceal the small smile playing across his lips.

God. Those lips. In his mind’s eye, Henry sees those beautiful lips wrapped around—Stop it! It
wouldn’t do at all to get a stiffy when he’s going to be bouncing on a horse’s back.

Suddenly, he thinks of the Christine Rossetti poem:

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these,

Because my love is come to me.

He wants to jump off the horse, to laugh and dance and caper around the arena. Of course, he can’t
do any of these. But as the game begins, he feels his strength increasing with every swing of his
mallet, and the horse responds to every pressure of his knees and tug of the reins—horses
recognize confidence in their riders, and this horse knows he is in more-than-capable hands.

Both horse and rider begin showing off, though of course the horse doesn’t know that this is all for
the benefit of the dark-haired American with the chin dimple sitting in the stands. A few days later,
Henry will read an account of the match which states, “Never before have we seen His Royal
Highness play with such dash, such skill, such élan.” He can well believe it.
Thankfully, the match is only four chukkers long. For the first time since he was a very small boy
still learning how to ride, Henry doesn’t stay to rub the horse down and give him an apple. Instead
he tosses the fruit to one of the grooms and says, “Give him a good going-over for me, will you,
please?”

He notices that everyone else also seems to be leaving the grooms to do all the clean-up, to dash to
the champagne and canapes, and he feels a bit embarrassed by the high-handedness. He slips the
groom a couple of twenties and says, “And have a drink, on me, to celebrate our victory.”

The groom all but pulls out his forelock as he smiles and ducks his head and says, “Certainly, Your
Highness. Thank you, Your Highness.”

Henry gives him a wide grin as he leaves. Hearing his fellow riders talking about the treats
awaiting them, he thinks smugly, I think I’m going to be having something much better than they
will. Something much more to my taste.

He dashes around the corner of the stable area and almost runs headlong into Alex himself, who
says, “Oh, shit.”

He grins. What a typically Alex greeting. He says in response, “Oh, hello.”

They stare at each other. Has this miracle really taken place? Are they really seeing each other—in
the flesh? (And maybe tonight, truly in the flesh. No, stop that!)

Henry says, “I was coming to find you, actually.”

Alex says, “Yeah, hi, here I am.”

Henry says, “Here you are.” Both faces light up with a familiar goofy grin.

Alex glances off to the side and says, “There’s, uh. Cameras. Three o’clock.”

“Right,” says Henry, automatically standing up straighter and wondering if his hair is messy.
Alex says, haltingly, “Hey, isn’t there, uh, a thing? You needed to. Uh. Show me?”

Henry feels his eyes widening as he looks at the crowd milling around them and says, “Now?”

Alex says, “It was a four-and-a-half-hour car ride up here, and I have to go back to DC in an hour,
so I don’t know when else you’re expecting to show it to me.”

Henry feels a twitch as his body says, Yes! Show me to him! NOW! Remembering the
photographers, he cuffs Alex on the shoulder in a man-to-man, best-mates manner, then says, “Ah,
yes. That’s right. This way.” He turns on his heel and strides away, Alex close behind him.

He had of course noticed the tack room when he first arrived, but no one is there now. The room is
windowless, with just a few dim lights high in the ceiling. He looks around the walls at the array of
riding crops, leather straps, saddles, bridles, and reins, and finds what he is looking for—a thick
leather strap with which to bind the doors shut. Alex stares, alarm writ large on his face, and says,
“What in the rich-white-people-sex-dungeon hell?”

Henry suddenly thinks of Emily Stokes-Howard and her lesbian S & M parties, and almost laughs
aloud. He says with exaggerated innocence, “What?” and restrains himself from adding, Get your
mind out of the gutter, perv. Instead he says, “It’s called a tack room.”

Alex says roughly, “I don’t actually care,” and grabs him and kisses him. Henry almost passes out
from sheer joy, and finds himself clutching Alex to stay upright.

Alex suddenly breaks away. He eyes Henry scornfully up-and-down and says, “Ugh. You look
ridiculous.”

Ridiculous? What’s wrong with how he looks? If anything, he fears he may smell a little horsey,
but he hadn’t wanted to take the time to shower. Maybe Alex is put off by the polo gear, the gloves
and the kneepads and the boots and the jodhpurs. “Should I—” he says, putting one foot on a
bench in preparation for removing the kneepads.

“What?” says Alex. “No, of course not. Keep them on.” Henry can feel Alex’s eyes fastening on
him. “Oh, my God, what are you doing?” says Alex, and despite the chill in the room, Alex is
sweating. He covers his eyes and says, “I can’t even look at you.” Henry frowns, “No. Jesus,” Alex
says. “I just meant—I’m so mad at you.”
Angry at him? How had Henry offended him now? He carefully puts his foot back down on the
floor.

Alex says, “Just come over here. Fuck.”

Henry doesn’t understand what’s happening. He says, “I’m quite confused.”

“Me fucking too,” says Alex, pushing his hair back from his sweaty brow. “Listen,” he says, “I
don’t know why, but this whole thing—” his gesture takes in Henry’s entire person—“is… really
doing it for me. So.” Alex drops to his knees. “I just need to,” he says, tugging at Henry’s belt and
pulling it out of the loops and then unhooking the fastenings of the jodhpurs. Henry feels Alex’s
hands on his hips.

“Oh, God,” says Henry. Every nerve ending is on high alert.

“Yeah,” says Alex as he pulls down Henry’s boxers.

At Alex’s next touch, Henry gasps and repeats, “Oh, God.”

It’s different this time. Two weeks ago, Alex had been enthusiastic, but fumbling, a bit too
slobbery. (Not that I’m complaining!) But now Alex seems to know exactly what he’s doing. Henry
wonders if he snuck a copy of Cosmo out of June’s room and studied some articles with titles like
“Nine Ways to Please Your Man during Oral Sex,” and “Fellatio Do’s and Don’ts.”

Whatever he’s been reading, it shows—and it’s perfect. Henry strokes the corner of Alex’s mouth
with his gloved hand and purrs, “That’s good.” Alex repeats what he has just done and Henry says,
“That’s good" again, and again and again and again, and then he finds himself saying, “That’s
good—that's--bloody great—it’s fan-fucking-tastic—it’s—oh, my sweet motherfucking Christ—"

After Henry’s heart rate returns to a pace that makes a stroke less likely, he doesn’t even bother to
pull his boxers back up to cover his bare arse. He just drops to his knees and unzips Alex’s fly,
unhooks the belt (not taking the time to remove it) and trouser button, then pulls things down,
pushes Alex onto the bench, and gets to work. Alex is just as keyed up as Henry was, and every bit
as responsive.
Afterwards, Alex sits up and rests his forehead on Henry’s shoulder. As if he’s just remembered
something, he says, “I’m still fucking mad at you.”

Henry says vaguely, “Of course you are.” Then Alex is kissing him again, kissing him and
snogging him, and then they simply hold each other close. Absurdly, Henry feels as if he’s found
his way back home for the first time in fifteen days. And he also feels that now (and maybe
forever) his only real home lies in the circle of Alex’s arms. The deep, happy sigh that Alex emits
gives Henry the sense that Alex may be feeling something similar.

They would hold each other like this and kiss for hours—maybe even go for a second round—but
they can’t; DC is calling Alex, and Henry has some important charity donors to go schmooze.
Reluctantly, they stand and start pulling things up, zipping, hooking and fastening, straightening
other clothing which they had disarranged. They exchange one final kiss, and Henry seizes the
opportunity to give Alex’s arse a little pat. Alex gooses him in return, and Henry gives a startled
yelp of surprise before laughing and this time giving Alex’s arse a real smack!

They step outside and head for the Secret Service van. Henry squeezes Alex’s shoulder. “I don’t
suppose you’ll be anywhere near Kensington anytime soon?” he says, hoping against hope.

Alex smirks and says, “That shithole? Not if I can help it.” But then he winks at Henry.

It is that conspiratorial little wink that makes Henry happier than anything else. (Almost anything
else.) It implies a camaraderie, a special link binding them together in a way no one else can share.
He feels himself grinning that silly, goofy grin again, the grin he can’t keep off his face these days.
He says, affecting a Cockney accent like a Beefeater at the Tower, “Oi. That’s disrespect of the
crown. Insubordination. I’ve thrown men in the dungeons for less.”

Alex backs away towards the car, holding his hands up in the air as if in surrender. “Hey,” he says,
“don’t threaten me with a good time.” They both laugh.

Henry watches the van pull away, and when Alex turns to wave, Henry swings both arms in wide
arcs, like an airport worker guiding a plane on a runway.

It gets dark early in Connecticut in February, but Henry feels as if the sun is shining all around him,
lighting up the stables and the arena and the whole bloody Earth. He’s so happy. He feels like
turning somersaults or dancing an Irish jig. The taillights of the van disappear as it turns a corner,
and Henry heaves a happy sigh before going in to the reception. Once more, he must start charming
whoever he meets, a roving ambassador for England and for the Royal Family. But just this once,
he doesn’t think it’s going to require much effort. Right now, he just wants to hug the entire world.
Chapter End Notes

After that series of flirtatious emails, ever wonder how Henry arranged to skip
Germany and go to Paris? Or what really happened between them (besides, erm, you
know--the obvious) once they got there? Stay tuned!
 Parisian Adventure
Chapter Summary

Once Henry manages to rearrange his schedule (with Bea's help and some unexpected
assistance from Catherine), he meets Alex in Paris for a charity luncheon. Alex gives
him a very special birthday celebration, and their relationship seems to be moving in a
new direction.

Chapter Notes

Except for Henry's blue blazer and wicked grin, the location of their post-luncheon
meeting, and Alex's failure to note that he's just broken his own rule about not
spooning together all night and sharing breakfast the next morning, CMQ doesn't tell
us much about this encounter. Here's how I imagine Henry might experience what
becomes quite a birthday party!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Re: Paris?

Alex, First Son of Inappropriately Timed Emails When I’m in Early Morning Meetings:

Are you trying to get fresh with me?

Regards,

Handsome Royal Heretic

Re: Paris?

His Royal Horniness,

If I were trying to get fresh with you, you would know it.

For example: I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all week, and I was hoping I’d see you in
Paris so I could put it to use.

I was also thinking you might know how to pick French cheeses. Not my area of expertise.

Alex

First Son of Cheese Shopping and Blowjobs

Re: Paris?

Alex, First Son of Making Me Spill My Tea in Said Early Morning Meeting:

Hate you. Will try to get out of Germany.

Gran doesn’t often summon the family to Buck House for a mid-week conference, but with Henry
slated to go to Germany this weekend and Philip and Martha to Paris, she wants to make sure that
they know what is expected—especially Martha, who will have to mingle with important people at
the rainforest fundraiser luncheon. This is her first royal event which actually requires her to make
polite conversation as a royal princess, not just to look decorative. “You must be interesting but not
sparkling, Martha,” says the Queen, “quiet but not silent. The point is to let the guests shine while
you maintain royal decorum, but at the same time you must not come across as stiff and remote.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Martha miserably. “Interesting but not sparkling, quiet but not silent, formal
but not remote. Yes, I’ve got it.” She obviously doesn’t, and she’s just as obviously terrified.

Philip says, “No fear. If you get stuck, I’ll play knight errant and come riding to your rescue.”

“You will not, Philip,” says the Queen. “If you’re asking guests to pay 15,000 pounds a plate for a
luncheon, they have a right to expect your undivided attention, and to receive pleasant memories as
a souvenir. I repeat, pleasant memories,” she says pointedly, looking at Henry. The wedding cake
incident hangs unmentioned in the air.

A footman opens double doors into a small dining room. Well, small for Buck House—the table
seats twenty, though it’s only set for six tonight. Gran has ordered Mum to attend, but aside from
sad half-smiles and kisses of greeting, she’s stayed buried in the paperback she had pulled from her
cardigan pocket.

“Do put that book away, Catherine,” says Gran as they walk into the dining room. “You look like
you’re swotting for exams again, just like when you were pursuing that ridiculous degree. Of
course, none of you knew her then—obviously—but I remember her father screaming at her to
throw the books away and converse like a rational human being. Though, once Arthur came along,
he could always keep the conversation going—dear Arthur, always so amusing…”

“But not too amusing,” murmurs Bea in sarcastic imitation of her grandmother’s instructions. “He
always let the guests shine, instead of hogging the spotlight for himself. Unless, of course, it was
the RSC or a movie premiere, and he was supposed to hog it.”
“Any plans for next week, mate?” asks Philip, switching the conversational focus to Henry.
“Maybe you could celebrate your birthday by enlisting.”

“Maybe you could celebrate his birthday by minding your own business,” says Bea sharply.

“Children,” says Gran. “Let’s not bicker at table. It spoils the digestion.”

They take their seats. Martha, who has been growing steadily more scarlet by the second, suddenly
bolts from the room without even an excuse me. Philip stares after her sympathetically and says,
“Poor thing. She’s terrified about Paris.”

If ever there were a Heaven-sent opportunity, this is it. Henry says, almost too casually, “You
know, Pip, it’s a shame you and I can’t switch engagements this weekend. All she’d have to do in
Germany is smile next to windmills and nod at old men in lederhosen as they lecture her.”

“It’s a thought,” says Philip, “but still, she’ll have to face the music at a formal dog show one day
or another. Now is probably as good a time as any to start.”

Damn. “Well, think about it,” says Henry with fake solicitude. “We wouldn’t want to force her into
anything where she’s likely to have a balls-up.”

“I don’t think that’s anatomically possible,” says Bea. “At least, I hope not, for the sake of the
succession.” The Queen frowns, and Catherine keeps her nose in her book.

Henry grins at his sister, then rises as Martha makes her way back into the room, her mascara
smudged. Philip rises as well, though just a second behind his brother. Martha bobs a curtsey in the
Queen’s direction and says, “So sorry, Ma’am. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps… Catherine was always very emotional when she was—well, you know…” The footmen
pause while ladling the soup. They’re alert, hoping for a rumour to sell to the tabs.

“No worries there,” says Philip. “We don’t plan to start on the pitter-patter for at least a year. Our
calendars are far too full.” The footmen’s shoulders visibly droop with disappointment.
“I had rather hoped for a better time of year for our first trip to Paris,” says Martha in a rush. “You
know, April in Paris…chestnuts in blossom…holiday tables under the trees….”

Bea kicks Henry’s foot under the table. Their old signal: Just follow my lead.

“It sounds lovely,” says Bea. Martha’s—and Henry’s—eyes light up. “But it’s a bit late, don’t you
think? I’m sure all the arrangements have been made, and with everyone expecting Henry in
Germany and you two in Paris, it would be rather inconvenient to go chopping and changing now,
wouldn’t it?” She smiles at the footman who has just placed a bowl of soup in front of her.

The Queen eyes her narrowly. Henry can almost read his grandmother’s mind verbatim. What is
Beatrice up to? Hoping to scotch whatever deviousness she must be plotting, the Queen reflexively
disagrees with her. “It’s not too late to make changes until they’re actually on the plane, and really
not even then.” She looks down the table. “And if Henry is willing to switch…”

“Oh, of course,” says Henry. “Whatever would be easiest for Martha.”

Catherine suddenly speaks. “And if Henry goes to Paris, they can squeeze in another person at his
table, since he’ll only need one seat, not two like Pip and Martha. And that would be another
15,000 pounds for the rainforest.”

“Like you could find anyone who wants to pay to eat coq au vin with Henry,” says Bea. “Now,
Alexander Claremont-Diaz—I hear he’s going to be there—he would be fun to have lunch with.”

“What do you mean?” says Henry. “I’m always fun. I am a delight.”

“Try not to make a scene this time,” says Philip. His relief at the change in plan is obvious—no
doubt he has been dealing with Martha’s fears for quite a while—and he even attempts a heavy-
handed stab at humour. “Let’s just hope they’re not serving wedding cake.”

“Ha, ha,” says Henry in a bored monotone. “But hey,” he says, “Alex being there might be
convenient. Making nice with him could help to…” What was it Alex had said he told his sister
when she challenged him about coming to Connecticut? “It could help with our geopolitical public
relations ruse.”
Christ, Henry thinks They have to recognize that I’m quoting him directly. They know I don’t talk
like that. But no one calls him on it. Gran just says, “Well, that’s settled then. We’ll start making
new arrangements in the morning. Now let’s have our soup before it gets cold.”

Henry picks up his soupspoon to start eating, but he pauses as he feels eyes on him. He looks up
and meets his mother’s gaze, as she tries to figure out what he and Bea are up to. Just for a
moment, she looks so much like her old self that Henry feels a stab of grief, remembering how she
and Dad would focus in on him and Bea, always able to figure out their little schemes. Evidently
the same memory of shared parenting strikes her, because her eyes suddenly cloud over and she re-
opens her book.

***

The banquet hall is brightly lit that Saturday, round tables for twelve set with fine china rimmed
with gold, sparkling crystal, gleaming silver. Serviettes are folded into fleurs-de-lis, and the room
is filled with movie stars, sports celebrities, and business executives, all of them eager to plunk
down big money for a chance to hobnob with royalty and important politicians in support of a good
cause.

Even without his ulterior motive, Henry knows that it’s better that he’s here, not Martha. She
would be petrified, but Henry has been trained for this kind of gathering his entire life. He thinks he
spots Emmanuel Macron by the windows, and did they get Justin Trudeau to host a table too?
Well, why not? After all, the rainforest is in his hemisphere.

With Alex’s frequent criticisms of his wardrobe, Henry had asked Pez what he should wear, and
Pez insisted on a blue blazer which he says brings out Henry’s eyes. Pez also tried to talk him back
into the coppery mustard tie he wore on New Year’s Eve, but Henry balked at that and chose plain
navy. Like it matters. He won’t be keeping the tie on once he gets Alex alone.

Speaking of Alex, where--? But then he hears a familiar laugh and looks across the room, soon
spotting the bouncing dark curls. Alex sees him at the same moment, and his face lights up. Henry
had not told Alex that he was coming—this is a surprise gift for both of them, since Henry’s
birthday is Thursday and Alex’s is at the end of the month.

Alex leaves the person he had been chatting with (Bill Gates?) and rushes across the room, barely
managing to stop himself from pulling Henry into a hug and remembering to go for a handshake
instead. But he can’t resist reaching out his other hand to squeeze Henry’s shoulder. He joyfully
exclaims, “You bastard! You didn’t tell me you were going to be here!”
“Well, here I am,” says Henry, grinning like an idiot.

“Here you are,” agrees Alex. He wears a matching foolish grin.

“How well do you know Paris?” asks Henry.

“It’s my first time—in Paris, that is,” says Alex. “It’s not my first time for other things.”

Henry shoots him a warning look, but a smile still dimples Henry’s cheeks. “I’ll text you directions
to a place I know,” he says. “Maybe we can get together after lunch for…”

“A little practice?” says Alex. “Of those other things that aren’t my first time doing but which I’m
still learning? I’ll bet you could give me some pointers.”

An usher, who has been watching them from a discreet distance, approaches and murmurs, “Votre
Altesse Royale…” Henry repeats, “I’ll text you.”

Alex nods and says, “Later.” He winks.

Over the next couple of hours, neither Henry nor Alex looks at each other much. As Alex had said
the night before the interview with Dottie and Stu, they are both professionals, and the people who
have paid money for the privilege of sharing a meal with them deserve their best effort. And ha, ha,
Bea; the table is full.

He’s too nervous to eat much of the superb French cooking he’s offered, and when he steals a
glance across the room, he sees that Alex’s plate is almost untouched as well. When the master of
ceremonies stands up to announce the truly breath-taking amount of money they’ve raised and to
give an earnest pitch for the additional good they could do with even greater donations, Henry feels
his mobile vibrating against his left nipple. A single word: Directions?

Thirty minutes later, he makes his way to a sidewalk café in the Place du Tertre, and he quickly
spots Alex at a small table, a bottle of red wine open and breathing. Alex’s Secret Service Agent
Cash is hovering a short distance away—Henry nods to him and smiles—and points Cash out to his
two PPOs, knowing that the three will do a quick perimeter check and then settle in to keeping
them safe. He strolls over to Alex. “Bastard, huh?” says Henry with a wicked grin.
“Birthday Boy Bastard,” grins Alex. “Thursday, right?”

“Right,” says Henry.

“I should have brought you something—I knew your birthday was the twelfth; June’s been
complaining about you being a goddam Pisces,” says Alex. “But when I thought I wouldn’t see
you, I just put it out of my mind. So I don’t have a gift—but this could be a start,” he says, nodding
towards the wine. “Then maybe I can think of something special to give you later on.”

“I can hardly wait,” says Henry.

“Me neither,” says Alex. They drink; and maybe because neither of them ate much lunch, the wine
goes straight to their heads. One bottle becomes two, and then Alex says, “It’s a funny thing you
should have suggested this place, because my hotel isn’t far—I bet we could walk…”

Walking might be too dignified a verb for their stumbling to Alex’s hotel, but in their state, every
slip and stagger becomes a cause for hilarity. Cash and the PPOs follow close behind, grinning.
While the PPOs case the lobby, Cash walks them up to Alex’s room, first making sure that it’s safe
to enter. Alex says to Cash, “Maybe you could ask room service to send up another bottle of red.”

Cash says, “Maybe I could ask them to send up a few snacks, too.”

Alex says, “Whatever,” but it doesn’t really matter because he and Henry barely manage to close
the door before their mouths meet.

They stagger towards the bed, their lips locked, pawing at each other’s jackets with one hand,
kneading each other’s arse cheeks with the other. They kiss until there is a knock; they freeze, but
then they hear the reassuring sound of Cash’s voice. “Alex?” he says. “Food’s here.”

“And drink, I hope,” grumbles Alex as he opens the door.

“Enjoy,” Cash deadpans, handing in a tray. “And I hope you like the snacks and wine, too.”
Alex sets the tray down and turns to see Henry reclining on the bed. Henry has taken off his blazer
and tie and kicked off his shoes, but he is otherwise still completely dressed. He lifts his arms over
his head in a languid stretch and says conversationally, “Christ, you’re a long way away.”

“Well, get over here,” says Alex, grinning.

“It’s almost my birthday,” says Henry. “You should come to me. And I think I deserve a birthday
striptease, since you haven’t bought me a gift.”

“What’s it worth to you?”

“Its value is greater than rubies,” says Henry. “After all, I’ve only waited nearly twenty-three years
to watch Alex Claremont-Diaz take his clothes off.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve seen me naked. Or have you forgotten that night in my room
already?”

“Never,” says Henry. “But as I recall, I took your clothes off. And in Connecticut, I unzipped your
trousers. This time, I want you to do it. And it’s my birthday, so you have to do what I say.”

“Technically, I still have five days,” says Alex. He grins. “But I don’t think I can wait that long.”
He takes a step towards the bed and kicks off his shoes. “And you did go to all that trouble to get
here and surprise me.” He slips off his blazer and holds it out for a moment, then tosses it at
Henry, like a burlesque queen with a flower. He slips off his tie and unknots it, moving closer. He
loops the narrow length of silk around the back of Henry’s neck like a stripper with a feather boa,
and pulls it from either end in turn, a sliding, back-and-forth motion that is erotic almost beyond
belief.

Henry can feel his heartbeat speeding up and he starts to breathe more quickly. Smirking, Alex
unbuttons one shirt button, and then a second; he unlocks his zipper and eases it down, but just an
inch. He turns around and looks back over his shoulder at Henry, one eyebrow saucily raised as he
shakes his bum.

Alex then climbs on the bed and straddles Henry’s hips, purring, “How about a lap dance, big
boy?” In response, Henry pulls a pound note out of the wallet in his breast pocket and tucks it into
Alex’s waistband. Alex collapses on top of him, both of them shaking with laughter.
Their mouths meet again and Alex licks Henry’s lips, as if searching for some lingering wine.
Henry feels Alex undoing his shirt buttons, and soon they have completely removed each other’s
clothing. Henry moves his lips down Alex’s body, still utterly amazed that he gets to do something
he could only fantasize about for such a bloody long time. Alex starts wriggling, grabbing and
clutching the sheets.

“Wait! Stop!” says Alex suddenly. Henry stills immediately. “I mean, of course, oh my God yes,
but there’s something I want to try on you.”

“What—” begins Henry, but Alex places a hand over his mouth. “I saw something on the Internet,”
says Alex, not meeting Henry’s eyes. Henry can just imagine what kind of site Alex must have
been visiting. “I mean, I always like to research a subject thoroughly, and I came across something.
Can I try?”

“I’m intrigued,” says Henry. “By all means, let’s try what you found on the Information
Superhighway. I love how thoroughly you go into things, though I never thought to call looking at
gay porn research.”

“Scoot down a little towards the foot of the bed,” Alex says, then swings his feet up towards the
pillows. Alex starts taking care of Henry, while Henry takes advantage of the new position to do
the same to Alex. The passion which has been simmering between them all afternoon quickly
comes to a very satisfying resolution. Alex moves back to being face-to-face with Henry on the
pillows, and they kiss for a timeless interval.

Suddenly Alex’s stomach rumbles. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m starving. I hardly ate anything at lunch.”

Henry laughs and says, “Same here. Maybe we could check out what Cash ordered.”

They lift the dish covers and find crusty French bread, cheese, and slices of saucisson sec. There
are French pastries and a bottle of wine. They sit cross-legged on the bed, naked, completely open
and exposed and comfortable together, and Alex says as he sips and chews, “I didn’t know Cash
was this sophisticated. By the way, what are the sausages?”

“They’re called saucissons sec,” says Henry.

“Really?” says Alex. “I’ve always called them dicks.” Henry laughs and says, “You’re
incorrigible,” and shoves a petit-fours into Alex’s mouth. Alex retaliates by grabbing a profiterole,
frosted with chocolate and filled with whipped cream, and smearing it on Henry’s face--but then he
proceeds to lick it away, lingeringly. Henry pulls Alex closer, and one thing leads to another.

Night is falling as Henry reluctantly stirs out of his afterglow. “I suppose I should—” he starts, but
Alex holds him in place. “I don’t know about you, old man of almost twenty-three,” he says, “but I
think I still have at least one more round left in me. It's been a long time since Connecticut.”

Is Alex saying he hasn’t been with anyone else since then? After carrying a torch for Alex for
nearly four years, Henry has been too caught up in the glory and wonder of this unexpected turn in
their relationship to think of some casual pickup at a party, but he hardly expected Alex-- He feels
an unexpected surge of energy and says, “I’ll show you who’s an old man, you rascal!”

***

Dawn is streaking the sky when Henry opens his eyes. Alex is watching him, a tender expression
on his face swiftly replaced with smiling neutrality. “Good morning,” he says.

Henry is immediately aware of two equally pressing things: first, his bladder is bursting, and
second, he hadn’t brushed his teeth last night and he doesn’t have a toothbrush here. He turns his
face away and mumbles “Morning,” with his hand over his mouth.

Alex laughs, and his breath smells minty. No fair—he’s already been up and brushed his teeth.
“The bathroom’s through there,” he says, nodding in its direction. “You can use my toothbrush. I
think we’ve shared enough body fluids that you shouldn’t be afraid of my germs on it. Can you
order us breakfast, though? I’m starving again, and I doubt they understand Spanish.”

“Of course,” says Henry, “but first—”

“Oh, yeah,” says Alex. “Go pee. But hurry back.”

Henry picks up the phone as soon as he returns, and orders warm rolls with butter, fresh apricot
tarts, coffee. He’s usually more of an Earl Grey man, but he loves strong French coffee in its tiny
demi-tasse. Soon they hear a knock, and Henry dashes into the en suite as Alex grabs a robe to go
answer the door.

Henry comes back out after room service has left to find Alex grinning. “Way to duck out of
picking up the check, tightwad,” says Alex. “I think the waiter thought I was hiding a girl in the
bathroom when he delivered breakfast for two. He looked over at the closed door and winked, so I
slipped him twenty euros just in case. Oh, look, they included a copy of Le Monde. What are the
headlines? Anything about the election?”

“No, I don’t see anything,” says Henry. “Oh, here’s an article about the fundraiser. Our presence
has been duly noted. Oh, this is interesting.”

“What does it say?” asks Alex through a mouthful of roll.

“This is a loose translation,” says Henry seriously. “It’s about Son Altesse Royale—that’s me—and
le Premier Fils des Etats-Unis—that’s you. It says, roughly, ‘There was an obvious and barely-
suppressed lust percolating across the room between these two scions of their respective nations.
We strongly suggest that next time, they just skip the fundraiser and get a room.’”

Alex looks shocked for a moment, but then shouts, “Oh, I fucking hate you!” and bursts into
laughter. “You had me scared shitless. What does it really say?”

Henry laughs. “It really does note our presence, but we’re just two names in the roster of attending
worthies. That’s about it. Oh look, here’s something about the conference in Germany, tying it to
the Paris Climate Accord. It calls Martha ‘très belle et toute charmante,’ and says Philip, um, I
think this idiom means ‘has an old head on young shoulders.’ Gran will be thrilled.”

“They went to Germany for you? I wondered how you got out of it,” says Alex.

“Yes, they were supposed to be here, but we switched engagements. Bea’s the one who really
made it happen, by telling Gran what a bad idea it was.” He remembers how Catherine had chimed
in her support, but shies away from mentioning it because he doesn’t want to go into how his
mother has been since his father died. He decides to change the subject. “What time’s your flight
home?”

“This afternoon. My overseas trips are usually counted as representing the United States, so I fly
free on government planes. The lawyers in the ethics office say I don’t have to fly commercial as
long as the event is something I’m attending solely because I’m the President’s son. Being First
Son is obviously why they asked me to host a table yesterday, so there we are. But I always try to
tie my trips to something that’s already scheduled so it doesn’t cost the taxpayers more, and the
Ambassador has a new assistant who starts Monday, so it worked out.”
“That’s important,” says Henry seriously. “I hear US government waste is terrible. Did you know
they even put terrifying turkeys up at four-star hotels the night before pardoning ceremonies?”

“Fuck you,” says Alex with a grin. “When do you have to leave? Not that I’m trying to push you
out the door, though I should after that wise-ass remark.”

“At least let me get my trousers on before you do.”

“No problem. I don’t want you sharing your business with anyone but me.” There it is again—is
Alex saying they’re exclusive? Even Alex seems a bit taken aback as he realizes what he has said,
so he adds quickly, “Seriously, what time’s your flight?”

“Philip and Martha got the royal plane—two of them, one of me. So Pez loaned me his private jet.
I think it’s supposed to leave at eleven.”

“That probably doesn’t give you a whole lot of time,” says Alex, glancing at a bedside clock. “I’ll
have Cash contact your PPOs to pick up your luggage from your hotel, and then come by here to
collect you. Do you want a shower before you go?”

“I think I need one,” says Henry. “Some shameless tart squirted spunk on me yesterday, several
times I might add, and smeared whipped cream and chocolate frosting all over my face.”

“You’ll live,” Alex grins, but then his smile fades. He can’t stifle a small sigh. Is their imminent
parting bothering him too? “I suppose you’d better start getting ready.”

“I suppose,” says Henry. He gets out of bed and goes into the en suite to start the shower, then
steps in and lets the hot water cascade over him. He tries not to feel sad at the knowledge that he
has no idea when he’ll see Alex again. Maybe he can arrange something for Alex’s birthday—it’s
just a couple of weeks away. And he’s going to take Le Monde—Alex can’t read French, and it’ll
remind Henry of last night forever, though he’s sure he won’t need any assistance. Oh, and he has
to remember to write down the name of the fromagerie. He smiles, thinking of Alex’s signature on
that last email. Cheese-shopping might just have been a joke, but he obviously meant it when he
promised blowjobs.

Suddenly Henry feels a draught of cold air, and two arms wrap around his waist from behind. “I
got lonely,” says Alex.
 “I’ll miss my flight,“ says Henry.

“You’re a prince and it’s your best friend’s private plane,” says Alex. “It won’t leave you behind.
It’s one of your perks.” He turns Henry around to face him.

It turns out that pilots do indeed hold flights for princes, even when they’re over an hour late.

Chapter End Notes

If CMQ doesn't tell us much about their Parisian encounter, she tells us even less about
their meeting in Berlin the next month. Stay tuned!
 Berlin: This Isn't a Thing, Is It?
Chapter Summary

Alex meets Henry at a gala in Berlin, and the two enjoy another adventure!

Chapter Notes

CMQ only refers glancingly (p. 162) to an early encounter the guys enjoy, at a gala in
Berlin, where Alex ties Henry's wrists to the bedpost of their hotel room with his tie.
(Kinky, Casey!) This piece is a bit of a departure for me, since it largely develops from
Alex's POV. Also, at the risk of sharing too much information, bondage is not
something I've ever been tempted to experience (either as the dom or the sub), so I had
to find a motivation I could relate to which would be in character for the guys to want
to try this. Here's hoping you all approve of the result!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Okay, listen up, little Claremonts,” says Zahra, glancing over their meeting agenda. She double-
clicks her pen, a nervous habit which has become much more pronounced lately, along with
tapping a manicured finger on tabletops and jiggling one leg as she sits. The campaign must be
getting to her.

“First is an invitation to Berlin next weekend for a gala marking the return of historic papyri to
Egypt,” she says. “Normally this would have just been between the two countries, but talks broke
down last year and we stepped in. So Chancellor Merkel has invited us to send a representative,
and since she’s on such good terms with your mother, she would like one of you to attend. Any
takers? Didn’t think so. I’m sure we can find some Senator with a floor vote he wants to
avoid. Next up—”

“Wait,” says Alex. The wheels of his brain are spinning. Though Henry managed to work in a
flying visit to New York for Alex’s birthday, once again, they haven’t seen each other for weeks
now. This long-distance shit is getting very frustrating. And though they’ve had a couple of X-
rated Skype calls, self-stimulation in front of a computer monitor is obviously nowhere near as
satisfying as actually getting together.

But a museum gala would be right up Henry’s alley. And now Alex comes to think about it, he
half-remembers Henry mentioning Berlin the last time they spoke. This could work
out quite well. “I might be interested,” he tells Zahra. “Our relationship with our European allies is
very important. We don’t want to offend one of them by just blowing them off.”
 “No,” says Zahra, “you just almost irretrievably offended our most important ally by knocking
over the cake at the wedding reception of one heir to the throne, and pulling the next heir to the
throne down into the mess with you for good measure. It was a tremendous amount of work to
clean up the wreckage you left behind, both diplomatically and literally—I still have nightmares
thinking about it. Should I warn the Chancellor to stay away from the dessert display if you’re in
the room?”

“You’re even pissier than usual,” says Alex. “Campaign putting a bug up your butt?”

“Alex,” June breaks in, “you’re graduating in less than two months. Between term papers and final
exams, how can you possibly squeeze in a trip to Europe?”

“Excuse me, June, remember me? Workaholic younger brother? I’m so far ahead it’s not even
funny. Besides, I’ve never seen Berlin. Remember how Grandma Claremont had that little chip of
the Berlin Wall? Whatever happened to that after she died?”

“The Leader of the Free World treasures it as a reminder of our triumph over godless
Communism,” says Zahra. “She especially likes to display it when Vladimir Putin is visiting.”

Alex goes back to the topic at hand. “So how about it? Can I go to Germany?”

“Will I live to regret it if I say yes?” says Zahra.

“No comment,” says Alex. “But I’ll certainly make you regret it to your dying day if you say no.”

“Is Henry going to be there?” asks June suddenly.

“How would I know?” says Alex. “He doesn’t consult me about his Royal engagement calendar.”

June gives him a look. It reminds him uncomfortably of how she always knew when he was up to
something when they were kids. It would bother him more if he wasn’t already concentrating on
the excitement building in his gut. I’m going to see Henry. He tells himself it’s just the anticipation
of getting laid. Sure, that’s all it is. This isn’t a thing.
 He calls Henry with the good news that evening. As soon as Henry picks up, Alex says without
preamble, “So are you going to the big papyrus gala in Berlin next weekend?”

“Alex,” says Henry. “I’m fine, thanks, how kind of you to ask. And it’s a delight to hear your
voice as well, as I’m sure you meant to say in greeting. I was just sitting here daydreaming some
deranged American would call with an inquiry about my social schedule. Such hopes cheer my
otherwise empty life.” Alex can hear the smile as Henry continues, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I
am. Why do you ask?”

“As your constant friend and far-too-infrequent booty call, I consider it my duty to bring meaning
to your pointless existence,” says Alex. “How about a little noogie-noogie in ten days’ time?”

“’Noogie-noogie?’ Is that some vulgar American expression for—wait! Are you saying
that you’re going to be there? In Berlin?”

“Got it in one. Who says the English are slow on the uptake?”

“Jealous Americans who can’t follow our subtlety. Seriously, Alex, what about school? Don’t you
have professors to beguile into giving you a passing grade?”

“Already charmed and swooning,” says Alex smugly. “The A’s are in the bag. My senior projects
are completed and now it’s just finals. I can take a weekend off. If I have to, I can pull a couple of
all-nighters when I get back, if it means I get to have a real all-nighter with you.”

“I’ll do my best to keep you up,” says Henry.

“I’m sure it’ll be no problem at all,” says Alex. “And you know, it’s amazing how even the
dirtiest remarks sound classy with that accent.”

“It’s our innate superiority,” says Henry. “Where will you be staying? The Embassy?”

“No,” says Alex. “The Ambassador’s wife is redecorating, and all the guestrooms are torn up. I
have to find a hotel, and it won’t be easy since it’s practically the last minute. How about you?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Adlon Kempinski. It’s near the Reichstag, the German Parliament
Building. Beautiful suites and really not that expensive as five-star places go. Um…if you like, I
could ask Shaan to see whether there might be a broom closet available where you could register to
stay.” Alex catches the implication that he would only be registering to stay in a separate room.
The symbolism of the closet isn’t lost on him, either.

“I refuse to enter a broom closet unless it’s filled with cleaning supplies and bedpans, and you end
up on the floor with me. Even I have boundaries,” says Alex.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather end up on the floor with, especially with your elbow in my
ribcage. I just need to know if you still object to being the little spoon.”

“You’ll have to curl up with me and find out.”

Alex is smiling as they hang up. Belatedly he realizes that neither had suggested switching to
Skype for a session of skexing. Why bother, when in just a little over a week they can have the real
thing, separated not by thousands of miles, but by nothing at all?

It’s late the following Thursday evening when Alex arrives in Berlin. The Ambassador had kindly
sent an Embassy car to take him and Amy to the hotel (Cash is covering June at a campaign event),
and after Amy has checked his suite, she lets him enter, saying, “Call me if you need anything. I’m
right across the hall. Remember, don’t unlock your door for anyone but me.”

He enters a beautiful two-room suite with panoramic views overlooking the historic district, and he
mentally blesses Henry: Way to go, Your Royal Horniness; this is really nice. Then, because he’s
been on a plane for nearly ten hours and he wants to be rested for the gala tomorrow evening (and
for Henry tomorrow night), he decides to take a shower, hoping that the hot water will relax him
and help him sleep.

He’s just soaping up when he suddenly feels a smart slap! on his ass. He whirls around, scattering
water droplets and lather in his wake, and looks directly into the dancing blue eyes of His Royal
Highness Prince Henry of Wales. Henry is barefoot, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a
heather-gray T-shirt, perhaps the very clothes he had been wearing that night when he came in
search of a Cornetto. He grins wickedly and says, “Welcome to Berlin!”

“You dickhead!” says Alex furiously. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Dickhead? Look who’s talking,” says Henry, looking.

Alex’s face suddenly clears, and he smiles innocently. June could have warned Henry that Alex
never capitulates this easily, that when he looks his most angelic is when he is planning his worst
deviltry. But June is thousands of miles away. Alex says sweetly, “You really got me, you
bastard,” and extends a hand. Henry automatically takes it, only to be jerked into the shower and
held directly under the pulsing spray. Henry struggles and sputters for a moment, but then starts
laughing and Alex joins in.

“Christ, it’s good to see you,” says Henry, grinning and hugging him close. “No one else ever
treats me with quite the total disrespect you always show.”

“My pleasure, Your Princeliness,” says Alex.

“These are the only nightclothes I brought,” says Henry. “Am I supposed to sleep starkers?”

“I can work with that,” says Alex. “Please, Sire, allow me to assist you in preparing to retire.” He
pulls the sodden T-shirt over Henry’s head, and unties the drawstring on his pajama bottoms.

“Menace,” says Henry affectionately. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I can make a few suggestions,” says Alex. He holds Henry close as lather on Alex’s chest slips
downward, turning their accustomed delightful friction into something slippery and hot and
wonderful. It doesn’t take much time at all for them to tip over the edge, then they rinse off and
step out. Alex helps Henry wring out his dripping clothes and they make their way to the bed. Alex
says, “Do you need to borrow a robe to go back to your room later? You can’t exactly go parading
the halls of a five-star hotel in just a towel. Her Majesty would never approve.”

“You don’t know the half of what my grandmother would disapprove of,” says Henry. “But there’s
no need. Our two suites adjoin, and Shaan had them unlock the communicating door. I almost had
a heart attack when Amy opened my door and looked in while she was doing the room check, but
of course, she’s very thorough; she wouldn’t have missed an unlocked door.”

“What did she do?”

“She just smiled and put a finger to her lips, then quietly reclosed the door. I knew I liked her when
she pointed out the way to your room after the White House dinner. So I was able to sneak in and
smack your arse once I’d heard the shower start. Besides, you didn’t think I walked the halls
barefoot to get here, did you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” says Alex. “I don’t recall any slippers when you came scrounging
Cornettos all those months ago.”

“And just look where that decision led,” says Henry. “And to think if I hadn’t been out of ice
cream, I would never have come down and you might still hate me.”

“Oh, maybe not,” says Alex. “You were actually pretty decent to me on that trip. Enough to make
me suspect that you’re not really just a pompous boring asshole.”

“You really know how to flatter a bloke, don’t you?” says Henry. “If you think your honeyed
words will induce me to surrender my virtue—”

“Again,” interrupts Alex. “And yes, I’m pretty sure they will. Preferably again and again and
again. I didn’t fly four thousand miles for a handshake.”

“We’ll have to see what comes to… um, mind,” says Henry.

“We have all night to go down whatever paths we wish to pursue. Tonight is actually a bonus. I
didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“Knowing you were getting in, how could I stay away? But we’d better not stay up too late. We
have to make an early start tomorrow morning,” says Henry.

“Why?” says Alex. “The gala isn’t until the evening.”

“Exactly,” says Henry. “You said you’ve never seen Berlin. I thought we could do a bit of
sightseeing. Berlin is quite a city, and there’s a lot of history here. Anyplace you’d like to go?”

“Show me everything,” says Alex, “at least everything we can squeeze in before we have to get
ready tomorrow night. Oh, but I would like to see the Berlin Wall. There’s a family connection.”
“How so?” says Henry.

Alex tells him about his grandmother’s chip, and how Ellen used it to offend Vladimir Putin. “He
came to DC when President Obama was in office, and he got a tour of the Capitol. Mom was
Speaker of the House then. Putin came to her office, and she had the chip on her desk.”

“Did he know what it was?”

“Oh, for sure,” says Alex. “Of course, the little card beneath it reading ‘Berlin Wall Fragment’
helped. Mom said he couldn’t take his eyes off it. She half-expected him to pocket it when her
back was turned. But he just glared—she says his eyes are deadly cold, just like a snake’s—and
then a day or two later, President Obama called her to say, ‘I just got a phone call from the Russian
Ambassador. Madam Speaker, did you go out of your way to offend President Putin?’”

“What did she say?”

“She said yes, and the President chuckled and said, ‘Good for you, Ellen,’ and hung up.”

Henry laughs, then says, “She’s right about the eyes. I met Putin once at a dinner at the Guildhall,
which Gran insisted I escort her to. I went up to Putin and we were introduced, then I stuck out my
hand—and you know how one just takes the proffered hand by reflex?”

“Yes,” says Alex. “That’s how I got you into the shower.”

Henry grins. “Miscreant,” he says. “Anyway, Putin just stared—I really thought he was going to
refuse it. Then his eyes slid away, and I felt like he was deciding which wall would be best to line
me and my family up against for the firing squad. Like they did to our cousin the Tsar.”

“Jesus,” says Alex. “Putin won’t be there tomorrow, will he?”

“No, I don’t think so,” says Henry.

“Though speaking of your Russian cousins,” says Alex, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice,
“I’ve always wondered: did your family arrange to manipulate the DNA tests that ‘proved’ Anna
Anderson wasn’t really Grand Duchess Anastasia, so you guys could keep control of the Romanov
treasure? I personally always thought there was something fishy about those tests.”

“I could tell you the real answer to that,” says Henry, “but then MI-5 would have to kill you. I did
warn you about the stealth of our trained assassins, didn't I?”

“I knew it,” says Alex smugly.

“Anyway, let’s leave Russian intrigue for another day,” says Henry. “Tomorrow is going to be all
about us. I thought we could visit the Reichstag. And there’s the Brandenburg Gate—you have to
see that—and we will certainly go to the Wall and salute your grandmother’s memory.”

“I’ll let you play tour guide.”

“We’ll fit in all we can tomorrow, though there’s so much we won’t have time for. Maybe we can
come back after your mum’s re-elected.” Alex notices how Henry seems to assume that they’ll still
be together six months from now, though of course when you’re nestled together naked in bed, that
might be a reasonable expectation. But not necessarily. Alex has had sex with people he barely
recognized six months later, and he imagines Henry has too. But this is different (though he again
reminds himself sternly, it’s not a thing).

They manage to confine themselves to just one more session of sex that night (Alex shies away
from the term lovemaking), and then fall asleep. When Alex wakes up the next morning, he hears a
shower close by, and he slips on his boxers and walks through an open door into a mirror image of
his own suite. He can hear Henry whistling, and notices that Henry, clever boy, has messed up the
bed to make it look like that’s where he slept. Steam drifts out of the open bathroom door, and Alex
can’t resist—he tiptoes in, reaches into the shower, and gives the royal backside a smart slap! as
payback for last night. Henry whirls around and grins, saying, “I wondered when you’d show up,”
and pulls him in.

They have a wonderful day together. Amy and Henry’s PPOs hover discreetly a few steps back,
and Alex and Henry hope that their clothing—jeans, hoodies, baseball caps—is sufficiently
nondescript that people don’t notice them. They get a few puzzled stares—Don’t I know you from
somewhere?—but no one seems to be stealing a picture.
(Months later, after the scandal broke, someone does post a picture of what is probably the two of
them in the background among a crowd of tourists at the Brandenburg Gate. Trivia specialists
remind each other that they had indeed been together in Berlin for the gala that day. But the picture
ends up being the least of their concerns at that particular moment, with the Waterloo letters just
published and the campaign hanging in the balance.)

Towards noon, Henry steers the small group towards a restaurant he knows, saying, “They serve
the most wonderful German cooking here.”

“Wonderful German cooking?” says Alex. “Isn’t that an oxymoron? Like delicious English food?”

“Says the man who I hear guzzles barbecue sauce straight from the bottle,” says Henry.

“Hey, you haven’t lived until you’ve had Texas barbecue,” says Alex. “Play your cards right and I
might make some for you one day.” Platters of food arrive—heavy and strangely (to Alex’s mind)
seasoned, but undeniably tasty. He just hopes the red cabbage doesn’t make him gassy.

The gala is wonderful. Angela Merkel has kindly arranged for them to have a private tour of the
museum’s Egyptian Collection, and Henry is utterly spellbound by the bust of Nefertiti. After
dinner there is the official ceremony of transferring the papyri. The photographers call Alex to join
the Museum Director and the leader of the Egyptian delegation, a short, intense woman with dark
eyes and a strong British accent (she had attended Cambridge).

There’s a picture of the two representatives shaking hands as Alex beams behind them, and then
one with Alex holding their clasped hands, in conscious imitation of the photos of Jimmy Carter
with the Middle East leaders at the 1978 Camp David Peace Accord. Angela Merkel joins them,
but Henry happily manages to stay out of any pictures until the photographers take a group shot of
the dignitaries gathered for the event.

Then one of the photographers calls out, “Mr. Claremont-Diaz! One of you with your friend the
Prince?” Henry and Alex stand together and smile; then they pose with Angela Merkel, and then
with the Egyptian delegate and the Museum Director. The photographer says, “How about another
of just you two? Maybe we find a wedding cake in the back, ja?” Alex and Henry smile dutifully.
Alex wonders if people will still be riding them about the cake incident when they’re ninety-five,
all telling variations of the same tired joke and expecting them to laugh like they’ve never heard it
before.

Their limos take them back to the hotel (they took separate cars to preserve the fiction of unrelated
arrangements, that being at the same hotel is just coincidence; certainly not something they
planned). They had closed the connecting door between their suites so as not to give the wrong
impression to the chambermaids (actually, of course, the correct one). Alex goes straight to the
door to open it and finds Henry already standing there, his hand just raised to knock, on his way to
join Alex at the same moment as Alex was coming to see him. Henry asks, “Did you have a good
time tonight?”

“Great,” says Alex. “You?”

“Yes, it was nice,” says Henry. “The best part was the company.” He smiles at Alex.

“Yeah,” says Alex, “I’ve always liked Angela Merkel.” Henry looks nonplussed for a moment,
then his face clears and he laughs. He gives Alex a playful jab to the midsection.

“What am I to do with you?” he asks.

“Get in here and find out,” says Alex.

“In a minute,” says Henry. “I just want to grab a quick shower. By the way, the collar and the
waistband of my pyjamas are still damp. I guess I’ll have to spend another night au naturel.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” says Alex. “Your place or mine, baby?” he says with a leer.

“You decide,” says Henry, eyes sparkling. “I guess I’ll find out which you chose when I get out of
the shower.”

It is indeed a quick shower, but Alex still has enough time to get ready. Henry steps out of the
bathroom and enters his bedroom, where most of the lights have been shut off. He looks across to
see Alex, stretched out naked on the bed, his fingers linked behind his head. His legs are spread,
one foot planted on the mattress, the knee bent. “Hey, baby,” purrs Alex.

Henry’s breath begins to come faster. Alex smiles. “Well, are you just going to stand there?”

Henry rushes across the room and falls on Alex. He rains kisses on Alex’s face, up and down his
throat, and tangles his fingers in Alex’s curls. Alex returns the kisses fervently. So far, so good.
Then Alex says, almost conversationally, “You know how I love research. I’ve been investigating
some … things I thought we could try.”

“You mean you’ve been watching gay porn again,” says Henry.

“Potayto, potahto,” says Alex dismissively. “I just need to ask you one thing: do you trust me?”

Henry grows serious. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I do. Completely.”

“Enough to let me try something?”

“Yes,” says Henry. “Whatever you like.”

“Okay,” says Alex, “close your eyes.”

Obediently, Henry shuts them. Alex slips the necktie he wore to the gala out from under his pillow
and quickly ties Henry’s right wrist firmly to the bedpost. A moment later, Henry’s tie has been
pressed into service for the left.

Henry opens his eyes, alarmed. He says in a small voice, “This is a bit… nervous-making.”

“Don’t be scared, baby,” says Alex softly. “You’re safe as houses. I just want to….”

“What?” says Henry apprehensively, though he’s making a valiant effort to control it.

“Knowing I was coming to Berlin, I did some research about JFK the other day—”

“Different sites from the rest of your research?” asks Henry. He’s trying to sound light-hearted, his
usual snarky self. But his eyes are still frightened.
“I’m sure you can find a JFK lookalike with a fake Marilyn on some porn site if you try, but I was
looking up his Berlin Wall speech,” says Alex. “And then I came across his inaugural address, and
in the spirit of JFK, I thought, ‘Alex, ask not what Prince Dickhead can do for you; ask what you
can do for the Prince’s dickhead.’” Henry smiles. “Plus, I remembered how JFK always said he got
migraines if he didn’t have a daily blowjob. I thought, ‘We can’t have Henry with a sick headache
at the gala.’”

“You rather made sure of that this morning,” says Henry, a little more relaxed.

“My pleasure. But there’s still your trip home tomorrow. You have to be fit tomorrow for your
groupies.” He doesn’t think Henry usually has much problem making that particular grade, but he’s
willing to help maintain Henry’s brand.

“So how do the ties figure in?”

“I want to concentrate,” says Alex. “I don’t want to be distracted by the wonderful things you’d be
doing to me. Just lie back, close your eyes, and let me totally focus on giving you pleasure.”

Henry hesitates, then comes to a decision. “Okay,” he says. “Do your worst. Or, I should say, do
your best. I trust you.” Obediently he closes his eyes once more.

“Let go of that rigid control you think you have to maintain,” says Alex. “I’m in charge.”

His lips travel down Henry’s body, and then as Alex’s tongue circles Henry’s navel, he notices that
Henry’s fingers are starting to stretch and flex. Alex’s mouth moves lower, and when his tongue
reaches one particularly sensitive area, he prods, and is rewarded with a groan.

“Ooh, you like that,” Alex smirks. “Just remember, I’m American. In honor of John Paul Jones, I
must say this: I have not yet begun to suck.”

“American my Aunt Fanny,” gasps Henry. “He was Scottish.”

“No backtalk,” says Alex sternly. He gets back down to business, and doesn’t stop until Henry
gives a deep sigh of utter satiation.
Then Henry says gently, “Love, my arms have gone to sleep. May I--?” Alex startles guiltily and
says, “I’m sorry, let me—” but Henry moves his arms down on his own to wrap them around Alex.

“Wait—how did you—”

Henry smiles. “The knots came undone almost right after you started kissing me. One day I’ll have
to teach you how to tie sailors’ knots.”

Alex starts to sputter indignantly, but then suddenly stops. “But you didn’t move your arms.”

“Of course not,” says Henry simply. “You’d obviously put a lot of planning into this. I wasn’t
about to spoil your scenario.”

Alex feels a rush of—he can’t define it. Doesn’t want to, at least for now. But this isn’t a thing,
insists his mind. Yeah, right, answers his heart.

Henry says, “Alex, turnabout is fair play. Let me—”

“No need,” says Alex. “I came right after you.” He gets up and says, “I’ll be right back.” When he
returns from washing his hands, Henry is more than half asleep, though he rouses himself to smile
at Alex through a tremendous yawn. Alex says, “Henry, today—and the last two nights—have
completely wiped me out. I’m sleepy too.”

Henry lifts the duvet and Alex climbs into bed, his back nestled against Henry’s chest, Henry’s
arms wrapped around him. He takes Henry’s hands in his own and rests his chin on their linked
fingers. He presses his hips against Henry’s lap and their two pairs of legs curve against each
other; they look like two puppies curled up in a blanket. As Henry presses a kiss into the back of
his neck and he kisses Henry’s fingers, he realizes that he hasn’t felt this warm and safe and (say it,
Alex) cherished since he was a little boy.

He closes his eyes; and it seems like no time at all before he hears knocking at the door. Amy’s
voice calls, “Alex! Time to get moving! The car will be here to take us to the airport soon. Throw
some clothes on and let’s go!” How had Amy known to knock on Henry’s door? Oh yeah, she
knew the suites were connected.

There’s no time for long goodbyes. They hug, kiss, and Alex says, “When will I see you again?”
Henry says, “Well, first you have to graduate. Then we’ll see. Pez might have some ideas. In the
meantime, there’s always skexing on Skype. And you’d better say it’s not the same, or I am going
to feel very small.”

“I can think of many adjectives to describe you,” says Alex, “but small is not one that normally
comes to mind.” They both laugh.

***

Monday morning, Zahra is conducting one of their meetings when she suddenly looks at Alex
keenly. “Is that a hickey?” she demands.

Actually, Alex had noticed it that morning while he was shaving. He couldn’t say exactly when
Henry had left his mark on him, but it’s only fair; he had done the same thing to Henry after the
White House dinner in January. He thought he had positioned his collar to cover the bruise, but
Zahra is as bad as June, as bad as President Mom—nothing escapes these women.

“I… um, no?” he tries.

“Do I look stupid to you, Alex?” says Zahra. “Who is giving you hickeys and why have you not
gotten them to sign an NDA?”

“Oh my God,” says Alex. “If I needed an NDA, you would know. Chill.”

Zahra is not mollified, nor is she deceived. “I have known you since you were still leaving skid
marks in your drawers. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me?” She reminds him of the
list she has compiled of acceptable girls he is allowed to be seen with during the campaign. She
says, “I will chop my own tit off” to keep him from doing something stupid and destroying his
mother’s chance for a second term, and threatens that if he messes up, again, she’ll lock him in his
room for the rest of the year, “and you can take your finals by fucking smoke signal.” For good
measure, she adds, “I will staple your dick to the inside of your leg if that keeps it in your fucking
pants.” And she just might.

If she ever finds out who he’s really been seeing-- He breaks into a cold sweat. But really, what are
the chances? Both he and Henry know how to be discreet. He can keep Zahra in the dark. Now,
June—that won’t be so easy. She stayed silent at the meeting, but he’s pretty sure she had already
 noticed the hickey before Zahra said anything, and she knows who he went to Berlin to see. But no.
She thinks he and Henry are both straight. He’s sure he can keep her in the dark. If he has to.

And really, why does anyone else have to know anyway? After all, this isn’t a thing, is it?

Is it?

Chapter End Notes

Things are really getting ready to get angst-y! Stay tuned!

 Storia d'amore: Inferno
Chapter Summary

Henry runs away from Texas and decides he must end his relationship with Alex, but a
surprise visitor objects to that decision.

Chapter Notes

This, for me, is the most important part of CMQ's book: the entire novel turns on the
reordering of the terms of their relationship and their acknowledgment of their true
feelings for one another. I'll be taking this section at a leisurely pace, so buckle up!
The next part will come next week.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Coward, Henry thinks. Coward, coward, coward. When he was growing up, whenever he felt any
lack of confidence, any fear, his father would give him a rallying grin and say, “Chin up, mate! The
blood of kings, the blood of brave men, runs in your veins!” Blood of brave men? More like the
blood of chickenshit little wankers. But much like his blood, he is running.

Creeping out of the lake house hadn’t been easy. He had waited, his face resolutely turned to the
wall, pretending to be asleep, while Alex entered the room and settled into his bunk. After an
eternity Alex’s breathing grew deep and regular. Henry lay very still for a further agonizing five
minutes; but at last he thought it was safe to climb down quietly, then reach up to smooth his sheet
and blanket. He froze for a heart-stopping moment when Alex turned over, muttering something
that sounded very much like “Henry—Henry, listen!” Then Alex settled onto his back and began
snoring softly. Henry could resume creeping about, stealthily packing his belongings.

There was a small light burning over the sink in the kitchen, next to the stove. In his mind’s eye, he
could see Alex in boxers and a ruffled apron, flipping pancakes and leaning in for a kiss. Henry’s
throat tightened as he scrawled a hasty, cowardly message; then he stepped outside, quietly closing
the screen door behind him. The same PPO they had passed on their way to the pier an hour ago
was still dozing on the front porch.

“Another midnight swim, Your Royal Highness?” Guess he wasn’t dozing after all. Henry briefly
wondered if the man had observed their skinny-dipping and kissing, but then gratefully reminded
himself of NDA’s. “Actually,” (what was his name? that’s right, Ken) “Ken, I’m afraid I got some
rather bad news from the Palace. I have to get back to England immediately. Can you get the car,
and rouse” (Ron?) “Ron and tell him we have to go?”
Ken immediately snapped to full wakefulness and jumped to his feet. “Certainly, Your Royal
Highness. Five minutes, and we’ll be on the road. I take it you want the airport?”

No, Ken, that’s not what I want. But it’s what I have to do. “Yes, thank you, Ken.”

An hour’s drive to Austin, and now they’re on the plane. It’s amazing what money and royal blood
can command: they can enable a coward to skulk away, his tail between his legs. Henry despises
himself, and as soon as he allows himself to feel, his heart is going to break. But he has no choice.

If he lives to be a thousand years old, he knows he will always see Alex, water dripping from his
nose and dimpled chin, moonlight reflecting on his wet curls, his brown eyes shining as he prepares
to tell Henry how much he—

No. He won’t think about it. Resolutely, he puts in his earplugs and cues up some calming music.
Anything to erase the memory of the hurt in Alex’s eyes as Henry sidestepped what he feared
would be a declaration. Stop it, he tells himself. Go to sleep.

But sleep is impossible. His mind reverts to that night at the California karaoke bar, replaying, as it
has been monotonously doing all night, the events of that fateful evening. And it all started with
Alex’s graduation from Georgetown, and Nora’s order of vodka shots at the bar.

When Alex was in the midst of his final exams, he called Henry, who at that moment was driving
through the Welsh countryside with Pez. There was the usual flirtatious banter between himself
and his “strumpet,” as Pez called him (Pez embarrassing Henry half to death by telling Alex about
their brandy-fueled moaning of “When will they notice us” before Henry and Alex started sleeping
together). After they ended the call, Pez looked over at Henry, who was watching the road with a
happy smile.

“That was nice,” Pez said.

“Yes, it was,” Henry answered. “But I wonder why he called.”

“Really?” asked Pez. “I should have thought the reason was obvious. Because he’s stressing out
and he knows he’ll feel better after he talks to you. That’s how it is when you’re in love, as you
should know very well.”
Henry’s mind immediately shied away from the dangerous topic of love; some part of him felt that
as long as he didn’t think about it, didn’t speak about it, it wasn’t real, and he wouldn’t have to
take any of the actions which a shared love would demand. “So much of his stress is self-
imposed,” Henry said, neatly steering the conversation into other, less dangerous waters. “It was
his idea to finish Georgetown in three-and-a-half years instead of four. And of course, he has to
graduate summa cum laude. Probably valedictorian too.”

“No doubt at all,” Pez said. “Are you going to his commencement?”

“Of course not,” Henry replied. “The tabs would get suspicious about what’s really going on
between us. Casual friends don’t show up at such things; that’s family time.”

“Aren’t you the center of his heart’s family?” asked Pez. Henry remained silent. “Oh, well,” Pez
said, “We’ll have to do something with him to celebrate later on. Let me think.”

Pez had a fundraiser for one of his non-profits scheduled in LA in early June, and he suggested as a
graduation gift that Henry invite Alex to join them. “And his sister the goddess,” Pez added, his
eyes sparkling. “I might as well get something out of this too.”

“If you ask June, you should ask Nora,” Henry said. “We don’t want her to feel left out. I wonder if
Bea would like to come along?” And so it was arranged.

After the fundraiser they ended up in a seedy karaoke bar in West Hollywood which Pez had
somehow heard about. As soon as they walked in, five shots and a lime-and-soda for Bea
magically appeared on the bar, and Henry unthinkingly swallowed his drink before the taste hit
him. “Oh, dear,” he said. “What’s in these? Vodka?”

“Yes,” Nora smirked. She and Pez exchanged a meaningful look.

“What?” said Alex.

“I haven’t had vodka since uni,” Henry answered. “It tends to make me, erm. Well—”

Pez supplied some missing adjectives along with a giggle. “Flamboyant? Uninhibited? Randy?”
“Fun?” Bea contributed.

“Excuse you!” Henry said indignantly. “I am loads of fun all the time. I am a delight!”

“Hello, excuse me,” Alex called to the bartender with the pancake makeup (pierced by thick dark
beard stubble) and pink lipstick, “can we get another round of these please?”

Things got a little hazy after that. He can definitely remember going into a filthy public toilet in
response to a lewd suggestion from Alex, and getting probably the single most enjoyable blowjob
of his entire life. But before Alex would let him climax, he somehow extracted a promise from
Henry to sing. Which is how Henry ended up shouting hoarsely into a microphone, doused with
cheap champagne by Nora and pushing his sticky, sweaty hair off his forehead to lock into the dark
brown depths of Alex’s black-fringed eyes, belting out, “Wanna make a supersonic man outta
youuuuu!” The crowd jumped to their feet, screaming, “Don’t stop me! Don’t stop me!” while
Alex wolf-whistled and shouted, “Ooh, ooh, ooh!”

He was still as drunk as a lord when he and Alex got back to the hotel, and he’s sure that that’s
what made him do what happened next. He and Alex had been speaking to each other practically
every day by phone and seizing every opportunity to get together in person. But they had been
resolutely pretending that they were, as Alex had said at the start, “whatever we were before, just,
you know. With blowjobs.” They knew each other’s taste and smell, they knew every mole and
hair and freckle, but they had not shared that final intimacy. Until that night.

Surprisingly, Alex was far less awkward than he had been at first with oral sex; as he told Henry,
“I mean, I’m familiar with the mechanics.” (A straight friend of Henry’s once told him, “Hey, it’s
practically impossible to get a woman pregnant that way,” and Henry knew American teens must
have figured this out as well.) As Henry fumbled in his travel bag for the condom and the lube, he
had seen the question in Alex’s smiling eyes: You’ve been carrying this around with you? Henry
had wondered about that as well. He asked himself, Did I know this was going to happen?
Tonight? Maybe.

Of course, he’d been with other men. But never had it meant what it did that night. He knew,
beyond any doubt, that he would never do this with anyone else again. Anyone else could only
offer a poor, cold substitute for the white-hot glory of an exploding supernova which he found in
Alex’s arms.

He looked into Alex’s eyes, and recognized all the same feelings surging in those chocolate depths.
Immediately terror gripped him; this was getting too real, too important. So he fell back on snark:
“Would you describe the experience as supersonic?” And Alex laughed and slapped his chest, and
they went back to their usual dynamic, making out and laughing and arguing about who would
sleep in the wet spot.

After his return to England, he found that Alex must be indeed, as Henry called him, a “dark
sorcerer”; Alex had cast a spell over him, and Henry could literally think of nothing and no one
else. Every waking moment, and even in his dreams, he was planning how they could make this
happen again. He sometimes wanted to ask Bea, Is this what drug addiction feels like? If so, Alex
was Henry’s opium.

When they met at Wimbledon, and especially after Philip showed up with his condescension and
reminders of royal duty, Henry had needed Alex, then and there. He couldn’t even wait to get back
to Kensington; he made Alex take him in the clubhouse. Henry lost count of the number of times
they had sex that day and that night, but it only momentarily eased the craving. As soon as Alex
was back on the plane to Washington, Henry was planning another rendezvous.

Right after Wimbledon, Pez invited Henry to help open an LGBT youth shelter in Brooklyn in a
week’s time, wiggling his eyebrows as he said, “And your own true love will be in New York for
the Democratic National Convention. Maybe you two can get together?”

“I don’t think so,” Henry said. “He says they’re only putting in a token appearance at the DNC for
one night. The campaign is eating him up.”

“What a shame you aren’t,” Pez said.

But then the word had come about Rafael Luna’s defection. Henry sent Pez back to London and
headed straight across town to the convention site. An air of dejection hung over the hall, which
was mostly empty and very, very quiet. This kind of betrayal, right in the middle of the convention,
could kneecap the entire campaign.

He found Alex in the bar nursing a whiskey, looking down at his shoes. He had never seen Alex so
lost, so defeated, so alone. Alex hurting and vulnerable was not a persona with whom Henry was
acquainted, and he wanted to run across the room and fold him in his arms. But that wasn’t how
they did things. Instead, he strolled up to the bar and said, “I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks.” To
Alex’s stunned face, he said, “You looked so tragic, drinking alone.” That’s the way, Henry. Keep
it casual, offhand. Don’t let him see how much you really care.

But then later, in Alex’s room, he had held him while Alex poured out the depths of his esteem and
affection for Rafael Luna, and the deep sense of betrayal he felt as a consequence. And then the
self-doubts had emerged: if Luna was capable of such behavior, what about Alex himself? Would
he one day sell out if it became expedient, and ambition and opportunity beckoned? Henry firmly
rejected the very notion. “Someone else’s choice doesn’t change who you are,” he said.

“I feel like it does,” Alex said. “I wanted to believe in some people being good and doing this job
because they want to do good. Doing the right things most of the time and most things for the right
reasons. I wanted to be the kind of person who believes in that.”

Henry tipped Alex’s face up to look at him, and stared as deeply and reassuringly as he possibly
could into his beautiful eyes. “You still are,” he said, with complete and utter sincerity. “Because
you bloody care so much. And you are good. Most things are awful most of the time, but you’re
good.” He pushed Alex back onto the bed, then he held him, rocking and crooning, the way Arthur
used to do when Henry would wake up screaming from a nightmare. It crossed Henry’s mind that
it was the first time they had shared such tenderness. He gently undressed Alex; and then, when
Alex’s body stirred beside him, Henry offered the comfort only he could supply, murmuring all the
while, “You are good. You are good.”

To have such a beautiful experience end with such farce. When Zahra showed up at seven a.m. to
beat on the door, Alex pushed Henry into the closet (“We can unpack the ironic symbolism later,”
Alex said) and let her in. Henry tried to be noiseless while struggling into the underwear Alex had
shoved at him—the boxers belonged to Alex, and having a smaller frame, Alex also wore a size
smaller in underpants—and trying to pull the bloody things up while being very, very quiet had
been too much. In an ironic replay of the wedding cake fiasco, Henry lost his balance, and
momentum carried him, down, down, to burst through the closet door onto the bedroom floor.
Struggling to cover his bare arse, he looked up and said, “Er—hello.”

Shocked, Zahra assessed the situation. Suspecting Alex of clandestine sex with some possibly
untrustworthy woman at, of all places, the Democratic National Convention was terrible enough.
But this was a man, and the man in question was Alex’s fake best friend, real-life friend with
benefits, Third in Line to the English Throne, HRH Prince Henry of Wales. He could actually
sympathize with the nauseated horror on Zahra’s face. He knew she was not sick about Alex’s
liaison because it was gay (well, maybe just a little—after all, a gay sex scandal doesn’t play very
well in Oklahoma). He knew it was because he was the single worst person in the world Alex
could have chosen to get involved with from a negative publicity perspective.

There was an ugly scene Henry doesn’t really remember much of, except for two snippets of
conversation. First, he remembers Zahra ordering Alex to come clean with his mother about their
relationship, while simultaneously ordering Henry out of the country. “And if anyone sees you I
will personally end you,” she said to him. “Ask me if I’m afraid of the crown.” He knew she
wasn’t, and he answered faintly, “Duly noted.”

But the other, far more important bit was when she turned to Alex and asked, “Would it make any
difference at all if I told you not to see him again?” Henry had waited, sick with fear, for what
seemed like eternity.

Then Alex looked at him. He was obviously shaken, even terrified, but he lifted his dimpled chin
and his eyes were filled with resolution. His tone was steady as he said, “No.” Henry almost
fainted with relief, though right now, on the plane to London, he wonders if it would have been
easier for both of them if Alex had agreed to end it right then and there. Yes, Henry’s heart would
have been broken—but it’s breaking now anyway.

The fallout had been horrific. There was no publicity, but when Alex confessed to his mother, she
fired him from the campaign on the spot. Henry has tried to assess things from President
Claremont’s perspective, and he knows politicians can be ruthless when an election is at stake. But
Alex is her son. She knows how devastating his termination must be for him, but she does it
anyway. Alex is surprisingly understanding—he simply accepts her decision, and certainly forgives
it. But Henry thinks the President’s actions needlessly cruel, and feels, he tells Alex, “like absolute
shit” for his responsibility for subsequent events. Why had he gone to the DNC? He could have just
as easily done Skype with Alex, and let him moan to his heart’s content.

(He knows the answer; it’s quite simple. He loves him. And he couldn’t just fly home when he
knew how much Alex had to be hurting. He needed to comfort him, in person.)

Still, it had cost Alex his job, forcing him to give up the campaign, the thing he loved most (or so
Henry wanted to believe). Henry offered to end the relationship; it was the gentlemanly, British
thing to do. But Alex dismissed his words off-handedly, simply writing, Please don’t be stupid.
No part of any of this will ever be uncomplicated. He remembers how the sentences had hurt him,
how brushed-off he had felt, but Alex was suffering, and probably never meant to imply that this
thing with Henry was so relatively trivial. Certainly, the invitation to the lake house just a few lines
later seemed to indicate that he wanted to continue things as usual, despite further potential
negative consequences.

Henry remembers how excited he had been about the trip to Texas. He had been a bit nervous
about meeting Senator Diaz, and at first, the senator seemed to treat him as if he were just another
toffee-nosed English aristo. But soon Oscar warmed toward him. Before long, he was showing
Henry the same rough affection as he gave his own son, and for Henry, who missed his dad so
much, the fatherly treatment was wonderful. Once or twice, Oscar even slipped and called him by
the same name as he called Alex: mijo. My son. Oscar couldn’t have had any idea how much those
words meant.

It had only been two or three days, but it had been a glimpse into another world. A world of
normal; where people cooked their own food and made their own beds and picked up their own
dirty socks. June decided that they needed a few groceries, but she didn’t send a servant; she ran
the errand herself. Alex even roped Henry into helping to clean the kitchen after breakfast
yesterday morning; at first he stationed Henry at the sink to do the washing-up, but his first efforts
had not met with Alex’s approval. Critically scrutinizing a plate, Alex said, “You’ll never make it
as a dishwasher at IHOP. Don’t give up your day job as a royal.” June and Nora had laughed. None
of them knew about the memory they had triggered.

Then last night, Oscar started strumming that bloody guitar by the bonfire Henry had helped Alex
to build. After Oscar went to bed, June started playing, and of course, she had to play that old
romantic song she had played the night before: You fill up my senses like a night in the forest…
Then Alex had asked him to go for a midnight swim. And forced Henry to end their relationship.
Forever. For reasons Alex is too naïve, too non-royal to grasp.

***

After getting back to Kensington, Henry knows that Alex has awakened and found his note,
because he receives a text: you okay? we okay? call me. xxxxxxxxoooooooo Henry ignores it.

He ignores the second.

And the third.

And the fourth, and the fifth, and the two the following day. Then the texts stop.

He can ignore Alex. It’s not so easy to ignore Bea, who is quite surprised to see him back. She
knocks on his bedroom door and says, “H? Are you in there?” She enters, bearing a cup of tea. The
English panacea, he thinks. “I thought I heard you. You were supposed to have four more days
with Alex and the others in Texas, weren’t you? Pez called before he left for Nairobi to complain
about what a wonderful time you were having, and how he wasn’t there to join in the fun, and how
beautiful June is, a true goddess, he kept saying…Henry, is everything all right?”

He says nothing, merely stares at her bleakly. She said, “H, something’s wrong. I know it. I’d stay
and we could talk, but Gran roped me into opening some public works project in Nottingham.”
When he remains silent, she says, “Henry, you’re scaring me,“ then adds hesitantly, “You
wouldn’t—you wouldn’t do yourself a damage, would you?”

He should be touched by her concern, but it just irritates him. He says roughly, “Don’t be a bloody
fool.” She gives him one final, doubtful look over her shoulder as she goes.

He spends the next week wandering the halls of Kensington like some restless spirit, entering the
State Rooms at night, looking at the displays about Queen Victoria and her unbearable grief at
losing Prince Albert. He reads how she would hold her head in her hands and shriek, “I shall go
mad!” and he feels a tremendous kinship with his long-dead ancestress. She had written that in
losing Albert, “The sun has gone out, and all is dark night,” and Henry knows exactly how she
must have felt. Some part of him wonders rebelliously, why must he give up Alex? Why couldn’t
they leave him alone and let him be happy? But he already knows the answer: his grandmother had
spelled things out for him just after his father’s death.

He had finished his A levels the day before his grandmother summoned him to Buck House for “a
little chat about your future, dear.” It was a couple of months after Arthur’s death, and the tests had
been brutal; he was mildly concerned about the results, but nothing much could pierce the fog of
depression which had enveloped him since it had first become clear that Arthur was really not
going to get better. Besides, he couldn’t imagine Oxford refusing to admit a bloke who was Third
in Line to the Throne, no matter how bad his test scores. (They turned out to be just fine—quite
respectable, if not up to his usual level.)

His grandmother welcomed him, though he could see right through her phony solicitude: Have to
be nice to poor Henry. His father just died. Press him too hard, and he’s liable to start throwing
things. Good. Let her be a little afraid of him.

After inviting him to sit and pouring him a cup of Earl Grey, his grandmother indicated a file
folder on the tea table. He noticed for the first time that his name was on it, and that it was stamped
in red: CONFIDENTIAL. FOR HER MAJESTY’S EYES ONLY.

“Henry,” she said. “I received this file yesterday from Doctor St. Loe.” St. Loe was the headmaster
of Henry’s house at Eton, a man whose mandatory classes in Roman history were of such colossal
dullness that the boys all called him Professor Stumblebore. “Your headmaster speaks well of you,
of course—I expected nothing less. But he does raise some… concerns that I feel I must address
immediately.”

Henry felt mildly anxious. What concerns could old Stumblebore raise? To be concerned, he
would have to be at least marginally aware of his surroundings, and he was far too deeply
immersed in the first century to pay much attention to goings-on in the twenty-first. But Henry’s
anxiety, like his interest, was superficial. He was too completely consumed by his grief to care.

“Ma’am?” he said, when it became clear that some response was expected of him.

“Henry,” the Queen said abruptly, “who is Michael Davis?”

For the first time, something pierced the fog. “A bloke from school,” he replied neutrally.
“Indeed?” she said. “Doctor St. Loe thinks he might be rather more to you than merely ‘a bloke.’”

The memory of nights spent desperately rubbing against Davis Minor and the odd rendezvous in
the chemistry lab after class suddenly came back to him. Not that he had seen much of Davis since
Dad got sick—he had no energy for such things.

His grandmother suddenly wagged her forefinger in his face, an attempt at arch humour which was
somehow even more frightening than towering fury. “Doctor St. Loe seems to think the two of you
have been rather improper,” she says. “Not that it’s any great surprise to me—your grandfather
told me what goes on in the dormitories of boys’ schools after lights out.”

The notion of his grandfather—a gruff old man who had died when Henry was ten, who never
noticed him much longer than it took him to say, “Don’t you have something to do, boy? Go
away”—discussing sexual experimentation among adolescent boys with his cold, remote
grandmother was so incongruous that Henry felt a mad desire to burst into laughter. How Dad
would have enjoyed the tale if Henry had been able to share it with him.

“I understand about what you young men can get up to,” the Queen continued. “No proper young
women about to focus your desires on, and the way people get so worked up nowadays about boys
‘sexually harassing’ servant girls, as if aristocrats haven’t been doing such things for centuries, and
nobody ever cared… But Henry, let me be very clear about one thing.” Her tone is suddenly sharp,
incisive, like a cold steel blade meant to skewer him to the floor. “Most young men give up
sleeping with each other when they start socializing with women of their own class. They go on to
marry and have children and pass on their titles and estates. But there are other, more unfortunate
men who allow their deviant desires to take over. I remember my grandfather saying of such
creatures, ‘I thought chaps like that shot themselves.’ I’ve always thought they might at least move
to the continent so as not to embarrass their families.”

She cleared her throat. “Understand this, dear. Whatever deviant desires you may be harboring, you
are to abandon them immediately. Your duty is to marry a suitable young woman and have children
to carry on our family line. Anything else is simply unacceptable.” She looked away, seemingly
unsure of herself for the first time since initiating this extraordinary conversation. “Of course,
once you marry and start your family, if you still feel such… inclinations, certain accommodations
can be made. But you and your wife must always preserve the appearance of a happy family. We
reign at the pleasure of the people and Parliament, and anything objectionable to them could
destroy us all.”

Henry demanded rebelliously, “And what if I don’t want to marry and father 2.5 children to
preserve the royal image? What if I just want to be myself?”
She looked away with a smile on her face. “Do you remember your Aunt Anne? You were of
course very young when she died—only four or five.”

“Yes, I remember her,” he said. He remembers a gaga old lady in a wheelchair whose face sagged
on one side, though in fact she wasn’t old at all; she was barely sixty when she died.

“My sister Anne thought she could kick over the traces and just live her own life,” said Queen
Mary. “She was always something of a rebel, and my father quite spoiled her. I had to be the
responsible one, while she got to be cute and fun and naughty.” Seventy years’ resentment
embittered her tone. “After our father died, she fell in love,” she says with a sneer. “Quite
unsuitable, of course—he was a commoner, divorced; it simply would not do.

“I had to sit her down and explain things to her. If she insisted on marrying him, she would be cast
out of the family, no title, no money, and become just plain Mrs. Smith in a semi-detached. I asked
her, ‘Really, Anne, can you imagine yourself doing the shopping and washing nappies?’
Fortunately, she soon saw reason and dropped him. After that, I would say to her every so often,
‘All right, Anne, time to put down the ciggie and the champagne and get out the frying pan—you
need to get his sausages on the gas ring for tea.’ She would laugh, but of course by that time, she
was always squiffed by teatime anyway. Then she started having strokes, and that was the end of
it.”

She looked into his eyes and said, “People like us don’t do well in the everyday world, Henry.
We’re like hothouse orchids; you can’t just transplant us into the garden bed outside and expect us
to flourish, or even to live. And if you decide to follow your own deviant desires instead of
maintaining royal standards, you will be cast out. Philip would never help you, and Beatrice has
problems of her own which I must deal with now too. Really, it was most inconvenient for Arthur
to have died when he did—he and your mother should have handled these situations. It puts a
burden on me I shouldn’t have to bear. Most thoughtless of him.”

“I’m sure Dad would never have died so painfully from cancer if he realized it would
inconvenience you, Ma’am,” said Henry with heavy-handed sarcasm. His grandmother gave him a
tight little smile.

“I also hope you wouldn’t expect any support from your mother,” she said. “The Victorians had the
most wonderful adjective for people like her: half-cracked. They used to use it for Queen Victoria
herself after Prince Albert died. And of course, if you went off the rails and she lost you, it might
very well crack her completely.”

So that’s that, Henry thinks dispiritedly as he paces the halls of the palace all night. And it’s not the
money, it’s not the title, it’s not even Mum and possibly being responsible for destroying her. Alex
thinks all for love and the world well lost. He just doesn’t realize how this could destroy him too.
 He thinks of Alex’s hopes for a political career. If they got together and the world found out, Alex
would have to abandon those dreams forever.

And by firing him from the campaign, Alex’s mother had made it clear: no matter what the
Democrats put into their platform about equality and inclusiveness, Middle America will never
accept a politician with a whisper of homosexuality attached to his or her name, nor even just that
candidate having a gay son. If Henry allowed himself to reciprocate Alex’s love and they were
found out, it could destroy not only Henry himself, but also Alex, President Claremont, and
possibly even the future of the free world if Richards got into the Oval Office. (Okay, he’s being
melodramatic, but four a.m. tends to bring that out.)

Shaan had cancelled Henry’s engagements for this week, since he thought Henry would still be in
Texas. But the time Henry was expected to be away is over now, and he will have to resume his
official duties in the very near future. He’s doing pretty well during the day—if you can call mostly
just staring into the distance with sad, haunted eyes “doing well”—but he often wakes up with a
wet pillow, and knows he has been crying in his sleep. There are dark circles and skin like
crumpled crepe paper under his eyes. His face is suddenly gaunt—he just can’t swallow, so he
barely eats—and his clothes hang on him. Even his hair seems to have gone lifeless and brittle.
Shaan no longer asks him if he’s all right; the answer is only too obvious.

Mid-afternoon on the seventh day since Henry left Texas, Shaan gets a phone call. He steps into
the next room to answer it, and Henry hears only the very end of the conversation. “I’ll take care of
it,” Shaan says. “Thanks for calling and letting me know.” A pause. “I love you too.”

Shaan in love with someone? Henry wishes him better luck than Henry himself has found.

It’s just past nine when there is a bit of a commotion outside; and Shaan, who for some reason has
stuck around instead of going home at his usual time, says, “If you’ll excuse me, Sir, there’s
something I have to take care of,” and leaves the room.

He hears it a few minutes later, and his heart skips a beat. Only one person on Earth would ever
dare to say to him what he hears bring shouted in that familiar, beloved voice:

“Henry, you motherfucker!” A brief pause. “Henry, you piece of shit, get your ass down here!"

Chapter End Notes

As always, I must thank my dear friend gaytriforce, reader, advisor, and encourager
every step of the way. But above all, I must thank Bobbie, who made me believe in
love again after so many previous heartbreaks, and who refused to allow me to run
when the pain of past rejections would have frightened me away from her as well. For
over thirty years now, she has loved, supported, and nurtured me, making me the most
blessed of men!
 Storia d'amore: Purgatorio
Chapter Summary

Henry runs downstairs to save Alex from the consequences of the scene he is creating,
and to break things off, once and for all. But he has underestimated two things: Alex's
stubborn love for Henry, and his own utterly impractical yet completely indestructible
love for Alex.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

At the sound of Alex’s voice, Henry dashes from the room. He speeds to the stop of the stairs and
starts to run down, but by the time he reaches the first landing, he has slowed. He was so thrilled at
the notion of seeing Alex again that he had momentarily forgotten the necessity of breaking things
off with him. Besides, after leaving Texas in such a cowardly fashion, after ignoring Alex’s texts
and resolutely refusing to contact him, what could he possibly say? He takes refuge in sullen
irritation. Why couldn’t Alex just leave him alone?

He can hear Shaan exchanging words with Alex. Shaan seems as cool and unruffled as ever, but
Henry can see the tension in the set of his posture, hear it in his tone of voice. (When all this is
over and Henry eventually meets the person to whom Shaan just said, “I love you too,” he has to
pass along to her—or him, them, who knows?—some of the telltale signs.) Alex raises his voice,
and Henry can hear him more clearly. “How ‘bout I just keep yelling and we see which of the
papers show up first?” Henry can’t see much—it’s dark outside, and a sleety rain is falling—but he
can see that Alex is waving his arms. Henry suddenly remembers making similar big, sweeping
arcs with his arms when he waved goodbye to Alex after their rendezvous in Connecticut all those
months ago.

Alex looks up at the windows and yells, “Henry! Your Royal fucking Highness!”

Shaan touches a finger to an earpiece he must have inserted on his way downstairs. “Team Bravo,”
he says, “we’ve got a situa—”

This is going too far. He may have to break things off with Alex forever, but Henry can’t allow
him to be humiliated: thrown into the back of a Security car, handcuffed, hauled away. Not Alex.

He crowds up close behind Shaan and looks over his shoulder. He sees Cash standing behind Alex,
looking around nervously. In his career, Cash has no doubt had to subdue demonstrators and
rioters, and he knows the type of treatment Alex is in for if he doesn’t knock it off. Cash may even
be wondering if he is going to have to defend him, and whether he’s going to end up under arrest as
well. (It’s a shame Alex didn’t bring Amy, thinks Henry suddenly; Amy could take on any number
of Palace security men without even messing up her manicure.) But enough is enough. He says,
“For Christ’s sake, Alex, what are you doing?”

Alex drops his arms and says angrily, “Tell him to let me in.”

Henry sighs. He wants to cover his eyes, but he’s afraid that that will look weak, and he must be
very, very strong to get through the next half-hour. The blood of kings, he reminds himself. He
reroutes the gesture and pinches the bridge of his nose, in a good imitation, he thinks, of utter and
exasperated exhaustion. He says to Shaan, “It’s fine. He can come in.”

His heart is beating wildly, but he tries to affect an air of weariness at having to deal with this
crazed American. Alex says, “Thank you,” shooting Shaan a dirty look as he squelches in. Henry
can see that Shaan is trying to hold back a smile, and he remembers how Alex once threatened to
push Henry into the Thames. Alex looks like he just got fished out of it.

Alex kicks off his soaked shoes, but his wet socks still leave footprints across the marble floor.
Henry turns and starts up the stairs, Alex trotting close behind him. Henry’s natural inclination is to
laugh at Alex for his dilapidated state while getting a towel to rub him down, and then invite Alex
to strip off his soaked clothing and come get warm—and the warmest place in the apartment would
be bed… It’s better just not to look at him.

“Really nice,” yells Alex. “Fuckin’ ghost me for a week, make me stand in the rain like a brown
John Cusack, and now you won’t even talk to me. I’m really just having a great time here. I can see
why y’all had to marry your fucking cousins.”

Who asked you to come here anyway, Alex? thinks Henry defensively. But he dismisses the remark
as petty. Besides, his stupid, stubborn heart is thrilled to see Alex, to hear his voice, to know that
he flew across the ocean because Alex doesn’t want to lose him. At the same time, though, it scares
Henry to death. Be strong, he thinks. Remember, the blood of kings. Aloud, he says, “I’d rather not
do this where we might be overheard.” Normally he would turn right and lead Alex into the music
room; but for privacy, he turns left and leads Alex into his bedroom. The massive four-poster
dominates the room, and a fire burns brightly behind the grate.

“Do what?” says Alex hotly. Here it comes. Henry shuts the door as Alex demands, “What are you
going to do, Henry?”

Desperately, Henry tries to channel his inner Gran, to take refuge in regal hauteur. “I’m going to
let you say what you need to say,” says Henry, “so you can leave.”

Alex’s eyes widen. He says, “What, and then we’re over?” Alex almost looks as if he might cry.

Henry doesn’t trust himself to answer. He’s afraid he might break down too.

“Seriously?” demands Alex incredulously. His hurt has rapidly morphed into fury. “What the fuck
is going on? A week ago it was emails about how much you missed me and meeting my fucking
dad, and that’s it? You thought you could fucking ghost me? I can’t shut this off like you do,
Henry.”

He’s right, thinks Henry. Thinking he’d just disappear so I could pretend we never happened was
silly. Alex never gives up that easily.

He feels himself almost swaying, as if he might faint. He goes over to the fireplace and leans
against the elaborately carved chimneypiece for support. The next words just slip out. “You think I
don’t care as much as you do?” He would recall them immediately if he could, because they’re so
completely true, but Alex must think that Henry doesn’t care. He must, or else they’re lost.

“You’re sure as hell acting like it.” Henry knows he would have said the same thing. This is
rapidly slipping out of control. He must regain the upper hand, put Alex on the defensive.

He begins condescendingly, “I honestly haven’t got the time to explain to you all the ways you’re
wrong—" but Alex is having none of it.

“Jesus, could you stop being an obtuse fucking asshole for, like, twenty seconds?”

The words are like a slap in the face. How dare he? “So glad you flew here to insult me—”

“I fucking love you, okay?” yells Alex. Having finally said it, he catches his breath and says in a
quieter tone, “Fuck, I swear. You don’t make it fucking easy. But I’m in love with you.”

Henry turns and stares into the flames. The glint of gold catches his eye and he looks down at his
signet ring. He slowly twists it on his finger.
As if it were yesterday, he remembers Gran giving it to him for his eighteenth birthday. Dad was
quite sick by that point—he would die just a month or so later—but Gran dismissed the hospice
nurse “for privacy,” she said. She then presented Henry with a small box. When he opened it, he
saw a heavy gold ring with the Prince of Wales crest of three feathers.

Henry was not the Prince of Wales, never would be (his mother, as heiress presumptive, was
Princess of Wales in her own right, and when she became Queen, as the elder son Philip would
become Prince of Wales), but as his mother’s son Henry was officially Prince Henry of Wales, so
the crest was his by right. Looking at it, he remembered the little ceremony they had staged five
years before, when Philip received a similar ring. He remembered Dad, strong and vital and
beautiful, standing next to Philip and beaming with pride at his elder son. Henry had often
imagined the same sort of ceremony when he turned eighteen. His throat tightened.

“Just remember, young man,” said Gran, “this ring is a symbol of your royal heritage.” Her tone
was a familiar mix of solemnity, pomposity, and intimidation. Her own signature blend. “Always
wear it, Henry, as a reminder of the duty and allegiance you owe to us as a member of this family.
And just as you can never abandon your family or your duty, so you must never take off this ring.
It must be a constant reminder, to you and to everyone you meet, of exactly who and what you
are.”

In his peripheral vision, Henry saw Dad stir. Arthur whispered softly, “Bollocks.”

Henry stared at his father, wide-eyed. Arthur had just had a shot of morphine before Gran came in
and now could barely keep his eyes open, but drawing from some hidden reservoir of strength, he
managed to wink at Henry. “Just—be yourself,” said Arthur feebly. “Screw duty.”

“He’s wandering again,” said Philip.

“Put on the ring,” said Gran to Henry. He’d been brought up never to disobey her. He put it on.

He’s never taken it off, not even when he’s gone swimming. It’s so much a part of him that he
doesn’t even feel it on his finger anymore. But as he stares into the flames and twists it, the ring
suddenly feels tight, constricting. It no longer stands for his identity as a member of the royal
family; it stands for the artificiality, the false values, the centuries of rigid conformity that force a
man to turn his back on the one he loves and the life he wants to lead. As Dad said, Bollocks. He
eases it off his finger and sets it down on the mantel with a little click.
But it’s one thing to take off a ring. It’s another thing entirely to shed an identity, a way of life. Still
staring into the flames, he says to Alex, “Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Of course I do—” begins Alex. Typical Alex. Jump off the cliff with both feet, never seeing the
yawning void below.

“Alex, please,” says Henry, and he turns to look into Alex’s eyes. How can I explain this to you in
a way you will understand? His self-control is slipping. “Don’t. This is the entire goddamned
reason. I can’t do this, and you know why I can’t do this, so please don’t make me say it.”

Alex swallows, the brown eyes filled with pain. “You’re not ever gonna try to be happy?”

One of Alex’s favorite expressions springs to mind. Jesus fuck. “For Christ’s sake,” he says
instead, “I’ve been trying to be happy my entire idiot life. My birthright is a country, not
happiness.” Philip couldn’t have said it better.

Alex fishes a sodden piece of paper out of his soaked trousers and throws it. If it had been dry, it
might have hit Henry in the face; as it is, it drops wetly to the floor. Alex says viciously, “Then
what is that supposed to mean, if you don’t want this?”

Henry picks up the little folded paper and opens it with some difficulty; reading it is also hard,
since the ink has smeared and the words have run together. But he can just make out the love note
he had tucked into the pocket of the kimono Pez had told him was for Alex when they were
preparing to go to LA.

Dear Thisbe,

I wish there weren’t a wall.

Love, Pyramus

He had never wished anything more, but he knew his love for Alex was every bit as hopeless as
that of the lovers in the story. “Alex,” he says, “Thisbe and Pyramus both die at the end.”

“Oh my God,” says Alex. “So, what, was all this never going to be anything real to you?”
Suddenly, the grief which Henry has been suffering all week transforms into a towering fury, the
like of which he has never known. Nothing, not even Dad’s death, has ever prompted such
emotion. His hand suddenly clenches into a fist and crumples the note into a ball, water squishing
from it. “You really are a complete idiot if you believe that,” he says. He can feel his face twisting,
and he knows that the face of Medusa—whose look could turn men to stone—was nothing
compared to his face at this moment, the utter outrage Alex’s accusation has provoked.

“When have I ever, since the first instant I touched you, pretended to be anything less than in love
with you?” The words are gushing out like steam from a broken pipe, all the hotter for having been
held in for so long. “Are you so fucking self-absorbed as to think that this is about you and whether
or not I love you, rather than the fact that I’m an heir to the fucking throne?” He’s heard both June
and Nora tell Alex much the same thing: It’s not always about you, Alex.

He continues, “You at least have the option to not choose a public life eventually, but I will live
and die in these palaces and in this family, so don’t you dare come to me and question if I love you
when it’s the thing that could bloody well ruin everything.”

Distractedly, he puts his hand to the back of his neck, and when his fingers find the hair, he pulls it.
Instead of its usual softness, the hair feels rough, brittle. “It was never supposed to be an issue,” he
says, more quietly now, though his voice is hoarse and rough with pain. “I thought I could have
some part of you, and just never have to say it, and you’d never have to know, and one day you’d
get tired of me and leave, because I’m—”

His shaking hand gestures at his entire person. He knows that people think the outside is beautiful,
but except for Bea and Pez, everyone he has ever loved has left him—Dad by dying, Mum by
retreating into her grief, Philip by becoming a condescending bully, Gran by hiding behind the
coldness and remoteness of the throne. (Of course, there’s Shaan, but he is in a different category;
Henry believes that Shaan is personally fond of him, as Henry is of Shaan, but since Shaan is also
an employee, his livelihood depends on being able to maintain a relationship with Henry.) Finally,
there’s Henry’s record with sexual partners. None of those relationships has ever lasted very long;
he dimly suspects that he’s always left his lovers because he wants to leave them before they can
discover whatever it is that drives people away and leave him.

But from the moment they first met, Alex had been different. And now Alex is proving that
difference once more. Alex is absolutely the first ever to say that he has fallen in love with him.
Henry says haltingly, “I never thought I’d be stood here faced with a choice I can’t make, because
I never… I never imagined you would love me back.”

Alex says simply, “Well, I do. And you can choose.”

Alex, you’re so naïve. “You know bloody well I can’t.”

“You can try,” says Alex, in the tone one might use with a fretful preschooler who can’t decide
whether he wants the chocolate biscuit or the oatmeal. “What do you want?”

Henry begins, “I want you—”

Alex interrupts. “Then fucking have me.”

Henry rushes on, “—but I don’t want this.”

Alex stares at him, his face a mask of exasperated bewilderment. “What does that even mean?”

He thought the dam broke with his anger before, but this is the whole bloody levee. Years of fury
and resentment and sheer, stark terror swamp him. He nearly shouts, “I don’t want it!” He feels his
eyes tear up. “Don’t you bloody see? I’m not like you. I can’t afford to be reckless. I don’t have a
family who will support me. I don’t go about shoving who I am in everyone’s faces and dreaming
about a career in fucking politics so I can be more scrutinized and picked apart by the entire
godforsaken world.”

He draws a ragged breath. “I can love you and want you and still not want that life. I’m allowed, all
right, and it doesn’t make me a liar; it makes me a man with some infinitesimal shred of self-
preservation, unlike you, and you don’t get to come here and call me a coward for it.”

There; he’s said it. He’s voiced his deepest fear—that loving Alex will destroy him, destroy them
both. And he’s also voiced how much he despises himself for that fear.

Through Henry’s tirade, Alex has been staring at him, stunned at the fury which Henry has spewed
all over him. Like a drowning man grasping a piece of driftwood, Alex picks out the one twig
floating by which he can hold onto. He says, “I never said you were a coward.”

“I—” Alex’s words have caught him off guard. “Well. The point stands.”

Alex says, “You think I want your life? You think I want Martha’s? Gilded fucking cage? Barely
allowed to speak in public, or have a goddamn opinion—”
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Alex. This relationship would destroy us both. “Then what
are we even doing here? Why are we fighting if the lives we have to lead are so incompatible?”

“Because you don’t want that either!” says Alex. He seems to think that this is so obviously true
that it shouldn’t even have to be said. “You don’t want any of this bullshit. You hate it.”

Oh, God.

He’s right. He is so right. But take all this away—his eyes sweep the room, taking in the trappings
of power and position, the centuries of royal tradition—take this away, and who am I?

He takes refuge in denial. “Don’t tell me what I want. You haven’t a clue how it feels.”

Alex advances toward him as he says, “Look, I might not be a fucking royal, but I know what it’s
like for your whole life to be determined by the family you were born into, okay? The lives we
want—they’re not that different. Not in the ways that matter. You want to take what you were
given and leave the world better than you found it. So do I. We can—we can figure out a way to do
that together.”

Why does Alex have to stand so close? Another inch, and Alex will be touching him. As if from
another world, he thinks of the joyful excitement of Alex’s heart beating in rhythm with his own, of
feeling Alex’s weight, warm and exciting and so, so sexy, on top of him, pressing him down into a
mattress. And all he can feel now is how much he wants to get away from him.

He stares into those beautiful brown eyes, all but counting the thick black lashes individually. He’s
never wanted to say yes to anything more in his entire life. But he’s so scared. So scared.

He can’t say it. He just can't. It would destroy him, and his place in the royal family, the only
identity he has ever known. It would destroy Alex, and all the dreams he’s cherished for his future
since he was a little boy. Henry can see them, a twenty-first century Duke and Duchess of Windsor,
Dad’s money buying them a place among the Eurotrash glitterati, the air between them thick with
unspoken recriminations and regrets for the good they might have done, the lives they might have
led. And then, one day, they would hate each other.

He takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t think I can.”

In his earnest attempt at persuading, Alex had been leaning forward; now, he rocks back on his
heels and his cheeks are suddenly scarlet, as if Henry had just backhanded him. Henry can see tears
—of hurt? of fury?—springing to the brown eyes as Alex says, “Fine.” He swallows. “You know
what? Fucking fine. I’ll leave.”

Please, Alex. Please leave. Before I break. Aloud, he simply says, “Good.”

Alex leans in again. “I’ll leave,” he says, “as soon as you tell me to leave.”

“Alex.”

Alex’s face is inches away from his. “Tell me you’re done with me. I’ll get back on the plane.
That’s it.” Alex’s voice is suddenly laced with withering contempt. “And you can live here in your
tower and be miserable forever, write a whole book of sad fucking poems about it. Whatever. Just
say it.”

A million years ago, back at Oxford, Henry once broke up with a sort-of-boyfriend who thought he
was playing a trump card when he said, “Well, if that’s the way you feel, fine. Tell me to go and
I’ll go. That’s it.” Henry shrugged and said, “Fine. Go.” He then picked up a book, obviously
preparing to resume the reading which the boyfriend had interrupted. The man stared at him, open-
mouthed, then started pleading with Henry to give them just one more chance. It took another hour,
but eventually the breakup was accomplished.

Henry opens his mouth to say it. Leave. One simple syllable. Just say it, Henry.

But.

He.

Can’t.

His voice breaks as he says, “Fuck you.” He grabs a handful of Alex’s shirt. As if from another
world, one part of his brain registers that the collar is still damp.
 “Tell me,” Alex whispers, “to leave.” There is a faint smile playing over his lips.

Suddenly Henry feels like he’s back in the Red Room, only this time he’s the one who is pushing
Alex against the wall and crushing their mouths together. They grapple along a wall and then
Henry remembers that they’re in his room at Kensington, and there’s a huge four-poster bed right
there, not a table beneath a Founding Father’s portrait. He physically picks Alex up (rather heavier
than David, he thinks irrelevantly), and staggers to the bed and dumps Alex on it. He feels tears
slipping down his cheeks as he stares at Alex, the faint smile still on Alex’s lips. “C’mere,” says
Alex softly. He holds out his arms.

A thousand thoughts are swirling through Henry’s brain. He hears Alex’s voice: Stop thinking.
Then himself: Gladly.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head. He drops his joggers. Alex starts pulling off his own wet
clothing. Henry falls on top of Alex, and they kiss.

In the elaborately carved and gilded fireplace, behind the grate, the fire burns down to a few
glowing embers. As Henry and Alex hold each other, they’re not just having sex; for tonight at
least, even if never again, they can acknowledge that they are making love. Both of them, together.
When they finish, Henry reaches down and pulls up a sheet to cover them.

By unspoken mutual consent, they move to opposite sides of the bed, a good foot of space between
them. They lie on their sides, facing away from each other, overwhelmed by all that has passed
between them. And even though the room is very quiet, neither sleeps for a long, long time.

Chapter End Notes

As the theme song from "The Poseidon Adventure" reminds us, "There's got to be a
morning after.... " CMQ couldn't leave the guys alone at such a crossroads, and neither
can we. More next week!
 Storia d'amore: Paradiso, prima parte
Chapter Summary

Henry awakens to find that a miracle has occurred: Alex really is next to him in bed,
but now he has a decision to make about their future. A chance encounter with Philip
leads to a final, life-changing decision.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Henry wakes up early the following morning. Last night’s rain has ended, but the sky is still grey
and a damp mist has left condensation on the window glass. Henry stretches his arms above his
head and looks over to the face on the next pillow.

So it wasn’t a dream. Henry has been given another chance. And a miracle has taken place: the
man Henry has been in love with for years is in love with him, too.

So many thoughts are tumbling through his brain that Henry can’t make sense of any of them. He
wonders if he should follow Alex’s example and get some paper to start compiling a list. But it
might not be the best idea. He could fill a ream of paper and still be no clearer in his mind. No, he
needs some exercise.

Though unknown to the general public, there is a private running path through the woods by
Kensington Palace. Closely guarded, frequently patrolled, and constantly monitored by CCTV, it
is mostly used by the Security team, Palace staff, and the occasional royal. Arthur had often jogged
it—he would say, “Fans would never accept a paunchy James Bond”—and when Henry was small,
his father would take him for walks there, telling him the names of the different trees and flowers,
and teaching him an appreciation of the beauty of the changing seasons.

Since Arthur’s death, Henry is pretty much the only royal who uses it; Bea prefers aerobic dance,
and Philip despises exercise. Henry finds a run through the woodlands a perfect way to clear his
head, and at this hour, the path is bound to be deserted.

He slips out of bed, picks up yesterday’s sweats from where he dropped them last night, and quietly
pads over to his chest of drawers to get clean underwear and socks. He picks up his sneakers from
where he abandoned them the other day and goes into the en suite to brush his teeth and run a
comb through his hair. He notices in the mirror that his hair has regained its usual sheen, and feels
its softness as he combs it. Who needs hair care products? he thinks. A good lovemaking session
beats any conditioner.
He runs down the stairs and out the back door. The entry to the running path is just across the
carpark, and a small kiosk sits beside it, ostensibly to guard cars but really to note who might be
setting out for a run. He looks in, and sees a familiar face behind the guard’s desk.

“Ken?” he says.

Ken jumps to his feet and says, “Good morning, Your Royal Highness. Out for a little exercise?”

“Thank you, yes,” he says. Normally he would then have turned away; but he feels a need to keep
the conversation going. “My word,” he says, “you mustn’t let us take advantage of you. First you
sit up all night guarding me in Texas, and now here you are at this ungodly hour keeping us safe in
London. I hope you’re getting some rest sometime.”

“No chance of that,” says Ken. “With the new baby, neither my wife nor I is getting much sleep
these days. And with all the additional expenses, I try to pick up any extra shifts I can.”

“Well, we truly appreciate it,” says Henry. “I want you to know that.”

“Just doing my job, Sir,” says Ken.

“No,” says Henry. “Just doing a job is one thing; doing it conscientiously is something else
entirely. And I don’t think my family and I say thank you often enough. We are truly grateful for
all that you and your co-workers do.”

“Well,” says Ken, “We in Security were quite upset when the Princess’s car was vandalized last
Spring. We felt bloody awful about letting you all down.”

“Things happen,” says Henry. “The important thing is to move on and do better in the future.”
Christ, I sound just like Gran. Aloud he says, “You say you have a new baby? Boy or girl?”

“Boy, Sir.”
“What’s his name?”

“David, Sir.” Ken smiles, as does Henry.

“I hope your David doesn’t howl like mine when he wants to be fed,” says Henry.

“He’s got quite a pair of lungs, Sir, and no mistake,” says Ken. He pauses and looks away, as if
anxious about overstepping some invisible boundary. “If I may say so, Sir,” he says shyly, “I’m
glad that you and Mr. Claremont-Diaz have patched things up. When I came on shift, the bloke
from the night turn told me he showed up last evening. It’s good to know you’re friends again.”

“Indeed,” says Henry. Of course, Security would pass on the information about Alex’s arrival.

“Well, enjoy your run, Sir,” says Ken. “Be careful in there. The leaves are starting to drop, and
they can be pretty slippery underfoot.”

“Thank you,” says Henry. He doesn’t want Ken to feel that he’s been overly familiar, so he grins.
“I wouldn’t want to take another tumble with Alex about. The one at my brother’s wedding was
quite enough, thank you very much.” Ken grins in response as Henry sets out.

So, thinks Henry as he starts running. Here we are. If I was serious about ending this, last night
rather messed things up.

(But he flew all the way across the ocean to come get me! ME!)

But what now? Restored hair texture notwithstanding, wonderful lovemaking solves nothing. The
problems facing them this time yesterday are still there today. And there’s another issue, one which
seeing Alex had sharply reminded him of: he had thought about Alex’s dreams of a future in
politics, but that’s years down the road. The Presidential election, on the other hand, is now just a
couple of months away. As they always do at this point, polls show margins are narrowing. One
good scandal, and Richards has a real chance.

His head says that the wiser thing to do is still to break things off, as he had resolved to do this time
last week. But his heart says something else entirely, not to mention his libido. The feel of Alex’s
body against his, the taste of Alex on his tongue, the musky, masculine fragrance he loves so much
enveloping him last night… how could he go back to a lifetime without these? Can he really
imagine sending Alex away to shut himself in his “tower, and be miserable forever, and write a
whole book of sad fucking poems about it”?

Just then, he feels a raindrop on his cheek. He looks up to a grey sky filled with darkening clouds.
He runs back to the palace (waving at Ken as he passes), barely beating the downpour.

There’s a small dining room by the back door where staff often take their breaks. At this hour, one
may order simple breakfasts from the kitchens, and there is almost always a pot of tea and a carafe
of coffee available. Henry glances in as he passes, and is startled to see Philip sitting at one of the
tables reading a newspaper.

Most people read the papers on their mobiles, but of course Philip, a Luddite at heart, demands a
printed copy. Henry watches him take a sip of black tea and a bite of toast. Plain, hard, cold,
unbuttered toast. Philip must be on one of his diets again. Henry shudders.

He vaguely remembers Bea saying something about Philip and Martha coming to stay while they
have some renovations done at Anmer Park, their country home in Norfolk.

“How’s the reno going?” asks Henry, entering the room. Philip looks up, smiles, and gestures for
Henry to take a seat at his table

“Oh, fine,” says Philip. “We needed a new roof, but fortunately Royalty Today promised to pick up
some of the costs for an exclusive on the interiors. But we’re only giving them access to the formal
reception rooms; the rooms where we really live are off limits. The public doesn’t need to see my
easy chair, or know what size telly screen we watch.” He takes another bite of toast, then says after
he swallows, “And of course, Mazz wanted some work on the nurseries.”

“Nurseries?” says Henry in some surprise. “But Philip, you hate children.”

“Who wouldn’t, growing up with you and Beatrice underfoot?” says Philip. “But Gran wants great-
grandchildren. And with a good nanny, it’s not like we’d have to see them much.”

“Sounds ideal,” murmurs Henry sarcastically. But Philip merely shrugs in response.

“”Well,” says Philip, “there’s no prospect in view of you getting on the stick and doing your duty to
the succession anytime soon. And Bea’s a lost cause.”
“What makes you so sure?” says Henry.

“Oh, she and I had a talk about it a while back,” says Philip. “I asked her if she was planning on
marriage and children, and she started singing something from the cinema. Something about
someone understanding…”

“‘And for once, it might be grand/To have someone understand/I want so much more than they’ve
got planned,’” says Henry, quoting the lyric from Beauty and the Beast, one of Bea’s favorite
films. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

“So there we are,” says Philip. “It’s a dirty job, but as usual, I’ve got to do it.”

“Being second in line isn’t all beer and skittles,” says Henry.

“No, it’s not,” agrees Philip. “But that’s the script we were born to play.”

A thought strikes Henry. “But are you happy, Pip? Are you good with just playing a script?”

“I never really thought about it,” says Philip. He shrugs. “I suppose I’m happy enough. And Mazz
and I make a good team—we work together very well. Yes, I’m happy. I’m fine.” He glances at his
watch as he folds the newspaper. “Damnation, look at the time. I’ve got to go. Gran has me
opening some hospital wing or other. We’ll talk again soon, shall we? Gran said the other day that
it’s been more than a year since you finished Oxford, and she’s rather got her heart set on your
joining the Marines. She seems to think you’d look good in the uniform.”

“So she’s told me,” says Henry. And told me and told me, he thinks.

“Later, mate,” says Philip as he leaves.

Henry sits at the table. Listening to Philip actually succeeded in clarifying a few things for him,
though Philip would be appalled if he knew the conclusion his words have led Henry to adopt. He
thinks, He’s fine. He’s absolutely fine. Gran told him to find a suitable bride, so he did. He doesn’t
mind that he didn’t love Martha; they’ve evolved a working relationship with benefits, and that’s
fine. He hates children, but Gran says to have them, so he’s fine with that too, as long as he doesn’t
have to see much of them.

He notices the half-slice of unbuttered toast Philip has left uneaten on his plate. It strikes him as a
metaphor for the life Philip has chosen. Dry toast staves off the worst of the hunger pangs and
provides nominal nourishment. You can even tell yourself that you’ve been fed. But no one would
call it satisfying, and at some point down the road, you’re bound to feel empty inside. He can just
imagine Alex saying, I know you, Henry. You might tell yourself you can get along on dry toast,
but you’d always miss the sausage.

He thinks, Philip says he’s fine. Bully for him—I hope he is. And I hope Martha’s fine with the
bargain they’ve made and the life they share. But I want more than that. I don’t want a lifetime of
fine—not when love is right upstairs.

He runs lightly up the staircase, but instead of entering his bedroom, he veers to the kitchenette
down the hall. He puts on the kettle to make himself a cup of tea, and pulls out a pod for the
single-serve coffeemaker. He remembers once thinking that Alex would probably only drink
specialty coffees prepared by a barista with a heart design drawn in the foam, but Alex has
described some of the sludge he drank at campaign headquarters. He’ll say whatever Henry makes
him is fine. (That word!) But Henry wants to make it wonderful.

As the coffee brews, he searches for something: there it is. A lifetime ago (was it really only a few
days before Texas?) he wanted to try a coffee cake recipe he had seen on Great British Bake Off.
He has discovered, over the last few months, that he finds baking oddly satisfying—there’s nothing
like watching a loaf of bread rising, or sniffing the fragrance of baked goods fresh out of the oven,
or having a biscuit with morning coffee which one has baked oneself. One of the ingredients for
the coffeecake was, not surprisingly, cinnamon. And he’s often seen Alex fixing his coffee—black,
one sugar, a dash of cinnamon.

Carrying the mugs, he heads to his bedroom. As he enters, he sees that Alex is sitting up. His bed-
head makes him look like the offspring of the Bride of Frankenstein by a man who just stuck his
finger in a light socket.

Henry offers a small smile and says, “Your hair in the morning is truly a wonder to behold.”

He kneels on the edge of the mattress and gives Alex the coffee. Alex takes a sip, then looks into
the mug and smiles shyly, like a little boy who has just found the most wonderful gift in the world
in his Christmas stocking. His expression is so endearing that Henry smiles broadly and squeezes
one of Alex’s feet through the duvet.
Alex squints over the rim of the coffee mug and says cautiously, “Hi.” He takes another sip and
says carefully, “You seem… less pissy.”

Henry laughs and says, “You’re one to talk. I wasn’t the one who stormed the palace in a fit of
pique to call me ‘an obtuse fucking asshole.’”

“In my defense,” says Alex, “you were an obtuse fucking asshole.”

Henry thinks of the European court policy of never correcting royalty. Not only had it made
teaching royal children subjects like arithmetic—arithmetic, mind you, not maths—practically
impossible; it had led to the deaths of countless soldiers over the centuries, when kings insisted on
taking command of armies and generals were unable to correct their hopeless battle strategy. And it
led to the most appalling ignorance about everyday things: an Austrian prince, who had grown up
seeing the double-headed eagle symbol of his dynasty, once complained when he got to shoot an
eagle that the bird was defective, since it only had one head.

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had permitted correction of their children in the schoolroom—in
fact, they encouraged governesses and tutors to whip their children for any misbehaviour, not
exempting even their hemophiliac son. But once the royal children reached adulthood, etiquette
demanded that they never be contradicted, except by their parents.

Since reaching the age of eighteen, after Arthur’s death and Catherine’s withdrawal, Henry has
literally never been corrected by anyone besides the Queen, though Philip has tried. Even Oxford
professors observed the unwritten rule: once when Henry forgot about a required essay until
literally twenty-three minutes before class, he dashed off some piece of rubbish, and the professor
merely wrote mildly across the title page, This essay is not up to Your Royal Highness’s normal
clarity of reasoning and felicity of expression. I look forward, Sir, to your future efforts.

Alex obviously does not understand this convention. He thinks, Any time I ever again behave so
stupidly—like “an obtuse fucking asshole”—Alex will tell me. Again. Christ, I love this man.

In answer to Alex’s comment, Henry says, “I was.” He sets his mug of tea carefully down on the
bedside table, and presses his lips to Alex’s.

As they break apart, Alex eyes him carefully, obviously unsure where this conversation might be
going. Is this the end of their relationship, or a new beginning? Though Alex might try to hide it,
Henry can see a bit of hope in those brown eyes. “Hey,” says Alex. “Where were you?”
Henry kicks off his wet sneakers and climbs up onto the bed. He sits between Alex’s open legs and
places his hands on the duvet covering Alex’s thighs. Fear and nervousness linger in the black-
fringed depths, but hope seems to be gaining ground.

“I needed a run,” says Henry. “To clear my head a bit, figure out… what’s next. Very Mr. Darcy
brooding at Pemberley. And I ran into Philip.” He gives Alex a summary of their conversation,
even including the dry toast. He concludes, “He’s fine. It’s all very deeply fine. A whole lifetime of
fine.” To avoid the distraction of those eyes, he has been concentrating on a loose thread in the
duvet. But now he looks up into Alex’s face and says, “That’s not good enough for me.”

The cautious hope which had earlier shown In Alex’s eyes is no longer guarded; it is wild, leaping,
like carefully banked pieces of firewood which have suddenly blazed into flame. Obviously
needing assurance that he is correctly interpreting Henry’s words, Alex says, “It isn’t?”

Suddenly, Henry falters. He needs to say this next bit absolutely right. He has never so much
regretted his lack of facility with the spoken word, due to the reticence which has been drilled into
him from earliest youth. Whatever happens, royals are supposed to keep their opinions to
themselves, not go about sharing their feelings. But this time, he must.

“I’m not… good at saying things like you are,” he says. “But. I’ve always thought … ever since I
knew about me, and even before, when I could sense I was different—and after everything the past
few years, all the mad things my head does—I’ve always thought of myself as a problem that
deserved to stay hidden. Never quite trusted myself, or what I wanted. Before you, I was all right
letting everything happen to me. I honestly have never thought I deserved to choose.” Henry
lovingly tucks one of the wild curls behind Alex’s ear. “But you treat me like I do.”

Alex swallows. He sets his mug on the nightstand next to Henry’s and says, “You do.”

Henry says, “I think I’m actually beginning to believe that. And I don’t know how long it would
have taken me if I didn’t have you to believe for me.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with you,” says Alex. Then his expression shifts, to one Henry has
seen a thousand times: it’s the face Alex wears when he’s about to say something snarky. “I
mean,” he says, “aside from the fact that you’re occasionally an obtuse fucking asshole.”

Tears spring to Henry’s eyes. He thinks, We’re going to be okay. If he’s teasing me again, we’re
going to be okay. He laughs. But he needs to say something else.
“I am sorry about that,” says Henry. He can almost feel warm lake water lapping around him as he
remembers the sheer terror he had felt at what he knew Alex wanted to say. “I—I wasn’t ready to
hear it,” he says haltingly. “That night, at the lake… it was the first time I let myself think you
might actually say it. I panicked, and it was daft and unfair, and I won’t do it again.”

“You better not,” says Alex. It’s a warning, but not a threat; it’s born out of love, and a fear of
rejection, but not out of resentment. “So you’re saying… you’re in?”

“I’m saying,” says Henry, determined to say this aloud before he loses his nerve, “I’m terrified,
and my whole life is completely mad, but trying to give you up this week nearly killed me.” He
shudders, remembering how he had brooded over exhibits from Queen Victoria’s mourning. “And
when I woke up this morning, and looked at you … there’s no trying to get by for me anymore. I
don’t know if I’ll ever be allowed to tell the world, but I… I want to. One day. If there’s any legacy
for me on this bloody Earth, I want it to be true.”

He takes a deep breath. “So I can offer you all of me, in whatever way you’ll have me, and I can
offer you the chance of a life. If you can wait, I want you to help me try.” It almost feels like a
proposal. He wonders if he should have gone down on one knee and had a ring to offer.

Alex doesn’t answer immediately; instead, his gaze seems to turn inward. Is it possible that, just for
once, Alex is weighing consequences, taking a look before he leaps? Henry thinks, Really, Alex, if
you’re going to try careful consideration for the first time in your life, did you have to do it with me
sitting here trembling? He smiles to himself, but then grows serious. But you’re right to do it, Alex.
This is big. Really big. This is a commitment to a future that could change the world.

Alex says, almost off-handedly, “Okay. I’m into making history.”

The relief is so palpable Henry doesn’t know what to do—laugh, cry, start turning somersaults? He
settles for rolling his eyes and sealing their agreement with a kiss. Then they fall back against the
pillows and reach eagerly for each other, Alex smoothing Henry’s hair, still wet from his morning
run in the mist, and Henry running his hands up and down Alex’s body.

Henry attempts to pull Alex closer; Alex is more direct, trying to yank down Henry’s joggers. But
the damn sheets keep twisting up between them and their feet keep getting tangled in the blankets.
In utter exasperation Henry yells, “Bollocks!” and kicks the bedclothes to the floor, then they both
start laughing while Alex finishes pushing down the joggers, and Henry pulls Alex over on top of
him, and…

They spend the morning in bed, kissing, making out, watching reruns of Great British Bake-Off on
Henry’s laptop (he’ll make a convert out of Alex yet), just luxuriating in the pure joy of a lazy
morning with nothing much to do except enjoy each other. At one point, Henry calls down to the
kitchens for some breakfast, choosing warm scones and blackcurrant jam.

“Just knock and leave a tray outside,” he says, “I’ll come fetch it, then bring it out when we’re
done.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” says the waiter. Henry meant to order something simple so as to be
no trouble while the kitchens are preparing staff lunch, but as always when they make something
for royalty, the presentation of his order is absolutely beautiful.

Henry throws on a robe at the sound of a knock, and goes out to find a small rolling table with
starched napery and gleaming china, steaming pots of coffee and tea to accompany the food, even
a freshly-ironed copy of The Times and a small vase of fresh-cut flowers.

Bea passes him in the hall as he wheels the table back to his bedroom. She stares at him for a
moment, and then a knowing smile spreads across her face. “Tell Alex I said hello,” she says, and
continues into the music room.

He finds Alex reaching for his mobile in the back pocket of his still-damp jeans. Alex scrolls
through his texts, leaving the ones from Zahra unread, and smiling as he says, “My group text with
June and Nora has forty-seven messages in it.” All but one are from June, and Alex reads them to
Henry: June’s messages veer from worry to fury to threats of violence, but then on to gasps of
wonder at the sheer romance of Alex traveling across the ocean to win back Henry’s love. The sole
message from Nora is a laconic inquiry asking if anyone has seen her lost pair of white Chuck
Taylors.

“Oh my God,” says Alex. “She kicked them off one night when we were listening to music in my
room before Texas, then she said she and June wanted some ‘sister power time.’ She must have
forgotten where she left them, and borrowed a pair of June’s sandals to go home the next
morning.” He taps out a text: your chucks are under my bed and henry says hi.

Within seconds, Alex’s phone is ringing. He smiles at Henry, then connects, saying, “Hello, June.”
Across the room, Henry, also smiling, can hear June’s squealing. Then Alex says, “One second,”
and puts her on speaker.

June announces, “Tell me everything, boys. I want a complete blow-by-blow.” Henry and Alex
laugh out loud. June sputters, “I didn't mean that, idiots," but she starts giggling too.
After they finish with June, Henry calls Shaan and asks him to let Zahra know that Alex is safe and
with him. Shaan asks whether he should order a car to take Alex back to the airport, and Henry
mouths, Tomorrow? Alex nods vigorously. Shaan somewhat nervously agrees to let Zahra know
that, too.

The only remaining message is from the President. Alex hesitates before touching playback. Henry
says, “I suppose we do have to face the consequences at some point.”

Alex says, “I don’t think I told you but she, uh. Well, when she fired me, she told me that if I
wasn’t a thousand percent serious about you, I needed to break things off.”

Henry leans in and nuzzles his nose behind Alex’s ear. Christ, that fragrance. Essence of Alex. I
wish I could bottle it. Aloud, he says, “A thousand percent?”

“Yeah,” says Alex, “don’t let it go to your head.” Yes, things are back to normal.

Henry mentions the concerns he has felt about Alex’s potential future in politics, but Alex
dismisses them. “Look at this face. People love this face. I’ll figure out the rest.” Seeing the look
of deep scepticism on Henry’s face, Alex says, “Look, I don’t know. I don’t even exactly know,
like, how being a legislator would work if I’m with a prince of another country. So, you know.
There’s stuff to figure out. But way worse people with way bigger problems than me,” (than I,
thinks Henry) “get elected all the time.”

“You’re really not frightened of what might happen?”

“No,” says Alex immediately, but then he reconsiders. “I mean, of course I am. It definitely stays
secret until after the election. And I know it’ll be messy. But if we can get ahead of the narrative,
wait for the right time and do it on our own terms, I think it could be okay.”

Henry asks, “How long have you been thinking about this?” He can just imagine Alex with one of
his lists: Things To Do Before Coming Out to the World About Henry.

“Consciously? Since, like, the DNC. Sub-consciously, in total denial? A long-ass time. At least
since you kissed me.”
 Do I hear angels singing “Gloria”? Aloud, he says, “That’s … kind of incredible.”

Alex counters, “What about you?”

“What about me?” says Henry. “Christ, Alex. The whole bloody time.”

“The whole time?” For someone so brilliantly insightful, Alex can be so dense.

“Since the Olympics.” He can suddenly smell the chlorine, and the most beautiful young man he
has ever seen is turning round, and his eyes are lighting up in recognition, and there’s a flash of
white teeth as he smiles… The same brown eyes are now staring at him in wonderment, and
Henry’s breath catches, just as it had back then. Enchanting. Breath-taking.

“The Olympics?” Alex lunges and yanks the pillow out from beneath Henry’s head, which then
hits the mattress with a thump. “But that’s, that’s like—”

“Yes, Alex, the day we met. Nothing gets past you, does it?” He tries to grab his pillow back as he
says, mimicking Alex’s American accent, “‘What about you,’ he says, as if he doesn’t know--”

A huge grin splits Alex’s face as he says, “Shut your mouth,” and then he climbs on top of Henry
and straddles him, and in their laughing and roughhousing Henry rolls on top of Alex’s phone. The
exasperated, but affectionate, voice of the President of the United States sounds muffled but
intelligible. “Diaz, you insane, hopeless, romantic little shit. It had better be forever. Be safe.”

Chapter End Notes

Next up: the reunion continues, with arguably THE most romantic scene in the history
of Western literature!
 Storia d'amore: Paradiso, seconda parte
Chapter Summary

A day in bed, a late-night secret expedition, a dance in a dimly-lit chapel, the offer of a
ring: does it get much more romantic than this?

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

September in London can wear a number of faces. Sometimes it gives a sultry backward nod to
summer; other days, it looks forward with a shiver to autumn’s chill. But occasionally, usually just
after a storm, the sun comes out and the breeze blows along the freshly-washed streets, and the
leaves, as they begin to change colour, offer a perfect contrast to the impossible bright blue of the
sky.

This turns out to be one of those days; and for Henry, the afternoon passes in a golden haze. He and
Alex take a shower together, enjoying themselves as usual. The laundry has promised that Alex’s
clothes can be ready by morning, so for right now, Henry leads Alex to his chest of drawers for
socks and underwear, then goes into his closet for joggers and hoodies. He comes out to find Alex
closely examining the boxers.

“What are you looking for?” asks Henry. “They’re just plain white boxer briefs.”

“Just a minute…” says Alex, then adds triumphantly, “Ha! I knew it!” He points. On one leg, a
small HW is embroidered in white silk thread, with a tiny prince’s coronet above the initials.

“What?” says Henry. “Don’t you mark your clothes so they don’t get lost in the laundry?”

“I don’t embroider American eagles on them,” says Alex, grinning.

“How about turkeys? Or are they too intimidating?” counters Henry. “By the way, I hope the
joggers aren’t too long. Of course, you can always roll them up. Several inches, if needs be.”

“Go fuck yourself, Wales,” says Alex.

“Rather unnecessary with you here, don’t you think?” says Henry. They both laugh.

Alex sighs and says, “I suppose I’d better check on Cash. I forgot all about him.”

“Not to worry,” says Henry. “I’m sure they put him up in visiting staff quarters, where Amy and
her team stayed when you came back last fall. And Shaan would have told him to order whatever
he likes from the kitchens. Speaking of which, I’m starving. How does falafel sound? I figured we
could just pick something up at the stand around the corner and bring it back here.”

“I should see if Cash wants to go with us,” says Alex. “He’ll have a hissy fit if I try to sneak out.”

“If Cash is coming along, I should probably get a PPO too,” says Henry.

“Do you think Bea might be hungry?” asks Alex. And so the little outing is arranged. Bea gives
Alex a hug when she sees him, and Henry is not a bit surprised when Ken turns out to be the PPO
who is assigned (or more likely, thinks Henry, who volunteered) to accompany them.
Demonstrating his politician’s memory for names and faces, Alex says, “How are you, Ken? I
hope you enjoyed your time last week at the lake.”

“Yes, thank you, Sir,” says Ken politely. “It’s good to see you again. Now, if everyone is ready, I
can lead the way since I’m also well-acquainted with the falafel stand. Mr. Washington, if you
would watch from the rear, please…”

When they get back with the food, Bea says, “I’m taking mine to my room. Enjoy yourselves, lads.
I can smell the thick air of horn-town building up between you two all the way over here.”

Bea is right—after they eat, they head straight back to bed. But they spend as much time cuddling
as coupling; there’s something so incredibly wondrous about basking in the security of their mutual
love. Nothing is frenzied or hurried; they know that even after Alex goes back to DC, they will find
a way to work things out so that they can spend the rest of their lives together, even if it does take
years to arrange.

Alex is curled up against Henry, his head pillowed on Henry’s shoulder, when suddenly Henry
comes to a decision. There’s something he’s been thinking about all evening. He pokes Alex in the
midsection and says, “Hey. You up for a little expedition?”
Alex smiles and says, “Baby, I’m up for anything you might have in mind. Should I get Cash?”

“No,” says Henry. “It’s dark, and I think Bea will help us sneak out unnoticed. I want this just to be
the two of us.”

Many have been the times over the years that Bea and Henry have helped each other in their little
schemes, so this is an old, well-rehearsed script. Bea instructs the driver from the car pool to beep
when he gets to the palace door, which alerts the paparazzi who usually hang out around the gates
that something is happening. (One good thing about last night’s rain: it had sent them inside, so
they had missed Alex’s arrival.) Bea swears loudly when she drops her bag, and the driver jumps
out, using his mobile flashlight to help her search for items which have rolled away. She searches
with her own mobile flashlight as well.

If the horn blast and the cursing hadn’t grabbed the paparazzi’s attention, the bobbing lights
certainly do. Bea throws open the limo’s back door and calls to the driver, “Never mind the bloody
things; I’m late. Step on it. Use your horn if you have to.”

Henry and Alex grin as they watch all this from an upper window, and then the reporters jumping
into their cars in hot pursuit. “They’ll be quite disappointed when they find out she’s just going to
her mate Cynthia’s for snacks and a movie,” says Henry. Then he leads Alex into the gardens, and
they sprint along the paths and out through a door in the brick wall enclosing the palace.

They run along the dark streets of South Kensington. It had rained again earlier in the evening, and
the pavement is wet and deserted. They’ve pulled baseball caps low on their foreheads, but Alex
looks up long enough to notice a street name.

“Stop, are you kidding me?” he says. “Prince Consort Road? Oh my God, take a picture of me
with the sign.” He grins and strikes a pose.

“Not there yet!” says Henry, looking back. He takes Alex’s arm and gives it a tug. “Keep moving,
you wastrel!”

Henry takes Alex down a side street to a small alcove between two pillars. Pulling a keyring with
dozens of keys out of his hoodie, feeling around the edge of the panel between the pillars, Henry
says conversationally, “Funny thing about being a prince—people will give you keys to just about
anything if you ask nicely.” There it is. He inserts a key into a small dimple in the wall and twists.
There is a little click, and the panel swings open a crack.
Alex is open-mouthed, disbelief writ large on his face. He says, “All this time, I thought I was the
Ferris Bueller of this relationship.”

Henry says, “What, did you think I was Sloane?” He pushes the panel open just wide enough for
them to slip through, then pushes it shut, and it clicks once more. They run into a dark plaza paved
with white tiles, and Alex slows up as he recognizes where they are: The Victoria and Albert
Museum.

Standing by the darkened museum doors is Henry’s old friend, Gavin the Security Guard. Fifteen
or twenty years ago, when Henry was small, Gavin would admit Arthur and Catherine early in the
morning for private visits with their children. Philip would loudly complain, “This is stupid! I want
to go home and play video games!” while Beatrice had an alarming tendency to wander off on her
own to look at musical instruments.

But Henry loved to listen to his parents’ stories about the various exhibits, and there is one spot in
particular which he wants to share with Alex. It has been his fantasy for years to share it with
someone he loves, and who is simpatico enough to understand.

Henry slips Gavin a thick wad of bills, which he prefers to think of as a tip, not a bribe. He doesn’t
think Gavin would get in trouble for letting them in, but you never know. “Can’t thank you
enough, Gavin,” he says, shaking the guard’s hand.

Gavin says, “Renaissance City tonight, yeah?”

Henry says, “If you would be so kind.”

He leads Alex along the dim corridors, pointing out a piece here and there which is especially
meaningful to him as he tells Alex about his parents bringing them here, “to have a sense of the
arts, I suppose, but mostly history.” He points out a large, stylized tiger busily mauling a soldier in
British regimentals, brought back to England during the reign of George III as war booty after a
brief, unsuccessful rebellion against the British East India Company—a continuation of the
centuries of English genocide on the Indian sub-continent.

The sign by the glass display case reads TIPU’S TIGER. Henry remembers how the guard would
remove the case to let Philip turn the crank in the tiger’s side, causing the soldier to groan and
wriggle, much to the boys’ ghoulish glee. Then the guard would open a hidden panel to disclose a
keyboard, on which Bea would pick out Rule Britannia. Mum would frown and whisper to Henry,
“My Great-great-great-great-granddad stole this from India. I think we should give it back, but
Gran says no.”
Henry thinks they should also return the Ivory Throne Chair at Osborne House as an act of
solidarity with those attempting to rescue the endangered elephant species, but since Edward VII
gave the seaside palace to the Nation, that would probably require an Act of Parliament.

He takes Alex’s hand and they run down the corridors to Henry’s favorite spot. As they go, he
says, “Now I like to come at night. A few of the higher-up security guards know me. Sometimes I
think I keep coming because, no matter how many places I’ve been or people I’ve met or books I
read, this place is proof I’ll never learn it all.

“It’s like Westminster. You can look at every individual carving or pane of stained glass and know
there’s this wealth of stories there, that everything was put in a specific place for a reason.
Everything has a meaning, an intention. There are pieces in here—The Great Bed of Ware, it’s
mentioned in Twelfth Night, Epicoene, Don Juan, and it’s here. Everything is a story, never
finished. Isn’t it incredible? And the archives, God, I could spend hours in the archives, they
—mmph.” Alex has stopped in the middle of the corridor and yanked Henry back to kiss him.

“Hello,” says Henry, startled, but delighted. “What was that for?”

Alex shrugs. “I just like, really love you.”

Henry is stunned. Most people’s eyes start to glaze over when he starts going on and on; Philip has
often told him, “You know, Henry, nobody cares. Most people just tune you out. They don’t even
listen because they think you're a bore.” But Alex’s eyes are shining, and a small, loving smile is
playing over his lips.

Yes, he can trust Alex with his sacred space.

“This is it,” he says, pulling Alex into an immense, lighted archway. “I called ahead to Gavin to
make sure they left a light on. It’s my favorite room.”

They enter, and he watches Alex take it all in. The half-light from the hall discloses a large room,
filled with pillars and fountains and magnificent statuary, and covering the back wall, a marble
Gothic choir screen with black and gold sculptures of saints in its niches. The room pulses with an
air of quiet awe and holiness.

Henry says softly, “In here, at night, it’s almost like walking through a real piazza. But there’s
nobody else around to touch you or gawk at you or try to steal a photo of you. You can just be.”

Henry carefully watches Alex’s reaction to this. It’s all he could have hoped for, and more. The
shining eyes, the half-smile. And no one, in his entire life, has ever looked at Henry with such
loving tenderness. Alex reaches out and gently squeezes Henry’s hand. Just as softly, he answers,
“Tell me everything.”

Still holding hands, they circle the hall, Henry telling him the names and the stories of the various
statues. They end at Giambologna’s massive sculpture Samson Slaying a Philistine. Alex reaches
out a hand, almost involuntarily, and Henry knows that if he could, Alex would touch the cold
marble to see if it is actually warm human flesh.

Henry reminds Alex of the story he told him about George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham and
seventeenth-century lover of King James I, who had exercised the same sultry fascination over both
James and his son, later King Charles I. Historians all but sweat blood in their feverish
determination to insist that there is no indication, and certainly no proof, that Buckingham was
ever the lover of King Charles; they describe a sort of father-son relationship, though in fact
Buckingham was less than a decade Charles’ senior. Certainly the general public saw the interplay
between Charles and Buckingham as a continuation of the same sort of situation as had existed
with King James. One man was so disgusted that he assassinated Villiers.

For Henry, whether Charles and Buckingham ever actually had sex is irrelevant; the relationship
between the two men, even if originally based on hero worship on one side and opportunism on the
other, was nonetheless charged with eroticism. Certainly Charles’ wife, Henrietta Maria, was
suspicious enough to feel passionate jealousy and hatred for the Duke.

She quietly celebrated when Buckingham was murdered, but historians agree that in losing him,
Charles had merely exchanged one domineering master for another, the Queen herself. And
Buckingham, being older and more worldly-wise, would never have allowed Charles to pursue the
knuckle-headed policies which the Queen championed, and which ultimately resulted in the
temporary fall of the monarchy following Charles’ 1649 execution.

Now, facing the sculpture with a sly smile, Henry tells Alex, “And James’s son, Charles I, is the
reason we have dear Samson. It’s the only Giambologna that ever left Florence. He was a gift to
Charles from the King of Spain, and Charles gave it, this massive, absolutely priceless masterpiece
of a sculpture, to Villiers. And a few centuries later, here he is. One of the most beautiful pieces we
own, and we didn’t even steal it. We only needed Villiers and his trolloping ways with the queer
monarchs. To me, if there were a registry of national gay landmarks in Britain, Samson would be
on it.”

Alex smiles at Henry lovingly, and then pulls out his phone. Henry asks, “What are you doing?”
Alex says, “I’m taking a picture of a national gay landmark. And a statue.” Then he comes closer to
Henry, reaches up and removes Henry’s baseball cap, and stands on his tiptoes to plant a kiss on
Henry’s forehead, just as his father used to do when Henry said or did something of which Arthur
was particularly proud.

“It’s funny,” says Henry. “I always thought of the whole thing as the most unforgivable thing about
me, but you act like it’s one of the best.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Alex. “The top list of reasons to love you goes brain, then dick, then imminent
status as a revolutionary gay icon.”

The twists and turns of their relationship since this time last year have often left Henry nearly
pinching himself in disbelief, but the most amazing thing is the easy way Alex speaks of loving
him (and, being Alex, the outrageous way he phrases it). Now, standing here in the museum built
to house Prince Albert’s beloved Italian Renaissance art, and continued by Queen Victoria as a
monument to their storybook (and strictly heterosexual) romance, Henry says, “You are quite
literally Queen Victoria’s worst nightmare.”

Alex immediately counters with, “And that’s why you love me.”

Henry knows there’s a lot more to it than mere rebellion—after all, Alex has a pretty nice brain and
dick himself—but Henry says, “My God, you’re right. All this time, I was just after the bloke
who’d most infuriate my homophobic forebears.” Forebears? he thinks. Blimey, just wait for the
fireworks when Philip and Gran find out. In the far distant future, of course.

Alex says, “Ah, and we can’t forget they were also racist.” Henry hardly ever thinks about Alex’s
ethnicity as a thing—if anything, he thinks it just makes Alex even more beautiful—but he knows
that growing up in Texas, Alex was often made to feel second-class because of his Mexican
heritage.

Henry nods and says, “Certainly not. Next time we shall visit some of the George III pieces and see
if they burst into flame.” Next time. Were there ever two more beautiful words?

Slowly, Henry turns and begins walking towards the far end of the room, Alex trailing behind him.
The darkened Chapel of Santa Chiara beckons.
Shyly, Henry says, “When I was younger, I had this very elaborate idea of taking someone I loved
here and standing inside the chapel, that he’d love it as much as I did, and we’d slow-dance right in
front of the Blessed Mother. Just a… daft pubescent fantasy.” Looking at the floor, in his mind’s
eye he sees Gran and Philip, wearing matching sneers.

But he looks up into Alex’s eyes, and he sees no mockery there. Even in the dim light of the
recessed chapel, Alex’s beautiful brown eyes are shining. In those chocolate depths, Henry finds
permission to pull out his phone and call up the music he had played for Alex after Wimbledon. As
the tinny notes of “Your Song” begin to sound in the half-lit room, he extends his hand to the man
he loves.

Alex huffs out a laugh. He asks, “Aren’t you gonna ask if I know how to waltz?”

“No waltzing,” says Henry. “Never cared for it.” Though actually, he thinks, it should be my
favorite dance. If I hadn’t sent Marmaduke to ask June for a waltz at Philip’s wedding, I might not
have provoked Alex into coming over to challenge me as I stood there next to the cake.

Thinking of all he might have missed in that case, Henry pulls Alex into his arms. Is it just his
fantasy, or is the Blessed Mother actually smiling? He kisses Alex as they turn slowly in place, and
tightens his hug and buries his face in Alex’s neck, deeply inhaling the aroma he loves so much.
Essence of Alex. Then Alex pulls Henry’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it.

***

Henry awakens the next morning to a grey and gloomy day. A slow, sullen rain is falling.
Nonetheless, he stretches luxuriantly, voluptuously, thinking of yesterday and the night before. He
reaches out his hand to the pillow next to his, preparing to say, “Rise and shine, Alex!”

The pillow is untouched, and the other half of the bed is cold and empty.

Oh, God. NO.

It had all been a dream. A beautiful, elaborate dream. But Alex is lost. Henry will never see him
again. Oh, nooooooooo… He bursts into a storm of sobbing, burying his face in his pillow. He
feels someone—Bea? Shaan?—grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.
“Baby!” a familiar voice says urgently. “Baby! You’re having a bad dream! Wake up!”

Henry opens his eyes—really opens them this time—and in the moonlight streaming in the window
from a clear, early autumn sky, he sees Alex staring down at him. His hair is so wild—it must be
the humidity—that Henry laughs, a laugh that quickly transforms into sobbing. He holds Alex
close, but it’s several minutes before he can choke out any words. Alex just rocks him, crooning,
smoothing Henry’s hair back from his forehead. “Shh, shh, shh,” he says. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.
I’m here.” The words just make Henry cry harder, remembering the utter despair he had felt,
thinking Alex was gone forever. He had felt just the same sense of desolation when Arthur died.

“Can you tell me about it?” says Alex.

“You—were—gone,” says Henry shakily. “I thought I—dreamed the whole thing…”

“Now, that’s just silly,” says Alex. “You don’t get rid of me that easily. Who else do you know
who would pursue you all the way across the Atlantic Ocean?”

“No—one,” says Henry with a hiccup.

“There, you see?” says Alex. “I’m here, and here to stay. Well, I have to go back to DC in a few
hours, but after the election is over, I’ll be back here with you, okay?” Henry nods, swallowing.
Then he suddenly bursts into tears again.

“Now what?” asks Alex.

“Christ, Alex,” he chokes, “the relief!” Alex hugs him even closer, but Henry can feel something.
Alex is giggling, the bastard.

“It’s not funny,” Henry sniffles indignantly.

“No, not funny,” says Alex, “but it is silly. What kind of dumbass are you, to think that I’d leave
the most wonderful man on Earth? The man of my dreams, the man of the dreams of half the
people on this planet, and he’s mine? You really think I could leave him?”
“What do you mean, half?” says Henry with a shaky smile.

Alex pokes him, then says, “Hold on.” He jumps up and runs into the en suite, then comes back a
second later with a box of tissues. “Here,” he says. “You’re getting my chest all wet.” Henry wipes
his streaming eyes, then Alex holds a tissue to Henry’s nose. He says sternly, “Your nose is
running, Your Royal Highness. Blow.” Henry takes the tissue and does just that.

“That’s better,” says Alex. “Much more attractive.” He kisses Henry on the mouth, then pulls away
to trail his lips down Henry’s throat to just above his collarbone. He begins licking and sucking
insistently, even nipping a little. Then he pulls away and says, “There. Your collar should cover it,
but if that’s not the most impressive hickey you’ve ever received, my name is… I don’t know,
Jeffrey Richards,” obviously casting about for the worst person he can think of. “Now,” he says
sternly, “you have to promise me something.”

“What?” asks Henry obediently.

“The next time you have a silly dream like that, I want you to go into the bathroom, turn on the
light, and look at your neck,” he says. “If that doesn’t make you realize that this has all been real,
then you must be seeing someone else on the side. And I know that’s not true. Not only did you tell
me so, but you also talk in your sleep. If you were sneaking around, you’d probably be going on
and on about, ‘Gee, I hope Alex doesn’t find out what I’m doing.’”

Henry smiles, knowing Alex is teasing him, trying to pull him out of the remnants of the dream.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Sometimes my head does such mad things… I don’t know where these daft
notions come from.”

“Maybe from the stress of the past week or so,” says Alex. “But if you dream something silly like
that again, I’ll just have to come back and give you another hickey, and then President Mom would
kill me. Not to mention Zahra.” He pauses. “Okay,” he says. “All better?”

“Almost,” says Henry.

“Almost?” says Alex. “Jesus, what else do you need?”

Moving Alex’s hand and placing it, Henry says, “I need you to…”
“Jesus,” repeats Alex. “You horny bastard. After the last couple of nights, it’s a good thing for you
I’m only twenty-two.”

***

The next day at the airstrip, just before Alex has to go, Henry reaches into his jacket pocket. The
remnants of last night’s nightmare have been banished by the sparkling blue of the September sky,
not to mention their vigorous activities last night and the fabulous blowjob Alex gave him this
morning in the shower.

As they dressed, Alex paused to admire the hickey, saying, “Not bad, even if I do say so myself. I
should have given you a matching one on the other side. Next time.”

It clarified something Henry was thinking about even before last night. Standing now next to Alex
at the airstrip, he remembers thinking that his words to Alex yesterday morning had been almost
like a proposal, and wondering if he should have gone down on one knee and offered a ring. Well,
he’s certainly been on his knees to Alex since, but the other half of the thought has yet to be
fulfilled.

“Listen,” he says. He takes Alex’s hand and presses something into it. “I want you to know. I’m
sure. A thousand percent.”

Alex opens his hand, and stares at the signet ring in his palm. “What?” he says. “I can’t—”

Henry closes Alex’s fist around it. He remembers Gran saying that the ring was symbolic of his
royal heritage. In every way he can think of, he is placing that heritage from the past, his hopes for
the future, literally into Alex’s hands. He knows they’ll be safe there.

“Keep it,” he says. “I’m sick of wearing it.” He knows that he can trust Alex to realize that the real
reason is so much more, but it’s not something he can say publicly yet, even if they’re alone on an
airstrip with plane engines roaring and the wind whipping around them. By the look in Alex’s eyes,
Henry knows he’s right. Alex understands exactly what he really means.

Alex folds him into a tight hug and whispers fiercely, “I completely fucking love you.”

They look into each other’s eyes. They would give anything to be able to seal this with a kiss. Not
yet. One day.
 From the airplane door, Cash calls, “Alex?”

Alex walks to the stair hatch, mounts it, then turns around and smiles at Henry. Henry smiles in
response, then waves his arms in wide arcs, as he had when Alex drove away from the polo match,
all those months ago.

As Shaan drives him back to the palace, Henry touches his collarbone through his shirt and smiles.
He looks up to see Shaan’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and sees that he is smiling too. “Full
schedule tomorrow, Your Royal Highness. In the morning there’s a dedication of a new exhibit at
the V & A. You should like that.”

He knows something, thinks Henry. Or at any rate, he suspects. “Indeed,” says Henry aloud. “The
V & A is one of my favorite places.”

Shaan smiles again, and if he didn’t know better, Henry would almost think Shaan just gave him a
little wink. He says, “Indeed, Sir, indeed.” Then the car merges into the London traffic

Chapter End Notes

If only it could stay this beautiful and romantic! But of course, trouble is on the way!
 Too Good to Be True
Chapter Summary

Though Alex must return to Washington, the hope and promise of a future together
fills Henry with the greatest happiness of his life. Trust Philip to bring him down--not
to mention a leaked videotape.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Fall has always been one of Henry’s favorite seasons, and this September is shaping up as one of
the happiest months of his entire life. He and Alex have moved into that special joy which only
happy lovers know, where colours seem brighter and sounds more musical and life’s daily irritants
become inconsequential.

So what if one of his socks was lost in the laundry? It’s not like this was his only pair! So what if
one of the maids, while dusting Henry’s office, seems to have thrown away an important paper?
BFD! He loves Alex, and Alex loves him, and somehow, someday, they are going to build a life
together. Nothing else really matters.

A few hours after Alex’s departure, when Henry has already exchanged several emails with him
mostly consisting of x’s, o’s, and red heart emojis, Pez stops by to check in. He had received a
couple of alarming emails from Henry the week before, and Bea had also been in contact to share
her worries about her brother. So the first thing Pez does when he gets back from Africa that
morning is to come straight to Kensington. Bea meets him at the door, and she warns, “Be
prepared. You will never have seen him like this.”

“That bad?” asks Pez anxiously.

“You’ll see,” says Bea cryptically.

Pez enters the music room, where Henry sits at the piano with a pencil in his mouth as he tries out
a few bars of a new composition. Pez is startled by Henry spitting out the pencil and jumping up to
fold him in a huge bear hug. Pez can immediately tell that this is not the desperate clutch of
someone drowning in despair; this is the joyful embrace of someone whose heart is so full that it
overflows. Pez catches Bea’s eye, his widened pupils signaling his question: What gives?
Smiling widely, Bea says, “Alex just left this morning. He showed up night before last, and the
two of them spent most of yesterday in Henry’s bedroom. I spent the day with my earbuds in,
listening to loud music.” She shrugs. “Now, all morning it’s been like sharing digs with Dr.
Pangloss,” she says, referring to the relentlessly optimistic and upbeat tutor from Candide.

“So,” says Pez as Henry releases him, “all day in the bedroom? Tell Auntie Pezza all about it.”

Henry grins. “You sound like June,” he says happily. “Alex and I had to laugh when she said she
wanted ‘a complete blow-by-blow.’”

“Oh, yes,” says Pez, “as always, my goddess is perfectly correct. Start with the sex. That’s the best
part.”

Over the next few days, Henry starts to think about something which Alex has mentioned in his
texts (which arrive, with dizzying and delightful frequency, sometimes dozens of times a day;
usually, Henry has barely finished writing to Alex before he receives a text in return, which then
leads to a follow-up conversation on Skype). Henry brings the subject up with Bea one evening as
they sit watching a not-particularly-engaging television film.

“So, Bea,” he says.

“So, H,” says Bea with a smile.

Henry takes a deep breath. “I’m wondering if I should let the family know about me,” he says.

Bea’s eyes widen. “You’re thinking about telling Gran you’re gay?” she asks.

Henry inwardly quails. “That would be rather jumping in at the deep end,” he says. “No, I thought I
might start with Philip. I’d like to tell Mum first, but, you know…”

“Yes, I do.” They exchange a look of sad acknowledgement of the utter pointlessness of trying to
engage their mother in any meaningful way. Catherine is kind when they talk to her, and lavish
with her “darlings” and “dearests,” but after a moment her eyes always slip away to that sad, silent
place where she has existed since Arthur died. Henry wonders if she would even comprehend what
he would be trying to tell her.
“So you’re going to start with Pip?” says Bea. Philip hates being called by the childish nickname,
so naturally it is Bea’s preferred mode of address. It’s a chance to score in the ongoing war of
sibling rivalry which began when they were toddlers, separated in age by barely a year.

Henry’s stomach lurches at the thought of such a conversation, but he sits up a little straighter and
sticks out his chin. Time to screw his courage to the sticking place. “Yes,” he says, and his voice
only cracks a little. “Yes,” he says more firmly, “yes. I am.”

Bea looks dubious. “If you’re sure,” she says. Then a thought strikes her. “Would you like me to
be there when you tell him?” She smiles evilly. “Actually, I’d pay money for the privilege.”

He smiles in return. “I’ll call you if I need you,” he says.

“Maybe you should take Shaan,” she says. “He took that course in First Aid last year. He could
patch you up if Philip attacks you with a knife or something.”

“More likely a letter opener,” says Henry. “I don’t think Philip carries deadly weapons.” At least
not physical deadly weapons.

Bea has a charity luncheon the next afternoon. “God, I hate these,” she says. “A plate of rubbery
chicken and soggy veg, preceded by an hour in hair and makeup for the photo op. You blokes
really have it made—just run a comb through and you’re done. And people will actually pay
attention to what you’re saying instead of just what you’re wearing.”

So Bea is away when Henry gets Philip’s call. “Say, mate,” says Philip, “I’m in the neighbourhood
and thought I’d drop by. There’s something we need to discuss. Is this a good time?”

“Well… “ says Henry.

“Good,” says Philip. “See you in a tick.” He hangs up before Henry can reply.

He had been going over the next day’s schedule with Shaan when Philip called, and Shaan had
only heard Henry’s side of the conversation (or rather, Henry’s single word). He looks at Henry
enquiringly, and Henry says, “That was my brother. He’s on the way. Command performance.”
“Very good, Sir,” says Shaan. “Would you like me to stay?”

“If you would be so kind,” says Henry, remembering the First Aid training. Then the doorbell
rings. Christ, he wasn’t kidding about being in the neighbourhood—he must have been in the
carpark right outside.

They don’t keep a butler, so Henry answers the door himself. Philip sweeps in and shakes Henry’s
hand (if Philip ever gave him a brotherly hug, Henry would probably collapse with shock) and
says, “Let’s go through, shall we?”

They enter Henry’s office, where Shaan hovers discreetly in the background. Philip takes a seat
behind the desk. Henry’s desk. Typical—big brother asserting dominance over insignificant child
sibling.

“So,” says Philip without preamble—evidently he has no time for social niceties about the weather
or Henry’s state of health—“I was talking to Gran the other day.”

“That’s nothing unusual,” says Henry. “I often wonder why you and Martha don’t give up
Clarence House and just move back into Buckingham, you spend so much time there.”

“We’ve talked about it,” says Philip, oblivious to Henry’s sarcasm. “Anyway, Gran wants to know
when you’re planning on enlisting. She’s been asking Mum about it.”

“Yes, I know,” says Henry. “I’ve been meaning to talk to her.” To tell her to leave Mum alone.

“Well?” demands Philip. “It’s over a year since you left Oxford. Your gap year is finished. It’s time
to take your place as a man of this family. Don’t you agree, Srivastava?”

Caught off guard, Shaan nonetheless remains as smooth and unruffled as ever. “I do not think it is
my place to have an opinion, Sir,” he says. “In any case, I think the decision whether to enlist is the
Prince’s, not mine, nor, if I may say so, yours, nor even Her Majesty’s.”

If he could, Henry would give Shaan a hug. Philip is open-mouthed at Shaan’s effrontery, but since
he works for Henry, not Philip, Shaan is safe. Feeling that some response is expected of him,
Henry says, “I don’t think I’d be much use to anybody in the Marines, even if I would look good in
the uniform, as Gran constantly tells me.”

Philip says testily, “Really, Henry, when are you going to show some maturity and strength of
character? It’s not about what you think—it is, as I have told you repeatedly, about your duty as a
man and as a member of this family. Can you give me one good reason why you are so intent on
disrespecting the traditions of the men of this family?”

Young men of Henry’s age—particularly without a father in the picture—inevitably struggle with
definitions of masculinity, and when one factors in what society teaches them about homosexual
orientation, the struggle is just that much more painful.

Henry has known he was different since he was a little boy, and when sexual feelings began to
awaken as he hit puberty, it had actually been something of a relief: Oh, so that’s why I’ve always
felt the way I do… He accepts his gayness as unthinkingly as he accepts his blue eyes, and he is
quite sure that if Arthur had lived, he would have helped Henry to negotiate his own, personal
definition of manhood. But Arthur isn’t here. So Henry has always just gone along with what Gran
seems to expect of him.

But Alex has taught him that masculinity does not require him to conform to gender stereotypes.
Real masculinity simply requires him to be true to himself. Alex doesn’t see being gay as
effeminate, nor something to be hidden, nor at best grudgingly tolerated; he sees it as something
wonderful. Alex has given Henry the promise of a future spent with a man he loves who loves him
in return. Henry can have that, and still be a man.

Seeing the condescending contempt in Philip’s eyes, hearing the marching orders issuing from the
mouth of someone who obviously considers himself Henry’s superior in every way—age, social
position, and (God damn him) masculinity—Henry feels a white-hot flame of anger sweeping over
him. It’s amazing—before Alex, Henry had always thought of himself as a fairly even-tempered
person, but Alex has unleashed all sorts of passions in him. Henry had always known he would—if
someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire.

Henry slowly stands and leans over the desk. Philip’s eyes widen in alarm. With deadly calm,
Henry says, “One good reason why? Because I’m not like the rest of the men of this family,
beginning with the fact that I am very deeply gay, Philip.”

Philip has half-risen in response to Henry’s standing up, but now he drops back into the chair as if
his legs have suddenly lost their strength to hold him upright. Shaan crosses the room, behind
Philip’s line of sight, ready to intervene on Henry’s behalf if necessary. As he hovers, he catches
Henry’s eye, inclines his head, and presses his palms together. Namaste. Aloud he says to Philip,
“May I get you a glass of water, Your Royal Highness? A cup of tea?”
Slowly, Philip is recovering. He looks up at Henry. “So you’re gay,” he says. Though the words
remain unspoken, he seems to be saying, I knew it. Then he says, “So what?”

“So what?” says Henry.

“I don’t know whether you’re confused or merely misguided,” says Philip. “But unnatural feelings
do not excuse you from respecting the legacy of family tradition. Do you think you’re the first
member of this family to be a poof?”

The ugly, contemptuous word is like a slap in the face. Philip presses on. “There was Gran’s Uncle
George,” he says. “He would screw with anyone—men, women, goats for all I know. He dabbled
in drugs as well. But he knew his duty, and did his part to ensure the perpetuity of the bloodline.
He married and had a family, and died an RAF hero during the War.

“And before that, there was Queen Victoria’s grandson Eddy; he got caught in a male brothel back
in the 1880’s, and there were rumours that he used to perform in drag under the stage name
‘Victoria.’ But he understood his duty. He was all set to marry a princess the Queen herself had
selected, but then he caught the flu and died, much to everyone’s relief. The Queen decided that
the princess was too perfect to waste, so she was married to Eddy’s younger brother instead and
became Gran’s grandmother. That’s how it works in this family.”

“So what are you saying, Philip?” asks Henry.

“I’m saying that there’s a reason they put doors and locks on closets,” says Philip. “Real men shut
such feelings away. Just because you want to be gay”—as if this were Henry’s choice—"doesn’t
mean you can’t marry and have a family. Nor does it mean you can’t do military service. It’s about
being a man, little brother.”

Philip has been fiddling with some items on Henry’s desk—straightening a stack of papers, playing
with a pen. Henry says, “That’s my desk you’re sitting at. I’d appreciate it if you left things as you
found them. In fact, I’d really appreciate it if you’d take your arse out of my chair.”

Philip stands. “No need to be petulant,” he says. “We’ll talk again. I’ll see you soon.”

“Not if I see you first,” says Henry. It’s a cheap shot, but it’s the best he can do at the moment.
Shaan watches Philip’s retreating back. Then he says, “Let me get you that cup of tea, Your Royal
Highness.”

“Did I make an arse of myself, Shaan?” asks Henry.

“On the contrary, Sir,” says Shaan. “If I may say so, you displayed great courage and strength of
character. You make me proud to serve as your equerry.” He smiles. Then he says, “Now let’s see
about that tea.”

Henry smiles in return. “Thank you, Shaan,” he says. “By the way, would you ask them to send up
some Jaffa cakes as well?”

“Certainly, Sir,” says Shaan. “How many?”

“A lot,” says Henry.

That evening, Henry spends a good bit of time composing an email to Alex. His happy mood of the
last few days quite gone, he begins:

Have you ever had something go so horribly, horribly, unbelievably badly that you’d like to be
loaded into a cannon and jettisoned into the merciless black maw of outer space?

I wonder sometimes what is the point of me, or anything. I should have just packed a bag like I
said. I could be in your bed, languishing away until I perish, fat and sexually conquered, snuffed
out in the spring of my youth. Here lies Prince Henry of Wales. He died as he lived: avoiding plans
and sucking cock.

Well, he thinks, that’s cheery. No Pangloss I. He knows Alex will be alarmed by his gloomy tone,
so he quickly adds the reason for his misery: I told Philip. Not about you, precisely—about me.

He gives Alex a summary of his conversation with Philip, then writes,

So, yes, I know that we discussed and hoped coming out to my family would be a good first step. I
cannot say this was an encouraging sign re: our odds of going public. I don’t know. I’ve eaten a
tremendous amount of Jaffa cakes about it, to be frank.

He ruefully eyes the pile of cake wrappers on his bed—Christ, how many had he eaten? He
doesn’t want to think about it, though he’s sure that it’s at least part of the reason he feels so
bilious and bloated and fat, his belt uncomfortably tight. He adds,

Sometimes I imagine moving to New York to take over launching Pez’s youth shelter there. Just
leaving. Not coming back. Maybe burning something down on the way out. It would be nice.

He looks over the last few lines and highlights them, his finger hovering over the delete key. With
anyone else he would remove them. But Alex would be upset if Henry took them out. One of the
best things about their relationship is that they do not need to edit their thoughts and feelings with
each other. So he decides to leave the lines in; and he also feels his mood lightening a bit for
having shared his feelings with Alex.

He finds himself telling Alex an elaborate fantasy about his memories, which he sometimes has
difficulty recalling. He associates them with rooms in Buckingham Palace as an aide-mémoire, and
he recounts a few of the more significant events of his life (not forgetting his first time with
Philip’s friend Nigel—Philip has no business looking down on him, seeing as it was his friend who
first seduced Henry; and in light of subsequent experience, Henry now knows that it hadn’t been
done with a great deal of finesse). Then he writes,

But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that down to the gardens. I pressed it into the leaves of a
silver maple and recited it to the Waterloo Vase. It didn’t fit in any rooms.

You were talking with Nora and June, happy and animated and fully alive, a person living in
dimensions I couldn’t access, and so beautiful. Your hair was longer then. You weren’t even a
president’s son yet, but you weren’t afraid. You had a yellow ipê amarelo in your pocket.

I thought, this is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, and I had better keep it a safe distance
from me. I thought, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire.

Truer words had never been thought. Then he concludes by writing,

I’m sorry things didn’t go better with Philip. I wish I could send hope. Yours, Henry
He adds some lines from Michelangelo to his young lover Tomasso Cavalieri, in which the artist
recounts how the thought of his lover fills him, body and soul, “with such sweetness that neither
weariness nor fear of death is felt by me while memory preserves you to my mind. Think, if the
eyes could also enjoy their portion, in what condition I would find myself.” Henry would give
anything for his “eyes to enjoy their portion” of Alex, and see him in the flesh this very moment.

Alex answers in just about the length of time it would take him to read Henry’s email and compose
a reply, beginning with his own special type of poetry:

H,

Fuck.

Full stop.

Henry can just picture Alex’s stunned and disbelieving face. Then Alex continues,

I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m so sorry. June and Nora send their love. Not as
much love as me. Obviously.

One of the things Henry most loves about Alex is his ability to assess a situation immediately and
clearly. He doesn’t try to jolly Henry along or say that everything will be fine, so cheer up. Instead,
Alex admits that this situation is shite, and that it’s going to be tough to get through.

Alex also trusts that Henry will understand that though he may have shared Henry’s predicament
with June and Nora, he hadn’t actually forwarded Henry’s email to them. He would merely have
told them that Henry had spoken to Philip, and that it had blown up in his face. He would have left
the poetic flights of fancy strictly between the two of them, where they belong.

Then Alex employs a love metaphor of his own, and it’s actually quite poetic:

Sometimes I feel like a funny-looking rock in the middle of the most beautiful clear ocean when I
read the kinds of things you write to me. You love so much bigger than yourself. I can’t believe
how lucky I am to even witness it—to be the one who gets to have it, and so much of it, is beyond
luck and feels like fate. Catholic God made me be the person you write those things about. I’ll say
five Hail Marys. Muchas gracias, Santa Maria.
Alex then writes,

I can’t match you for prose, but what I can do is write you a list:

AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF THINGS I LOVE ABOUT HRH PRINCE HENRY OF WALES

Henry is almost in tears by the time he finishes it. He is mildly surprised when Alex tells him that
he has a personal aroma underneath his cologne; but he has read that everyone produces fragrance
pheromones, though no one but a lover is usually sensitive to them. “Clean linens but somehow
also fresh grass”? If you say so, Alex. One of these days he’s going to have to tell him about
Essence of Alex.

Some of the items make him smile—as they were no doubt meant to do. But the tears come
perilously close to spilling when he reads lines like,

5. All the things I understand about myself now because of you.

It’s probably the most flattering thing anyone has ever told him. Of course, Alex has to get in a dig
about Return of the Jedi. Then Henry reads a few additional items Alex loves about him:

16. Your huge, generous, ridiculous, indestructible heart.

17. Your equally huge dick.
18. The face you just made when you read that last one.

Alex is right about his expression: Henry glances into a wall mirror and sees that he is indeed
making a face that Queen Victoria would have described as “schocked” (she often favoured
German spellings), and that the tips of his ears are pink. He thinks, Okay, Alex, yes, I have noticed
that some blokes are not as, uh, generously endowed as I am. But though he is unused to such
personal physical appraisals, this one is nonetheless extremely gratifying. This is even sexier than
See attached bibliography.

But the lines that mean most come in the middle of the list:

9. How hard you try.

10. How hard you’ve always tried.
11. How determined you are to keep trying.
Henry has spent his entire life being told by Gran how inadequate he is and how poorly he fulfills
his royal duties (though Mum and Dad tried to blunt her criticism when Dad was alive; of course,
since then, he’s been on his own, just with Philip putting in his twopence of carping as often as he
can).

Most people think of Henry as placid and light-hearted; few look deeper to see the morass of
fearful insecurity where he lives, and even fewer recognize how he struggles to measure up (which
makes Alex’s words about Henry’s size even better—at least in one area, he evidently measures up
just fine). The knowledge that Alex recognizes just how hard Henry tries to reach the standards he
sets for himself means more than Henry can ever say.

He smiles when he reads—twice—how good Alex thinks Henry looks when he first wakes up.
When Henry told Alex that first thing in the morning, Alex’s hair is “truly a wonder to behold,”
Alex could have easily countered with, “Look who’s talking!” Henry has been told by some in a
position to know that his own hair, with its riot of cowlicks, looks like a haystack someone has
been rolling around in when he first gets up.

In the next-to-last paragraph, Alex apologizes for some past behaviour:

It’s so hard for me to get out of my own head sometimes, but now I’m coming back to what I said to
you the night in my room when it started, and how I brushed you off when you offered to let me go
after the DNC, how I used to try to act like it was nothing sometimes. I didn’t even know what you
were offering to do to yourself. God, I want to fight everyone who’s ever hurt you, but it was me
too, wasn’t it? All that time. I’m so sorry.

Yes, Henry can remember being hurt from time to time—especially after the DNC: that offer to
step aside had been very difficult, and for Alex to dismiss it with the written equivalent of a shrug
was painful. But Alex doesn’t know how often and how easily he has betrayed his own real
feelings, despite his attempts to project an air of, “We’re just friends with benefits, no big deal.” In
bed, just waking up, Henry has seen a look of tenderness on Alex’s face (immediately replaced
with a smile of impersonal pleasantness when he realizes Henry is awake) too many times not to
know what this relationship really means to Alex.

He barely finishes reading the quotation from Wagner when his phone rings.

He presses the answer button. “Hello, love,” he says, smiling.

 ***

A few days later, he and Shaan are just winding up a meeting when Shaan’s phone goes off. He
listens, nods, then says, “I’ll get back to you,” and immediately switches to a news feed. His phone
immediately rings again. He listens for a moment once more, then says tersely, “No, we have no
comment at this time.” When he hangs up and looks at Henry, his face is grim, pale.

“Check the news,” he says. The ever-correct Shaan doesn’t even add Sir. This must be serious.

Calling up CNN, Henry reads a headline: LEAKED SURVEILLANCE SHOWS PRINCE

HENRY AT DNC HOTEL. There is footage of Alex and himself leaving the bar shoulder-to-
shoulder, and then the two of them with Cash in the elevator, Henry’s arm around Alex’s waist.

The phone shows an incoming call. Caller ID reads, Buckingham Palace (Gran). Then it shows a
second incoming call: Philip.

Henry covers his eyes. Only four words will do for this situation.

“Oh, my fucking Christ.” He uncovers his eyes and looks across the room at Shaan. It is the first
time he has ever caught Shaan open-mouthed with dismay.

Chapter End Notes

Next week: no matter how bad the guys think recent events may be, there is always
worse to come. And it's right around the corner!
 Cover-Up
Chapter Summary

The footage from the DNC hotel is out there, and June has an idea for some
speculative distraction. Henry isn't particularly pleased with it, but when he thinks of a
better approach, it's too late. There are some surprising reactions from the Queen,
Philip, and Henry's favourite PPO, Ken.

Chapter Notes

I normally post on Wednesdays, but I have to have a medical procedure tomorrow and
I'm not sure when I'll get home or how I'll feel afterwards. So here it is tonight
instead!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Henry uncovers his eyes, staring across the room at Shaan, and sees his own feeling of bewildered
dismay mirrored in Shaan’s expression. He wishes he had time to confer with Shaan about damage
control strategies, but one does leave the Queen of England on hold. (Philip, on the other line, is
another story. Henry would happily leave his older brother on hold until royal commissioners
compile an updated edition of The Domesday Book.)

He presses the answer button on his mobile. “Henry Wales here,” he says. He closes his eyes and
swallows, waiting for the storm to break over his head.

“Your Royal Highness? Mary Allingham.” It’s one of Gran’s Ladies-in-Waiting. “Her Majesty
asked me to call to enquire whether it would be quite convenient for you to come to the Palace this
evening before dinner? Perhaps five o’clock?”

It’s not a good sign that Gran has not invited him to join her for a meal. Especially since, if he is
correctly remembering this morning’s edition of The Court Circular, she has nothing scheduled for
the next few evenings and will probably just be having something on a tray. And the fact that she
did not call him directly, and is postponing their meeting by a few hours, means one of two things:
either she is consulting with her advisors and waiting to see how this situation develops, or else the
rack and thumbscrews in the Tower dungeons need to be put back in working order.

Aloud, he says, “Of course. Please tell her Majesty how grateful I am for a moment of her time,
and that I will be honoured to meet with her at five.”
“Yes, Sir. We’ll see you then.”

Henry disconnects, then takes a deep breath to prepare for a conversation with Philip. Then he sees
that he has another incoming call, one that he really wishes to take.

He answers Alex rather than Philip. “Hello, love,” he says.

“Baby,” says Alex. He’s silent for a moment. “I take it you saw the news.”

“Indeed,” says Henry. He pauses. “How bad it this for you? And for the campaign?”

“As Zahra said, it ain’t great.” Alex clears his throat. “Um, sweetheart … June had an idea.”

“Yes?” says Henry.

“I’m going to send you a picture,” says Alex. “Take a look and tell me what you think.” While they
wait for the picture to travel across the ocean, Alex says, “So, how is this for you?”

“I’ve got Philip on the other line, and I have a meeting with Gran at five,” says Henry. Try though
he might, he can’t keep the misery out of his voice. “Oh, hold on. Your email is here.”

Henry immediately recognizes the photo. It was one of the ones they had sent Pez from Texas.
Henry, shirtless, is looking over the tops of his sunglasses with a sly smile while June snuggles up
to him and licks his cheek. Nora, who was holding onto Henry’s other arm and laughing, has been
cropped out. The picture now appears like a vacation photo of any straight couple, ready for a
caption like “Wish You Were Here (Not REALLY!)”.

“Before you say anything,” says Alex, “I just want you to know, June’s on board with this. As I
said, it was her idea.” He pauses. “I know, this is exactly what we said we didn’t want to do.”

“Yes,” says Henry. “But.”

“Yeah,” says Alex. “But.” Then he adds, “June says we don’t have to confirm or deny anything.
She said that as long as you’re okay with it, she’s going to send the picture to one of her high
school friends in Texas, who will post it on their alumni page. One of their classmates has an older
brother who works at CNN. It’ll be all over the Web before we know it.”

“We agreed that we’d never do anything like this,” says Henry, echoing Alex’s earlier statement.
“But we also agreed that we’d keep quiet until after the election.”

“And your friendship with June is already well known,” says Alex. “If people want to look at one
simple photograph and infer that it’s something it’s not, well, we can’t do anything about it.
Everyone should know your online exchanges with my sister are mostly comparisons of Colin
Firth versus Matthew MacFayden as Mr. Darcy. I gather you’re squarely in Colin Firth’s camp.”

“What can I say, “says Henry. “I’ve always been a sucker for a bloke in a wet white shirt.”

“In that case, I’m surprised you never pushed me into a swimming pool while I’m all dressed up,”
says Alex.

“I’ve actually given it some thought from time to time, but it wasn’t primarily for the wet shirt
factor,” says Henry. They’re trying to defuse some of the tension by joking, though it’s not exactly
working. But at least while they’re kidding each other, they’re not freaking out.

“If you ever do, you have to promise to give me a hand out of the water,” says Alex.

“What, so you could pull me in too?” says Henry.

“Instant karma,” says Alex. They both chuckle. The laughter is a bit forced.

“I’d better go before Philip throws a hissy,” says Henry. “Let’s try this and see what happens.”

Philip is outraged by the footage, but Henry brushes off his scolding—“Just keep your eye on the
news,” he says. Then Henry nibbles a dinner roll (it’s all he can swallow, but at least it isn’t dry
toast) and prepares for his audience. He considers wearing the funereal outfit he had worn to Buck
House after the wedding cake fiasco—black suit, white shirt, black tie.
But then he decides that if he is going to be successful at carrying off this deception—at least for
the next two months or so—he needs to project an air of careless confidence, only tempered by
irritation that his secret heterosexual romance has been exposed. Entering his closet (ha!) he
chooses the blue blazer he had worn to Paris, and adds the narrow mustard tie from New Year’s
Eve. The clothes somehow make Alex feel closer.

At five o’clock precisely, he knocks on the door of the Green Drawing Room.

“Enter,” says his grandmother.

As he straightens up from his bow, he sees that Philip is seated next to her. Henry nods to him
briefly, to make it clear that Philip was not included in his act of obeisance to the Queen. Are his
eyes deceiving him, or is Her Majesty actually, albeit slightly, smiling? She indicates a chair and
says, “Henry, dear. Do have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please, Ma’am,” he says. She pours and says, “Sugar? Cream?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says. She stirs the cup and hands it to him. “So,” she says. “This photo from
America of you and Miss Claremont-Diaz is rather … surprising.”

Henry can tell by Philip’s eyes that he is still furious, but evidently he has decided to conceal his
outrage with false heartiness. “Yeah, old sod, you really had me going the other day!” he says.
“When you set out to pull a bloke’s leg, you don’t do it by halves, do you? Gay indeed.”

If Philip was hoping Gran would be distracted and that she would demand, “Gay? What’s this?”
his plan fails. Instead she merely says, “The question now is what to do next.” She taps a finger
against a table top as she weighs alternative options, and then evidently comes to a decision. She
says, “You are going to America tonight. As soon as a flight can be arranged. I’m wondering if a
royal photographer should accompany you.”

“What I can’t believe,” says Philip, “is that when half the world is in love with Prince Charming,”
(Philip’s long-standing resentment of Henry’s superior good looks and greater popularity is
leaching out) “you would choose this girl, of all people. She’s hardly our class, is she?”

“Indeed,” says the Queen. “This girl has no birth, no breeding, no family, even if she is the
President’s daughter. And then there’s her father,” she says, with a delicate shudder at the thought
of Oscar and his Mexican immigrant parents. “Unless, of course,” she adds in a hopeful tone, “the
President was previously married. That Simpson woman had already had two other husbands when
she married my uncle. Maybe President Claremont had two husbands before she married the First
Gentleman.”

“No,” says Henry, “Just Senator Diaz. He is June’s father, and a very fine man he is, too.”

“If you say so,” says Queen Mary. “But we have to proceed very carefully. If you actually married
her, God knows what colour your children might be. The brother is suspiciously dark.”

Henry stands up abruptly. “I won’t sit here and listen to bigoted insults about Alex. And I can’t
think of a finer potential mother for my children than June, if and when I father any.”

“Oh, don’t get your underpants all in a twist,” says Philip. “Sit down and finish your tea.”

“Perhaps Henry should go,” says the Queen. “He has a long journey ahead. I will look into the
photographer I mentioned.”

“They have cameras in America,” says Henry rudely.

Queen Mary ignores him. “I’m not sure you should take her out to dinner,” she says, then considers
for a moment. “No, I think luncheon would be better for now. Then we’ll see. As for marriage—
when the time comes, I’m sure you can find a more suitable, English girl.”

“Maybe if we comb the entire nation, we might find someone stupid enough to agree to marry
him,” says Philip. “He’s rather a bore when he opens his mouth, but I hear he makes up for it when
the lights are out.” Who told you such a thing, Philip? thinks Henry. Your old friend Nigel?

“That’s quite enough, Philip,” says the Queen. “Henry, you may go.”

As Shaan busies himself arranging Henry’s nine p.m. flight, Henry remembers that he’ll need to
take a PPO. He knows whom he would most like at his side. He sends for Ken.

Ken enters and bows. He says, “Yes, Your Royal Highness? How may I help you?”
“I’ll be leaving in a few hours for Washington,” says Henry. “I know this is rather short notice, but
would you like to go with me? I need protection.”

He can just imagine the ribald joke Pez would immediately make in response, but Ken’s face does
not move. His look is actually a bit … disapproving. “If you like, Sir,” he says stiffly.

Henry feels a cold finger snake through his gut. “That’s not what I asked,” he says. “I said, ‘Would
you like to go with me?’”

“If you put it like that, Sir,” says Ken, “no, I’d rather not.”

“May I ask why?” says Henry.

Ken’s eyes drop to the floor. “I … I’d rather not say, Sir.”

The cold finger has grown to an icy fist. “I insist,” he says stiffly.

“Very well, Sir.” Ken raises his eyes to look into Henry’s face. “One of the first things they teach
you when you become a Personal Protection Officer is that when the Royal Family is off-duty,
they’re off-duty. I’m sure it’s the same for Mr. Washington and Miss Chen as Secret Service
Agents guarding the Presidential Family. Everyone who needs a bodyguard is still just a regular
person, only they seldom get a chance to relax and just be themselves, let alone pick their nose or
scratch their arse. They know there’s someone close by taking a picture.”

“I hope you’ve never observed me picking or scratching,” says Henry.

“Of course not, Sir. I always thought you were a gentleman.” Ken smiles briefly, but Henry
wonders, Is the past tense—“were” a gentleman—significant? “But when you do have a chance
just to be yourself, Sir, part of my job is to pretend to be blind and deaf. You have a right to your
privacy, the same as anyone else.”

Henry has always been well aware that he and the rest of his family are surrounded by a crowd of
mostly anonymous staff, that everything he does may be witnessed, every word he says may be
overheard. That’s the whole point of NDA’s—if staff wasn’t legally prohibited from telling what
they know, one might go mad with paranoia. But like the rest of his family, Henry puts their
constant presence out of his mind. Truthfully, Ken is the first of the lower-rung servants that he has
ever exchanged more than just a few words with. So Ken is also the first who has ever spelled out
the rules by which the Royals’ constant witnesses operate.

Ken takes a deep breath. Whatever he’s about to say now is going to be big. “That night in Texas,
when I was on the porch at the lake house, I heard you and Mr. Claremont-Diaz coming into the
kitchen,” he says. “The two of you were whispering and giggling, and then I heard one of you say,
‘Shh!’ I knew that whatever you were doing, you didn’t want to be observed. So I pretended to be
dozing. I knew you’d just assume I was sleeping on duty, even though I could be sacked for
actually doing so.”

Oh, God. I know what’s coming.

“The two of you ran down to the pier … I saw Mr. Claremont-Diaz pull off his shorts and T-shirt.
He jumped into the water. I heard you say something to him—I think it was ‘You’re a menace!’ or
something like that. Then I saw you pull off your clothes. Your back was to me, but when you
turned to face him … “ Ken swallows. “I saw everything, Sir.”

Henry has never felt so humiliated in his life. To know that a straight man, a servant, has seen him
naked and aroused …

“Then you jumped into the water, Sir,” says Ken, and for Henry, it feels like Jehovah reading out
the list of his transgressions on Judgement Day, before condemning him to eternal damnation. “I
watched the two of you laughing and scuffling in the water, then clinging to each other, and
kissing, and I figured you were … “

“That’s quite enough,” says Henry harshly. But then a thought suddenly strikes him. “But all this
time, you’ve said nothing,” he says. “If you were so disgusted by our behaviour …”

“What makes you think I was disgusted by it?” says Ken. “Embarrassed, of course. I remember
once walking in on my older brother and his girlfriend in the bedroom my brother and I shared—
now, that was embarrassing, especially since I was just fourteen. I couldn’t look either of them in
the eye for weeks. But I’m older now, and you’re not my big brother, and the two of you are over
twenty-one. Why should I be disgusted?”

Now Henry is bewildered. “If you’re not disgusted by Alex’s and my feelings for each other, then
what’s the problem about going with me to America?”
“The problem, Sir is, this,” says Ken. “When that footage surfaced today, I thought, ‘Okay, it was
bound to come out eventually—I just hope His Royal Highness is all right.’

“But a bit later when that picture showed up on the Internet, and I realized what you two were
trying to imply … it turned my stomach.”

Ken has been staring at the floor, but now he raises his eyes. “I remember when Mr. Claremont-
Diaz took that photo, because I remember you looking over the rims of your sunglasses and Miss
Claremont-Diaz licking your cheek. You said, ‘Oh, that’ll drive him mad’—Mr. Okonjo, I
presumed. But I also clearly remember Miss Holleran on your other side, laughing, even though
now the way the picture is cropped, it looks like it’s just you and Miss Claremont-Diaz. As if you
were in Texas to spend time with her, not him. I’m sorry, but I think it’s just wrong.”

If Philip were in this situation, he wouldn’t care what a mere servant thought. But for Henry, it’s
different. Knowing that Ken saw his stiffy pointed at Alex is embarrassing. But knowing that Ken
now views him as a phony—for that, Henry feels ashamed. Now he can’t meet Ken’s eye.

Henry takes refuge in regal hauteur. “You just don’t understand, Ken,” he says stiffly.

“No, Sir, I don’t,” says Ken. “I understand that it will be difficult telling the world that you and
Mr. Claremont-Diaz are in love. And I’m sure Her Majesty will disapprove.” He takes a deep
breath. “But this isn’t an episode of Game of Thrones, Sir,” he says. “You’re not Renly Baratheon,
and Mr. Claremont-Diaz is not Loras Tyrell. And lovely and spirited though she is, Miss
Claremont-Diaz is not Lady Margery.” He smiles. “Besides, don’t forget what happened to King
Renly.”

Henry remembers how thrilled he had been by the sympathetic portrayal of a gay royal in the
series, and how disappointed he had been when the king was killed off. He also remembers how,
when Loras’ sister offered to accommodate her brother’s presence in her marriage to the King, he
had thought, All I need to do is to find someone who has a sister who’d go along with us … But
now that he’s living it (sort of), it’s no solution at all. He thinks, Ken is right to be disgusted. This
cover-up is what’s really shameful, not me with Alex.

But there’s Gran. And there’s Philip. And there’s the Presidential campaign. And there’s … so
many things. Christ. What had seemed like such a perfect solution to their problem a few hours ago
now just feels wrong. He suddenly also feels like he can’t breathe.
“Your Royal Highness,” says Ken quietly, “I’d really like to say something, even if it is completely
against protocol.” Ken stands a little straighter. “Sir, get your head out of your arse. You can’t keep
up this pretense forever. And when the truth is known, it will really blow up in your face. Or were
you thinking of carrying this charade all the way to the altar at Westminster Abbey? I’m sorry, Sir.
I’ve always thought highly of you, but I can’t serve a liar and a hypocrite.”

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Shaan. Thank God. This interview needs to end right now.

“Your Royal Highness?” says Shaan. “We need to leave for the airport soon.”

Henry turns on royal autopilot. “Thank you, Shaan.” What’s Ken’s last name? Oh, right, there’s
his name badge. “That’ll be all, Lewis. You may go. And I’m sorry you want to leave my service.”
Ken hadn’t given notice, exactly, but after that last speech, Henry doubts that he’ll ever feel
comfortable with Ken again—especially since Ken’s words were completely deserved.

Ken winces, as if Henry just backhanded him—which, in a way, he has. “Thank you, Sir.” He
bows. “And thank you for accepting my resignation. It’s been an honour serving you, Sir.”

Shaan shoots Henry a look, but says nothing.

“No need to work through your notice and stay two weeks,” says Henry stiffly. “If you want to
leave before I get back from Washington, I understand.”

Ken’s face turns scarlet. “If I may, Sir”—and Henry can see that Ken feels humiliated about what
he must say next—“I’d like to stay until I line something else up. What with the baby and all.”

“David,” says Henry.

“Yes, Sir,” says Ken. “So if I may stay on a bit, Sir, my wife and I would very much appreciate it.”

“Of course,” says Henry. “And if you want to remain in Royal Service, I believe my brother is
looking for a PPO.” No wonder—Philip expects the world of his staff, but only pays peanuts.

“Very good, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Ken bows once more, then backs out.
“Well,” says Shaan in the silence that follows Ken’s exit. “Let me go see to getting your bag
packed, Sir. Miss Claremont-Diaz has agreed to meet you for lunch tomorrow. And I’ve reserved
you a suite at the Watergate Hotel. I thought you might enjoy that, with its scandalous history.” Is
Shaan being ironic, or is he reminding Henry of what could potentially be at stake?

Once he’s settled in for the flight, Henry checks the Internet. If anything, speculation about him
and June has grown even more feverish. Then he comes across a related story: Alex sharing a pizza
with Nora at a restaurant near Georgetown. Someone has also posted a photo of the two of them
leaving—Alex’s arm around Nora’s waist, his hand on her hip, hers in his back pocket. They’re
laughing together. They look casual, comfortable, and to Henry’s eye, totally phony.

Shaan discreetly gives Henry his space, retreating back to the second cabin of the private jet and
only coming forward once in a while to check if Henry needs anything. But aside from a bottle of
water, Henry wants nothing. His self-loathing, prompted by his interior monologue and the
memory of Ken’s words (not to mention his shabby behaviour in response), has twisted his stomach
in knots.

He wonders if President Claremont is launching an investigation into who leaked the elevator
footage to the Press. Of course, if she is, it’ll have to be behind the scenes; there’s no point in
drawing even more attention to the situation than it already has garnered. All the same, someone
needs to pay for this. He and Alex, and June, and now Nora, are already paying.

But even as he thinks it, the inherent dishonesty and hypocrisy of hoping for an investigation are
immediately apparent (you were right, Ken; a liar and a hypocrite, that’s me). Henry knows he
doesn’t really mind if he’s done wrong; he only cares that he’s been caught.

And anyway, he thinks defensively, what did we do that was so wrong? My “best friend” had just
been betrayed by one of his closest friends and role models, and he was understandably upset. And
I was in town. So I went to make sure he was all right. Who gives a fig?

With perfect twenty-twenty hindsight, he knows that this was exactly the tack they should have
taken. His arm around Alex’s waist might have been a little harder to explain, but they could have
said it was a small elevator. Or they could have said Alex was tipsy and a little unsteady on his
feet, so Henry was propping him up. Or something.

But what had they done instead? The time-honoured behaviour of closeted gay men down the
centuries. What? Where did you get that idea? I was there to see my woman! And look who was
there too, there with Alex—haven’t you heard the rumours about him and Nora? Both he and Alex
had fallen into the traditional pretense of being two straight men with female partners, rather than
admitting the truth: they are two young men who are in love with each other and who want to
make a life together. June and Nora are pretending to be their girlfriends, when actually they have
simply volunteered to be their beards. The situation is so classic that there’s even a name for it
when the deception is carried all the way to the altar: lavender marriage.

Wait a minute. Who said anything about marriage? But Henry knows those rumours are already
taking flight as well, along with speculation about when there will be an announcement of royal
courtship. He just might get back to England to find that damn picture of June licking his cheek on
T-shirts for sale in souvenir kiosks, with a motto proclaiming, “The Newest British-American
Alliance,” or something equally stupid.

Henry suddenly thinks of his grandmother—not the Queen, but his other grandmother, Granny
Fox. She and Granddad Fox had died when Henry was small, but he remembers them both very
fondly. Granddad, who had been a carpenter, would take Henry down to his basement shop and set
him to working on a piece of wood (no sharp tools, but Henry had enjoyed rubbing away with
sandpaper and slopping varnish on finished pieces). Granddad would then proclaim him “the best
little helper I know—I wish I could have had the likes of him as an apprentice!”

Granny would bake something wonderful—her kitchen always smelled like Heaven—and then she
would give him goodies warm from the oven, and cuddle him and rock him to sleep at naptime.
Henry’s nanny had normally resented other people “interfering” with Henry, but she was quite fond
of Granny, who would always greet her with, “How’s our little boy? Sit down, dearie, and rest
those feet you run off chasing after this young man. I’ll get you a cuppa.”

Granny was given to quoting old maxims; she had one for every occasion, and she would always
produce it as if it were newly-minted. One of her favourites, Henry remembers with a stab of guilt,
was, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” And she was so right.
This web of deception is getting more tangled by the minute.

First, there was a lie of omission by not just admitting, “Yes, Alex and I are a couple, and have
been since January.” Of course, a lie of omission, Henry thinks, is just a little white lie, but then he
immediately thinks of another of Granny’s sayings: “A lie’s a lie, and dressing it in white doesn’t
change it.”

Then they went on to let June’s friend post the doctored picture. Again, they hadn’t come out and
said anything about June and Henry being together, but the inference was there to be drawn, and it
had led to the exact speculation they had hoped for. Then, to keep Alex in the clear, they roped in
Nora too. Lie upon lie upon lie. And though Henry has always resented being shut in the closet, no
one had to force him in this time: he and Alex had both willingly entered, and slammed and locked
the door behind themselves.
 Flight times from London to DC are deceptive. When flying from the States to London, you have a
tailwind behind you, so it only takes six hours. But going west, you’re fighting a headwind.
Because of the time difference, you can leave London at noon and arrive in DC by four, but the
flight itself has actually taken eight-and-a-half hours.

Eight-and-a-half hours is a long time to sit and stew over something. It’s a long time to face an
uneasy conscience, and to listen to a chorus of memories united to proclaim one’s wrongdoing. It
gives one time to picture a look of deep disappointment on the faces of beloved grandparents, to
imagine Nanny’s disapproving frown (she had always punished him when she caught him in a fib),
and to remember the hurt and disappointment in the voice of a servant who had been rapidly
becoming a friend: I always thought you were a gentleman … I just think it’s wrong … I cannot
serve a liar and a hypocrite.

Then he pictures the scene at Ken’s home that evening when he had to explain to his wife that he
had been sacked, but couldn’t tell her why because of the NDA. Or when he goes—if he goes—to
Philip in the morning and discovers the expanded job expectations along with the decreased pay.
And this mess is all my fault. If I’d just gone home with Pez instead of heading across town to the
DNC … if I’d told Alex, “No, let’s just say I came to see you because I was worried about my best
mate, and I walked you up to your room because you were drunk” … If Alex and I had just been
men instead of sniveling cowards, and we’d said, “Yes, we’re a couple, what’s it to you? Get over
it!” … If … if … if …

When they arrive at one-thirty a.m. local time, Henry is utterly exhausted. As far as his body is
concerned, he has been up all night, and the events of the previous day (is it really less than
twenty-four hours since this news broke?) have overwhelmed him. He barely closes his eyes for
the rest of the night. At seven, he calls Alex to let him know he’s in town while Shaan is on his
phone getting details about the lunch with June. Alex sounds almost as tired as Henry himself. “But
everything will work out,” Alex promises, though he can’t keep doubt from creeping into his voice.
“And I’ll figure out some way to see you before you go back this afternoon. I promise.”

Henry says thinly, “Please.” It’s all he can manage. Then he goes in to shower and shave and get
ready for the next act of this farce. The script calls for Prince Charming to go to the restaurant and
publicly sweep the fair damsel into his arms and kiss her, and present her with a bouquet of long-
stemmed red roses (since he forget to pack a glass slipper to slip onto her tiny foot). He straightens
his tie, shoots his cuffs, and does one last run-through with his comb. As he collects Shaan and
heads downstairs to the waiting limousine, he wonders if the damned souls about to enter the maw
of Hell feel any more despairing than he does at this moment.

Chapter End Notes

First, the speculations about Henry's potential offspring by June are very much in
keeping with some actual events: Harry and Meghan heard similar bigoted remarks
from family members before the birth of their son Archie. They never revealed who
had said such terrible things, though offhand, I can think of at least three possible
culprits (but NOT the Queen; Elizabeth II would never be so cruel and intolerant).
When my wife first read this, she said, "Henry can really be a shit sometimes, can't
he?"--referring to Henry's discussion with Ken. In Henry's defense, remember that he's
under a lot of stress and he's getting very little rest and nourishment, so he isn't exactly
at his best at this time. Also, his better nature will eventually assert itself--stay tuned.
You haven't seen the last of Ken!
 A Royal Outing
Chapter Summary

Henry meets June for lunch at a Washington DC bistro, but he and Alex are
subsequently photographed in a compromising situation. When the Richards campaign
gets them published in the conservative tabloid "The Daily Mail," ugly fallout ensues.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The limousine pulls up outside a bistro in downtown Washington. Henry can see the Capitol
Building in the distance behind it. Shaan says, “We’ll be right here when you’re finished lunching
with Miss Claremont-Diaz.” Henry steps out, and the limo glides smoothly away.

The maître d’ is waiting at the door. He bows and says, “This way, Your Highness,” and leads him
to a corner table. It is concealed enough to offer a bit of privacy, but visible to every other diner in
the restaurant. The maître d’ removes a small card reading Reserved and says, “The First Daughter
should be arriving shortly.” He looks across the room and says, “Oh, here she is now, Your
Highness.”

June sweeps in, her face lighting up with a photo-perfect smile. Henry suddenly flashes on an old
movie he once saw with Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh; there was a restaurant scene in which
Leigh ran across the room and threw herself into Olivier’s arms, and he kissed her with such ardour
that her large picture hat fell off the back of her head. Other diners turned and stared; one woman
half-rose in her seat with a look of outraged horror.

June doesn’t play the scene quite that dramatically, but she does rush over to him as he stands
waiting to greet her, both of them well aware of the eyes of every other person in the room locked
on themselves. Most people are also bringing out their mobiles to sneak a quick picture. June kisses
his cheek and says loudly, “Sweetheart! It’s so wonderful to see you!” Then she says, “Oh, I’m
sorry, I left lipstick on your cheek; here, let me get it.” She lightly wets her fingertips and strokes
his face, the proprietary, intimate gesture of a woman at complete physical ease with her lover.

As they sit, she reaches into her purse and takes out a greeting card, saying, “I was going to send
this out this week as I usually do, but then we arranged to meet, so I just brought it along.” It’s a
teasing, suggestive card of the type lovers exchange; written inside in thick black ink (easily
captured by a telephoto lens) is a love note, lavishly decorated with x’s and o’s, and all of the i’s
dotted with little hearts.
But it would take an expensive lens indeed to expose the letters lightly written in pencil, literally
between the lines. They read, A. outside. Now act like you’re in love with me! It reminds Henry of
Alex throwing an arm around his shoulders for the crowd at the studio where they would shortly
have their Dottie-and-Stu interview, and saying breezily, “Act like you like me!”

He also thinks of Emily Stokes-Howard hissing at him, “Take my hand, dolt!” while the
photographer from People snapped away. He reaches across the table and takes June’s hand,
smiling. If he ever sees Emily again (God forbid), he’ll have to tell her how helpful her direction
continues to be for faking intimacy.

But since he and June do genuinely like each other, and since they have a common goal—
deceiving the general public so as to rescue him and Alex from this appalling mess—the lunch
actually goes more easily than he had feared it would. June chats and laughs with animation,
asking questions and answering them herself and offering him bites from her salad with her own
fork, which he swallows as easily as if such intimacy were something quite normal for them. He
nods and smiles and even manages a few bites of his burger; he realizes that this is the first solid
food he’s had since that dinner roll yesterday.

Shaan had already arranged to pay for their lunch, and Henry has only to add a tip. He adds a
thirty-percent gratuity, and scrawls across the bottom of the receipt, A lovely lunch with a lovely
lady, made even more perfect by delicious food! Thank you! and signs it. He has a feeling there
may be some bickering over who gets to keep it.

June has been texting while he pays the bill. Now she stands and says, “Walk me to my car,
honey.” She whispers, “Amy is going to drive us to the alley behind here where Alex is waiting.
She already tipped off Shaan, and they’ll pick you up as soon as you and Alex are finished.”

Another diner, who has been watching them closely but gone unnoticed by Henry and June, takes
out his phone. He texts two words: Subjects leaving. Across the street a man prominently holding a
DC Visitor’s map receives the text, smirks, and takes a photo of the Capitol in the distance. Then
he moves to a spot with a clear view of the alley. He has witnessed, and captured, many celebrity
attempts at an inconspicuous exit leading to a hidden rendezvous at this very spot. He turns around
and closely watches the alley’s reflection in a store window full of Washington memorabilia.

Sure enough, a moment later, a Secret Service car pulls up, stopping just behind the car which has
been parked there for an hour. Two Secret Service agents exit the parked car and go to stand by the
trunk with their backs to it, scanning the alley for signs of trouble. But who cares about a tourist
window-shopping for souvenirs? Prince Henry leaves the car that has just arrived, and turns back
to say a few words to someone still inside (probably June, thinks the photographer, to thank her for
her part in this little conspiracy). Then the Prince approaches the first car and opens the door, and
a brown hand reaches out and pulls him in by the shoulder.
Damn. The windows are tinted. But the photographer thinks with an inner sneer, They always
forget about the windshield. He turns back around and briefly trains his lens on the car. Just as he
thought: the First Son and the Prince are together in the back seat, Alex’s hand still on Henry’s
shoulder. He focuses and snaps a quick picture of them. He can just imagine the caption: Who Was
Henry REALLY in Town to Meet? Then he steps into the store to buy a candy bar. He figures he has
a few minutes while the guys talk.

Inside the car, Henry can feel Alex staring at him, but the effort of playing the part of Happy Lover
for the last hour has exhausted him. He can’t seem to focus his eyes or his brain, so he just looks
away. Alex moves directly into his line of sight with a worried frown.

“Hey,” says Alex. “Hey. Look at me. Hey, I’m right here.”

The tension and the missed sleep of the past day-and-a-half have caught up with Henry; his hands
are shaking, and his breath is coming in shallow gasps. He’s never had an actual panic attack, and
he wonders if this is how the start of one feels.

But when he looks into Alex’s eyes, he finds a depth of love and concern—and strength. He thinks
of Alex’s metaphor of being “a funny-looking rock in the middle of the most beautiful clear
ocean”; well, the ocean is roiling and raging now, threatening to sweep Henry away entirely, but
Alex is indeed the rock he can hold on to. And for once he feels able to say what he truly feels,
with no concern for royal reputation or political expediency.

“I hate it,” he says. “I hate this.”

Alex says, “I know.” It’s true. If anyone on Earth can possibly comprehend just how terrible this
situation is for Henry, it’s Alex, because it’s just as terrible for him.

Henry says, “It was … tolerable before, somehow. When there was never—never the possibility of
anything else.” They might have had to conceal their love for each other and disguise it as
friendship, but they didn’t have to pretend to be in love with other people simply because those
other people are female. “But, Christ, this is—it’s vile. It’s a bloody farce. And June and Nora,
what, they just get to be used? Gran wanted me to bring my own photographers for this, did you
know that?” He takes a deep breath, but somehow as he exhales it gets caught in his throat. “Alex,”
he chokes, “I don’t want to do this.”

Emotion must be wrinkling his forehead, because Alex reaches up with the pad of his thumb and
smooths out his brow. Across the street, the photographer clicks his shutter again. Better, he thinks.
More intimate. But not quite the money shot.

“I know,” repeats Alex soothingly. “I know. I hate it too.”

Henry says, “It’s not fucking fair.” The words come tumbling out in a torrent. “My shit ancestors
walked around doing a thousand times worse than any of this, and nobody cared!”

“Baby,” says Alex. He moves his hand down to Henry’s chin. (Across the street: click.) “I know.
I’m so sorry, babe. But it won’t be like this forever, okay? I promise.”

Henry closes his eyes. “I want to believe you. I do. But I’m so afraid I’ll never be allowed.” In his
mind’s eye, he sees Philip, narrow-eyed and seething, and Gran. Christ. Gran.

Alex moves his right hand down to rub Henry’s neck (across the street: click) and, when Henry
opens his eyes, Alex smiles and presses their foreheads together. (Across the street: click.) He
says, “Hey. I’m not gonna let that happen. Listen. I’m telling you right now. I will physically fight
your grandmother myself if I have to, okay? And like, she’s old. I know I can take her.”

Alex actually manages to surprise a small laugh out of him, and Henry even makes a little joke in
response. “I wouldn’t be so cocky,” he says. “She’s full of dark surprises.”

Alex laughs and cuffs him on the shoulder with his left hand; the right remains at the nape of
Henry’s neck, still gently caressing. “Seriously,” he says. “I hate this so much. I know. But we’re
gonna do it together. And we’re gonna make it work. You and me and history, remember? We’re
just gonna fucking fight. Because you’re it, okay? I’m never gonna love anybody in the world like
I love you. So, I promise you, one day we’ll be able to just be, and fuck everyone else.” He
suddenly pulls Henry close and kisses him passionately on the lips.

Across the street, the photographer is so startled he almost drops his camera. But he manages to
hold on and snaps half a dozen shots in quick succession, then walks swiftly down the street. Not
even the Secret Service Agents, as clueless as they seem to be, would actually believe that anyone,
no matter how much he loves the US Congress, would stand there taking so many pictures of the
distant Capitol.

At the end of the block, the photographer stops to check his pictures. KA-CHING! Money shot!
With the earlier profile shots establishing their identities, it is indubitably the First Son probably
FRENCHING the Prince of England. He sends up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Alex hadn’t
had his usual Secret Service Agents with him—the man mountain, or the Navy SEAL—now, she’s
scary. He also thinks, Between the tabloids and the campaign, I’m gonna get enough from this
picture to pay off all my back child support. Hell, maybe even squeeze out a little vacation at some
resort and get laid. His “fashion photographer” ruse never fails.

Back in the car. Alex says, “Okay?”

Henry nods.

“No,” says Alex, “say it. Okay?”

Henry nods and says, “Yes. Okay.”

“Good,” says Alex. “Remember, you and me and history. Hey, you and me and history—that’s a
poem! It’s not quite ‘On a foutu Monsieur le Grand,’ but it’ll do.”

Alex is quoting the French original of the poem Henry had told him next to the statue of Samson in
the V & A, the one ending with, “ … And it is well-known / That the King of England fucks the
Duke of Buckingham.” Alex’s French accent is atrocious, but Henry is still touched almost beyond
words. He says wonderingly, “You looked it up.”

Alex says smugly, “Hey, you’re not the only one with access to Google. How’s my accent?”

“Don’t offer your services to the UN quite yet,” says Henry with a shaky laugh. “And that sort of
two-line rhyme is known as a couplet.”

Alex rolls his eyes and says, “Like it matters,” but he still looks quite pleased with himself that he’s
gotten another laugh out of Henry. As Henry turns and opens the car door, Alex squeezes his
shoulder, and when Henry looks back, he mouths, I love you. Aloud he says, “Later, man.”

“See you later,” says Henry. But he also mouths back, Me too.

When he enters his own limo, Shaan, in the front seat next to the driver, turns around to look
closely at Henry. His cocked brow seems to be asking, Better? Henry nods, and Shaan’s expression
relaxes. Aloud he says, “I’m sorry that we have to rush back so soon, Sir, but you have a busy day
tomorrow. I would suggest you take the back cabin for the trip home, and try to get a nap.” The
second cabin of the Royal Jet is fitted out with a narrow bed. It’s nowhere near as luxurious as
Queen Victoria’s Royal Sleeper train car, but it beats trying to nap upright.

Henry says, “Maybe after I get a snack. For some reason, I feel quite ravenous.”

This time, Shaan smiles broadly, in unmistakable relief. “Certainly, Sir. I’ll call ahead right now
and make sure they have something substantial for you. I’m sure you want something more than
salted peanuts and Jaffa Cakes.” Henry shudders. Since bingeing on all those Jaffa Cakes the other
day, he hasn’t even been able to look at one.

When they land in London, Henry feels a thousand percent better, though he can’t shake off a
pesky little feeling of concern, something buzzing around like the mosquitoes at the lake house.
When he gets back to the flat and Bea meets him with a hug, he identifies what’s bothering him as
soon as she says, “Oh, by the way, that nice PPO, Ken Lowe—”

“Lewis,” corrects Henry.

“What? Oh, yes, that’s right, Lewis,” she says. “Anyway, he turned in his resignation this morning.
He said he already spoke with you and you knew all about it.”

“Yes,” says Henry.

“I asked, and he said you didn’t write out a reference, so I gave him the standard letter—you know,
‘I have found this man to be honest, reliable, and hard-working, and should he care to return,
would happily re-employ him, blah, blah, blah,’” says Bea. “I hope that was all right.”

“Certainly,” says Henry.

“It’s a shame,” says Bea. “I’ll miss him. He was nice—always there, but never obtrusive, do you
know what I mean? Do you have any idea why he’s leaving?”

“No,” lies Henry, “not a clue.”

“Well, he cleaned out his locker and left this afternoon,” says Bea. “He said something about he
might go apply for a position with Philip. I said, ‘Oh, you won’t like that—with his staff my
brother is a real Ebeneezer Scrooge before the ghostly visitations, cheap as they come and twice as
demanding.’ But he said it was time for a change.”

“I suppose we have to respect his wishes,” says Henry carefully.

“I suppose,” says Bea, “but it’s still a shame.” She shrugs. “Anyway, how’s Alex? How’s June? By
any chance, did you see Nora? She sent me an email this morning, but I haven’t answered it yet.”
They go on to speak of other things.

The nagging feeling of “the time is out of joint” continues over the next few days, and Henry is
unsure how to combat life’s “cursed spite,” much less how to correct things. He may agree with
Hamlet about the unfairness “that ever I was born to set it right,” but he knows that he is the only
one who can fix whatever’s wrong, at least on his end.

Across the ocean, Alex is lying low, and when June is asked about her rumoured romance, she
says, “No comment,” but then smiles slyly. Henry remembers some forty-year-old footage he has
seen of some young woman said to be in courtship with a minor European princeling; when asked
about their relationship, she would duck her head and look up from beneath her fringe, then dimple
demurely. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

He and Alex talk almost as often as they always have, (a frequency which vastly increased after
Alex’s visit earlier in the month), but try though they might, there’s a certain restraint between
them. Henry can always tell if Alex is answering his call in some public place, because he’ll say,
“Oh, hi, Henry. June?” (though Henry hasn’t yet said anything about her). “Yes, she’s great, but
missing her main squeeze, of course. I think she’s on a bus between a couple of campaign stops
right now, so you could probably catch her.” Alex will always call back as soon as he’s alone, but
then he’ll have to apologize, and Henry will have to say, “Oh, of course, love, I completely
understand—no, I wasn’t a bit offended, it’s fine,” and on and on it goes.

There are so many topics they now avoid, as if by mutual consent, though nothing’s been said. So
many memories have been smeared over and tarnished by press speculation about whether their
meetings in Paris or Berlin were really smokescreens for meetings with June and Nora or to make
arrangements for another secret rendezvous with their “girlfriends.” There’s no more cosy plotting
about setting up another “accidental” get-together at some event; even being in the same
hemisphere may set tongues wagging and computer keyboards clicking. Henry has been in the
public eye his entire life, and Alex has been internationally known for at least five years, but never
before has either one ever felt so watched and scrutinized.
For the first time since just after Philip’s wedding, they feel uncomfortable at the thought of seeing
each other. And yet, they are still as much in love as ever, and there’s an almost feverish quality
about their visits on Skype. Each time, it’s as if they’re afraid this might be the last.

***

On Thursday night, 24 September, Philip stops by. Henry has gathered from the Palace grapevine
that Gran is pleased with the publicity about his meeting with June, but the silence from Clarence
House has been deafening. Normally, he might find it amusing—Philip in a sulk again—or
possibly even a bit ominous; but he doesn’t really care. He feels far too tense and anxious to worry
much about Philip’s tantrums.

Bea is having dinner with a friend and Henry is at the piano when suddenly Philip appears. They
never lock the door to their flat if one of them is out—an intruder would have to go through far too
many security checkpoints to reach them easily. But naturally, Philip is admitted without question.
And he’s taken to doing this more and more lately—just walking in as if he owns the place, to
deliver one of his lectures. “So,” says Philip without preamble, “back home I see.”

Henry is so startled that he hits a crashing discord, then he lifts his hands from the keyboard. “If I
said no, I’m still in America,” he says, “would you go away? And Bea and I have asked you
repeatedly to knock before you enter our home.”

Philip smiles tightly. There’s something more than usually intimidating about Philip tonight;
Henry has the uneasy feeling that Philip is barely holding on to his temper. Has Philip been
drinking? “I gather the trip to America was a great success,” says Philip. “Well done. For once.”

Henry says nothing.

“So how far are you going to carry this?” says Philip. “If you’re thinking about the altar, I suggest
you think again. Gran wasn’t joking when she indicated the girl isn’t suitable.”

Henry’s phone rings. A text is coming in; he checks, and sees that it’s Alex. Quickly, he types,
Sorry. Meeting with Philip. Love you. He disconnects and looks at Philip. “Sorry,” he says. “A call
I had to take.”

“Really?” says Philip. “Who was it?”

“It’s private,” says Henry.

“I see.” Philip’s gaze drifts aimlessly around the room, then fastens on a small ornamental vase on
one of the side tables. He walks over and picks it up. “Oh, this is pretty,” he says. “New?”

“Actually, it’s antique and nearly five hundred years old, so be careful,” says Henry. “It once
belonged to Anne Boleyn. You know how Bea adores Anne’s daughter Queen Elizabeth. Lucy let
her borrow it from the Royal Collection, but it’s only on loan for the weekend.” Lucy is Joint Chief
Curator of Royal Palaces, and she and Bea are friends. She sometimes lets Bea borrow a piece or
two from storage for a short time, but only with endless instructions to keep it safe.

“Really?” says Philip. He looks at it a bit more closely. “Well, take care of it,” he says. “One of
you is just careless enough to break it.” Definitely drunk. Philip’s put-downs are usually more
subtle, except when he’s delivering one of his lectures about royal duty.

“Is there anything else?” asks Henry. “I’m a bit busy.”

“No,” says Philip. “I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that you’re taking my lecture to heart.”

“Excuse me?” says Henry.

“Perpetuating the bloodline and all that,” says Philip. “Just find a better partner. Though I suppose
it could have been worse. Okonjo doesn’t have a sister, does he?”

Henry takes great offense at Philip’s remark, but he’s learned the pointlessness of trying to engage
meaningfully with someone under the influence. Something else you taught me, Alex, he thinks
with an inward smile, just about a year ago, at Philip’s wedding. The silence grows.

“Well,” says Philip. “I suppose I should go.” Thank God. “We’ve got a house party this weekend at
Anmer to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. Our wedding—something else your friend
helped you fuck up. Just remember—an English girl.” He turns and wanders out.

As Henry hears the door close, he heaves a sigh of relief. He probably should get back to Alex, but
he’s suddenly too tired to think about anything but bed. As he undresses, he thinks ruefully, Ken
would have seen that Philip was drunk and would never have let him through. But Ken is gone.
Henry thinks sadly as he climbs into bed, All my fault. Then he turns off the light.
 ***

He awakens early on Friday to find that Alex has sent him an email during the night. Alex begins
by apologizing if he doesn’t make sense, since he’s drunk, but what he writes is actually very
loving, and his closing quote from Rupert Brooke to his lover Siegfried Sassoon is wonderful.
Henry wonders, before they started sending such lines to each other, had Alex ever even heard of
World War I English poets of the Lost Generation? Who knows? Alex’s mind picks up and
assimilates all sorts of surprising information.

Saturday passes uneasily. He almost feels as if he should be holding his breath and listening
closely, because something is about to happen. Then the next morning, he awakens with a start.
Someone is hammering at the door. Who can that be? he thinks. Isn’t it Sunday? No one drops by
this early on Sunday. He throws on a dressing gown and meets Bea in the hallway, already up and
dressed, and carefully cradling the Anne Boleyn vase.

“I promised Lucy I’d return this today,” she says. “Who do you suppose that is?”

“Christ,” says Henry, “I hope it’s not Philip again. I’ll go see.”

He opens the door to find Shaan, though Henry barely recognises him in casual clothes. He is pale,
his eyes wide, and he says nothing; he merely shoves a copy of The Daily Mail in Henry’s face.
Bea sets the vase down on a side table near the door and comes to stand beside her brother and
read over his shoulder.

QUEEN HENRY! he reads. There, in full colour, is a photo of what is most certainly himself kissing
Alex full on the mouth. Though the picture takes up at least half the page, the editors have managed
to find space to inset two smaller photos: one from the leaked DNC footage, and another of Alex at
Wimbledon whispering something to a dreamily smiling Henry. A sub-heading promises readers,
Inside the Prince’s Gay Affair with the FIRST SON OF THE UNITED STATES! Read Their
Steamy Email Correspondence! (See Page 3).

Henry can barely take it in. He feels himself starting to grow dizzy and swaying, and Shaan rushes
over to help Bea prop him up. And then, from downstairs, he hears a roar: “Where is he?”
Running steps come charging up the stairs, and there is Philip at the door. How could he have
arrived from Anmer Hall so fast? And he is utterly incandescent with rage.

Bea moves to get between her two brothers and says, “Pip—” but Philip roughly shoves her aside.
 Without noticing, he knocks into the side table, and a priceless five-hundred-year-old royal antique
falls with a small crash. Anne Boleyn’s vase breaks into several pieces, and some of the inlaid
jewels pop out of their settings and roll skittering across the mahogany floor.

With admirable presence of mind, Bea immediately takes out her mobile and presses a contact
number. “Lucy?” she says. Bea has the Chief Curator’s private number on her mobile? “Bea
Wales here. Oh, of course, that’s right, you already knew from Caller ID. You’re with Her
Majesty? Oh, you told her it was me and that’s why she let you answer.” She listens for a moment.
“I’m calling because I’m afraid we have something of a disaster here. I was on my way to return
the vase and Philip came charging in and knocked it down and broke it. Yes, broke it. Anne’s vase.
Oh, I agree, Her Majesty needs to know at once. Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” She smiles at Philip.
She very much resembles Mr. Wobbles after a large bowl of cream.

Philip is speechless. Then his mobile rings. He slowly takes it from his suit jacket pocket and stares
in dismay at Caller ID. “Ma’am,” he says. “Yes—yes—Gran—I mean, Your Majesty—no, it was
all Henry’s fault. Didn’t you see the paper?” They can hear her angry voice all the way across the
room. The words are indistinguishable, but the tone is unmistakable. “No, Ma’am,” says Philip, “I
know you’re not interested in excuses. But, Gran—” He swallows audibly. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says.
“Yes, right away. I’m leaving right now. But if you would just let me explain—” He breaks off and
stares at his mobile. “She hung up on me,” he says. “She’s never hung up on me before. I’ve got to
go.” His gaze fastens on Henry. “We’ll speak again when I return.”

As Philip runs down the stairs, Henry, Bea, and Shaan stare at each other. Then Henry looks back
down at the forgotten tabloid. There he is, in a lip lock with Alex. Abruptly, he runs to the en suite
off his bedroom. In the hallway, the other two can hear his anguished retching.

Chapter End Notes

The Laurence Olivier / Vivien Leigh movie Henry remembers is Alexander Korda's
"Twenty-One Days" (1937) (released in America as "Twenty-One Days Together"),
and to call it a melodramatic potboiler is being charitable in the extreme! Though
neither star was yet as famous as they would become in a few years, the rumors of a
real-life affair between the two (which led to two divorces, and the abandonment of a
child on both sides) would propel the film to immense popularity. Of course, they
would go on to marry and become one of the most famous acting duos of their day,
though their marriage fell apart after twenty years due to infidelity on both sides and
the strain of Leigh's bipolar disorder. But while they were still together, the chemistry
between them was HOT, HOT, HOT, and it comes across on the screen.
As for Henry and Alex, it would require a heart of stone not to ache for these young
men! And it's going to get worse before it can possibly get better. Stay tuned!
 What a Difference a Year Makes
Chapter Summary

With "The Daily Mail" article and everything between Henry and Alex laid out for all
the world to see (and read), Henry waits for Alex to arrive from Washington. Catherine
comes to see Henry, who confronts her with a painful but necessary truth. Alex gets to
Kensington, and they come to a crucial decision about their future.

Chapter Notes

I couldn't leave poor Henry just barfing in the bathroom and wait until next week to
post the next installment. Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Henry emerges from the en suite, he’s brushed his teeth and run a comb through his hair.
But his cowlicks remain in unruly disarray. Taming them will have to wait for another time.

He emerges to find Bea seated on one of the tobacco-coloured couches, a small paper carrying bag
on the table beside her. She smiles at him and then, following his glance, she points to the bag. “I
think I found all the pieces and all the inlay.” Of course—Anne Boleyn’s vase. “I don’t think it’s as
bad as I feared—and the conservators are absolute geniuses at repairs.”

“Did you call Gran to reassure her?” asks Henry.

“Not a chance,” says Bea. “I want to let Pip twist in the wind for a while yet.” She looks at him
more closely. “Better?” she asks. The Daily Mail is on the sofa cushion beside her—evidently she
has been reading it. The paper is folded to conceal the colour photos and the screaming headline
QUEEN HENRY!

Henry picks it up and opens it, and then once again sees the secondary headline, Read Their
Steamy Email Correspondence! (See Page 3). He turns to the page and sees them, all those private
musings and little fables and lewd suggestions about what he wants to do to Alex the next time
they manage to meet. Prince Henry: Secret Poet? reads another subheading, followed by a
quotation: Should I tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams … Henry
feels violated. That line was for Alex alone. No matter what a person may have done, no one
deserves to have such private words of love exposed to public perusal. And all they had done was
to fall in love with each other, instead of with the women everyone expected of them.
The correspondence goes on for a dozen pages, but at the bottom of one there is a promise of a
related story: Revelations of the POWDER PRINCESS! (See Page 15). There is an old picture
captioned OOH, Brother! which shows Bea seemingly screaming at him. As Henry recalls it, the
photographer had actually caught Bea in the process of demanding, “Oh, what does Pip want this
time?” after Henry had told her their brother had called.

He looks up at her, stricken. “Oh, Christ, Bea,” he says, “I’m so bloody sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Bea briskly. “I think it’s the least of our problems right now. Don’t
you agree, Shaan?” Henry had forgotten for a moment about his equerry, but now he sees him
standing in the background beside a chair. He had been seated, but as soon as Henry entered, he
had jumped to his feet—the ever-correct Shaan would never sit in the presence of royalty, unless
every member of the Royal Family in the room had specifically invited him to do so.

“Indeed, Ma’am,” he now says to Bea. “It could have been worse.” Henry isn’t sure how, unless
they had caught him as his now-former PPO Ken had seen him, naked and aroused and about to
jump off the pier to join Alex in the water. I hope they would have blurred my stiffy, he thinks as
his colour flares, though they probably would have published my bare arse for all the world to see.
His stomach cramps once more, but he wills himself not to vomit again.

Bea points to another side table, which holds a glass of something and a small plate with a few
soda crackers. “Warm ginger ale,” she says. “Very good for the stomach. And tea’s on the way.”
She turns to Shaan. “Shaan, how did you find out about all this? And please sit back down. You
make me nervous, looming over me like that.”

Shaan smiles and sits. “I was just emerging from the shower after my morning run when I heard the
thump of the newspapers against the door. I put on my dressing gown to go fetch them, and as soon
as I opened The Daily Mail, I just threw on the first thing I found,” he says, eyeing his jogging
outfit with some distaste. “I came straight over—that is, after I made a quick call.”

“A call?” says Bea. “Must have been someone pretty important.”

“I telephoned Ms. Bankston,” says Shaan. “I knew she would never forgive me if I did not let her
know about all this at once.”

“Ms. Bankston?” says Bea. “Isn’t she the scary one?” She has never met Zahra, but after Henry
gave her an edited version of their interaction at the DNC, she asked Henry to point her out in the
background of various White House photos and video clips. Once she saw the unsmiling woman
always dressed in severe dark suits, she had said to Henry, “Oh, I wouldn’t want her tearing into
me.” Now she says to Shaan, “What did she say?”

Shaan permits himself a small smile. “I would rather not repeat it verbatim,” he says.

“Oh, now you have to tell us,” says Bea. “It can’t be worse than what we’re thinking.”

“Very well,” says Shaan, still smiling. “After employing several expletives in rapid succession, she
said, ‘I just knew I should have stapled his dick to his leg!’” He shrugs. “I have noticed over the
years, Americans have a way of expressing themselves most colourfully.”

Listening to the two of them and their chatter, Henry suddenly realises what they are doing. They
are trying to distract him, even to amuse him a bit. And he thinks that at least on some level, it is
working. He still feels like a piano just dropped on him from an upper storey window, but he can
breathe and no bones are broken. At least for right now.

Aloud he says, “They do indeed.” He thinks of Alex’s self-confessed “filthy fucking mouth.” Then
a thought strikes him. “How did you happen to have Ms. Bankston’s telephone number? I take it
she was at home in bed. It would have been the middle of the night in America.”

Shaan actually blushes. “She and I are actually in fairly constant communication,” he says
hesitantly. Then he says, “You see, Sir, and Ma’am, Ms. Bankston and I are betrothed.”

Henry, who has had several intimidating interactions with Zahra, and Bea, who does not know her
but does know of her, both stare at Shaan, wide-eyed. Finally Bea speaks. “Shaan,” she says, “you
are a very brave man.”

Shaan smiles. “Not at all, Ma’am,” he says. “Ms. Bankston is far more bark than bite. After all, she
never actually got out a stapler for Mr. Claremont-Diaz’s organ.”

Bea and Henry are both dumbfounded for a moment, but then they burst into giggles, and Shaan
joins them after a moment. Though there is a certain hysterical quality to their laughter, there is
nonetheless a significant lessening of the tension in the room. Just then, there is a knock at the
door.
“That’ll be the tea,” says Bea. “H, I think you should eat something too. How about some nice
plain toast?”

Remembering Philip’s dry toast (and what might he have said that morning if he had known that at
that very moment Alex was upstairs in my bed?), Henry shudders and shakes his head.

Bea says, “Butter and jam on it then. Fasting will not help anything and you’re going to need your
strength. Tell him, Shaan.”

“I agree with Her Royal Highness, Sir,” says Shaan.

“I should call Alex,” says Henry. It had actually been one of his first thoughts while he was
retching in the en suite: Oh, Christ, how is Alex? I need to talk to Alex! But force of habit had
restrained him—he usually does not call him at what for Alex would be the middle of the night.
Henry glances at the clock. Can it really be less than an hour since Shaan first arrived? Then he
suddenly notices that something is missing. As Bea comes in with the tea, Henry asks, “Has
anyone seen my mobile?”

“Yes,” says Bea. “I have it. And you’re not getting it. No arguments.”

“Beatrice!” begins Henry indignantly, but Shaan interrupts him.

“I must agree once more with the princess, Sir,” says Shaan. “In the first place, you will never
reach him. Ms. Banks—Zahra,” he corrects himself; now that they know she is his fiancée, he can
dispense with the pretense at formality. “She said she would be taking him to the President and her
advisers, and after that, he would be incommunicado. There is a leak somewhere, and until they
find it and stop it up, Mr. Claremont-Diaz will be unavailable.”

“And I’m not having you endlessly surfing the Internet, obsessing over all the nasty things people
say about you,” says Bea. “You’ll find those out soon enough. You can read a book or you can
watch telly.” She considers for a moment. “No, you can watch DVDs. There won’t be any breaking
news on those. Got it?”

She pours him a cup of Earl Grey. “By the way, I locked the door. Unless we’ve ordered food and
staff is bringing it up, no one gets in here. I’m not having Philip come storming in to yell at you—
or at us, I should say, once he reads those ‘Powder Princess’ revelations. He’s done enough
damage for one day.” She glances ruefully at the carrying bag, almost forgotten on the side table.
“Poor little vase. Lucy will never let me borrow anything else.”

The day passes quietly. Sundays are often like this—quiet, lazy days spent mostly relaxing, unless
he has to escort Gran to church (but not today; a lady-in-waiting called to say that the Queen would
be foregoing divine service this morning. She has ordered a communications lockdown, and
reporters are prone to shout rude questions even from church steps). Pez will sometimes stop by,
but he is out of the country this week, probably BASE-jumping in some exotic locale. Henry is
sure Pez has probably emailed him, but he can’t check because Bea adamantly continues to refuse
to surrender his mobile.

David lingers protectively at his side for most of the day, only leaving him long enough to let Bea
take him for a few quick trips to his private dog run. Even Mr. Wobbles jumps into Henry’s lap
once or twice to make bread, settle in, and purr, a mark of signal favour and concern.

At one point in the early afternoon, he’s pretty sure he hears a distant snatch of music, wanting to
“make a supersonic man out of youuuuu,” which is the ring-tone he has assigned to Alex on his
mobile. He jumps up and runs to find Bea, and finally locates her in the kitchenette. “Bea!” he
says. “Was that Alex? I need to talk to him!”

“What are you talking about?” says Bea. “I didn’t hear anything.” She folds her arms across her
chest and the corners of her mouth tuck in sternly. “Now go back to your film,” she says. “I’ll
bring you a cup of tea.”

“Beatrice!” he shouts. “If it is Alex, I need to speak with him!”

“If it’s Alex, it’s still dangerous for you to speak with him,” says Bea with an air of finality. “Or do
I need to remind you about the theft of your emails? This is worse than when the Vatican stole
Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn.”

He has had many interactions over the years with his older sister laying down the law, and he
briefly weighs his chances of prevailing this time. He returns to his film.

Shaan busies himself at his desk in Henry’s office. At one point, the equerry manages to reach
someone with a key to his home who brings him a change of clothing. The next time Henry sees
him, Shaan is in his usual bespoke suit and neatly knotted tie. Shaan’s mobile rings constantly, and
he invariably answers, “We have no comment about The Daily Mail story at this time.” Finally, he
changes his automatic greeting to, “You have reached Shaan Srivastava, equerry to His Royal
Highness Prince Henry of Wales. We have no comment on the article in this morning’s Daily Mail.
Please refer all further enquiries to the Palace Press Office.”
But at about seven-thirty that evening, Shaan gets a phone call he does answer. He happens to be in
the Music Room with Henry when it comes in, and he answers by saying placatingly, “Hello, my
darling.” Zahra, obviously. Henry can’t make out her words, but even from across the room her
tone is abrupt and commanding. Shaan listens for a moment, then says, “Yes. Yes, I see. Yes, he’s
right here. I’ll put him on.” He offers Henry the phone, saying, “I’ll just be in the office,” and
leaves the room.

Puzzled, Henry takes it and answers, “Hello?” Why would Shaan give him to Zahra?

“Sweetheart.” Alex may be thousands of miles away, but his voice is clear and strong.

Henry’s heart does a flip-flop in his chest. He hardly knows how to take this in—is he actually
being allowed to speak to Alex? He says, “Hi, love. Are you okay?”

Broken, breathy laughter comes over the line. “Fuck, are you kidding me?” says Alex. “I’m fine.
I’m fine, are you okay?”

Henry says slowly, “I’m… I’m managing.”

Is it possible to hear someone wince? Alex says, “How bad is it?”

“Philip broke a vase that belonged to Anne Boleyn,” says Henry with a glance at the little carrying
bag. “Gran ordered a communications lockdown, and Mum hasn’t spoken to anyone.” Like she
would anyway. Henry feels a sudden, fierce longing for his father. Dad would be a rock in this
crisis. “But, er, other than that. All things considered. It’s, er.”

“I know,” says Alex. “I’ll be there soon.”

In the midst of the chaos of emotions swirling around and within him, one thought emerges, pure
and crystal clear. “I’m not sorry,” says Henry. “That people know.”

Alex is silent for a second, then he begins, “Henry, I—”

At the same moment, Henry says, “Maybe—"

Alex says, “I talked to my mom—”

Henry says, “I know the timing isn’t ideal—”

“Would you—”

“I want—”

“Hang on,” says Alex, and both of them stop speaking over each other and take a breath. Then
Alex says, “Are we. Um. Are we both asking the same thing?”

Miracle of miracles, my love. Yes, I think we are. “That depends,” says Henry. “Were you going to
ask me if I want to tell the truth?”

Alex hesitates for just a moment, then says, “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”

Henry knows the answer. There never really was any other. He says, “Then, yes.”

Henry hears Alex draw a thin breath. “You want that?” He sounds like he can hardly dare to
believe him.

Henry has never been surer of anything in his life. “I don’t know if I would have chosen it yet,” he
says in a clear, measured tone. “But it’s out there now, and… I won’t lie. Not about this. Not about
you.”

Henry hears Alex gulp, as if he’s trying to swallow a very large lump in his throat. Then he says, “I
completely fucking love you.”

Henry smiles. As Shaan said, Americans express themselves so colourfully. But Henry is an
Englishman and a bit more restrained, so he merely says, “I love you too.”
“Just hold on until I get there,” says Alex urgently. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

“I will.” To be forever with you, my love, I can hold on through all eternity.

“I’m coming,” says Alex. “I’ll be there soon.”

Henry laughs, but he is suddenly, desperately, close to tears. “Please, do hurry,” he says.

They exchange good-byes, and Henry walks into the next room and returns Shaan’s phone. “Thank
you,” he says. Then he goes into his bedroom and shuts the door. He climbs onto the massive four-
poster and hugs the pillow where Alex’s head had rested just a month ago, and stares quietly at the
early evening sky outside his window.

It’s nearly ten when Beatrice comes knocking on his door. “H?” she says. “Mum’s here.”

What? Henry gets up and comes out into the hallway, blinking. Bea has installed their mother on a
couch in the music room.

Mum looks up at him and half-smiles. “Those cowlicks,” she says, standing up to brush his hair
back with her fingers. “They’re as bad as your father’s. Hair stylists on sets all round the world
used to despair. James Bond is supposed to look debonair, not tousled.”

Henry stares at her as if they have never met before. Then he says, “What do you want, Mum?”

She seems thrown by his directness, and she fumbles for an answer. “I just wanted—I just wanted
to tell you I love you. And that you might have told me about … “

“About being gay? About Alex?” says Henry bluntly.

“Well… yes, I suppose so,” she says. “You could have told me sooner, you know.”
All of the times over the past five years he’s wanted his mother, needed his mother, and she wasn’t
there, suddenly rise before him. “What do you want from me, Mum? Absolution?” he asks.
“Saying you love me and I could have told you sooner is great, but as long as you’re letting Gran
keep me trapped, it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”

Catherine winces, as if he’s just slapped her. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Good to know,” he says. Then he goes back to his bedroom, once again shutting the door.

A bit later, there is another knock. “H?” says Bea quietly. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” says Henry, but he stays on the bed, still hugging the pillow, staring out at the dark
night. Somewhere, over the Atlantic, Alex is coming to him.

“I sent her home,” says Bea. “Mum, I mean. I’m meeting her for breakfast in the morning. I have a
few things to say to her.” She remains in the doorway. “Shaan will be spending the night in visiting
staff quarters. He says Zahra is coming with Alex, and he wants to wait for her here at KP.” She
pauses. “I was wondering,” she says hesitantly. “I’m all alone out there, and you’re all alone in
here. I thought—I thought, maybe we could be alone together. Not talk if you don’t want to—but
you know, just be company for each other.”

Henry thinks, I can just as easily watch the sky from the music room windows as this one. And her
world just changed forever, too. “Sounds good,” he says, getting to his feet. “I think I have an
appointment with a bottle of brandy.”

As he lies on the couch nursing his drink, he thinks of those first few days after Arthur died. When
they got the news about the cancer and knew that there was no hope, Henry had been terrified at
the thought of losing his father. But when it actually happened—when the heart monitor stopped
beeping and started its ghastly whining, and the sister came in and shut it off and said to his
mother, “I’m so very sorry, Ma’am”—oddly enough, he hadn’t really felt anything.

Even then, as young as he was, on some level he knew that this anaesthesia was only temporary,
that in a few hours or days or weeks, the numbness would wear off. It would hurt, hurt like bloody
hell—but at that particular moment in hospital, it didn’t hurt much at all. When there’s something
you’ve been afraid of for a long, long time, there’s almost a certain relief when it finally happens.
On some level, you think, There, that wasn’t so bad—it didn’t kill me. Of course, later on, you find
out that yes, yes, it was just as bad as you had always feared it would be. But somehow you had
still managed to survive it.
He has always been terrified of exposure—that somehow, someday, some sneaking paparazzi
would get a picture of him on a date with some bloke, or one of his mates would inadvertently let
something slip. But now that it’s really happened—and not accidentally; all the signs point to
deliberate plotting to shame and humiliate him and Alex, maybe even ruin President Claremont’s
chances for reelection—now that it’s happened, he is oddly calm.

The brandy is helping, of course, but he knows it’s more than that. The whole world knows he likes
to kiss blokes. So what? He’s not a drug kingpin or a mafia don. He doesn’t murder people or rob
old age pensioners of their life’s savings or intentionally hurt animals. He just prefers men to
women. Philip and Gran are furious, but they’ll get over it. Or else they won’t. Who cares?

In the meantime, the sky hasn’t fallen in. He’s still alive, still breathing in and out. And he knows
one inescapable truth: he doesn’t care who knows he’s been caught kissing a bloke, because the
bloke in question is Alex. Alex is the love of his life, and he is the love of Alex’s. And they’re
going to find a way to spend their lives together. That’s all that matters.

And as Alex might say, in his own colourful American fashion, if someone has a problem with that
—fuck ’em.

The hours of waiting creep by. Bea strums on an autoharp, and the brandy puts him into an
agreeable, drowsy haze. Then, about one-thirty in the morning, they hear running footsteps coming
up the stairs. Philip?

Bea says, “I swear, if Philip is back here at this hour, come to harass us—” She picks up a tennis
racket she unearthed from her closet, prepared to swat their older brother in defense of her little
brother. (Not so little anymore—he towers over her by almost a foot.) He hears her going to the
door. “I told you to stay away,” she says angrily as she opens it, but then she changes her tone.
“Oh, Alex,” she says, “I’m so sorry. I thought you were Philip.”

There is a dull roaring in his ears, and his breath starts coming in shallow gasps. Is it possible
actually to die of joy and relief?

He hears a murmur of voices, and then there he is. At the door. He looks anxious and rumpled and
messy, but his face is breaking into a smile. To Henry, he is as beautiful as an angel.

But such declarations are not how they normally communicate. Instead Henry says, “Bit short for a
stormtrooper.”
Alex gives a strangled sound, half-laugh, half-sob, and then Henry is up like a shot from the couch
and they meet in the middle of the room, their arms wrapping around each other in the tightest
possible embrace. He feels Alex tucking his face into his throat. Muffled against Henry’s neck,
Alex’s words are almost unintelligible as he says, “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I’m so
sorry.”

Henry takes a step back, holding Alex by the shoulders, and looks deep into the beautiful, black-
fringed eyes. “Don’t you dare,” he says. “I’m not sorry for a thing.” And he truly is not.

Alex blinks rapidly as his eyes grow wet, and he says, “You’re unbelievable.” He kisses the
underside of Henry’s jaw, and Henry presses a kiss into the glossy black curls.

They could stand like this forever, holding each other close. But somehow they make their way to
the rug in front of the couch, and Henry stretches out on the floor. He notices that Bea has taken
advantage of their embrace to remove his glass and brandy bottle. She enters carrying a tray with
some crackers and a wedge of soft cheese, but no one is really hungry.

They talk about the exposés of Bea’s addictions and Henry and Alex’s affair, the Queen’s and
Philip’s reactions, and Catherine’s visit. Bea continues to strum on her autoharp as they talk, and
the physical and emotional exhaustion of the past week, combined with the effects of the brandy,
lull Henry into a gentle doze. David curls up protectively beside him, and Bea’s and Alex’s voices
become a low murmur. He sleeps more deeply.

At some point, they manage to rouse him enough to get him to his bedroom. Bea turns down the
bed, then leaves Alex to undress him. Once he’s got him down to his boxers, Alex lays him out and
pulls up the covers, and a moment later, he is also undressed and is climbing in beside him. Alex’s
arms circle protectively around Henry and they curl into each other.

At one point during the night, he awakens to feel Alex giggling. “Say, Your Royal Highness,” Alex
whispers, “isn’t tomorrow your brother’s first wedding anniversary?”

Henry thinks for a moment, then smiles. “Why, so it is,” he says.

“It’s just one damn fiasco after another with you, isn’t it?” says Alex.

“Must be the company I keep,” says Henry, snuggling even closer. From where he lies stretched
 out at their feet, David picks up his head to look at them. Then he gives a huge yawn and settles
back down, resting his chin on Alex’s calf. Alex is the first of Henry’s lovers David has ever even
tolerated in Henry’s bed, let alone accepted.

Alex shakes his head. He murmurs, “What a difference a year makes.” Still smiling, they fall back
to sleep. Tomorrow will be their conference with the Queen.

Chapter End Notes

Next week: the Big Summit with Queen Mary!

 Command Performance, Part I
Chapter Summary

Philip drops in (uninvited, of course) for a confrontation with Henry and Alex; Alex
stays diplomatically silent, but Henry gives as good as he gets--in fact, better. Shaan
and Zahra take them to Buckingham Palace for their summit meeting with the Queen,
and Henry discovers an unexpected ally.

Chapter Notes

I had to break this section into two parts because it was becoming way too long. I'm
still working on the discussion with Queen Mary, and will post it at the end of the
week. Stay tuned!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Even though he had been up quite late waiting for Alex to arrive, Henry nonetheless awakens just
after dawn on Monday morning. At first, he feels disoriented—something’s wrong, but he can’t
quite remember what it is—then two things happen simultaneously: first, in his mind’s eye, he sees
the headline QUEEN HENRY!; but second, he feels an arm tightening around him, a hand
squeezing his. A familiar, beloved aroma envelops him: Essence of Alex.

He could stay in bed like this for hours. At this moment, he feels cocooned in the warmth and
safety of Alex’s arms, and nothing—neither public censure nor royal disapproval—can frighten
him. As he moves to get up, he feels a soft kiss pressing into his shoulder. He looks back and sees
Alex frowning slightly at Henry’s movement, but still fast asleep. He gently disengages from
Alex’s hand and tucks the duvet around him, then goes into the en suite.

When he steps out of the shower twenty minutes later, he finds Alex at the sink brushing his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” says Henry. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No problem,” says Alex around a mouthful of toothpaste. “It was time for me to get up. We’ve
got a big day today.” He rinses and spits, then smiles widely. “Hey, just for once I remembered my
own toothbrush. I even brought my shaving kit.” He adds, “I’m gonna grab my shower. Did you
leave me any hot water?”

“Gosh, I hope not,” says Henry. Alex gives him a fake dirty look as he goes in.
When Alex comes out and they start dressing, Henry thinks with a smile, This is so comfortable,
me sitting on the bed putting on my shoes, Alex at the mirror fixing his tie. It’s like we’ve been
together for twenty years. Aloud he says, “Here, come help me make the bed.”

“Don’t the maids do that?” asks Alex.

“They come in once a week to dust, but mostly I make my own bed. Queen Victoria insisted that
her children learn to do such things, and the habit stuck in the family,” says Henry.

“Does the Queen make her bed?” asks Alex as they straighten the duvet and plump the pillows.

“I doubt it,” says Henry. He resolutely puts his grandmother out of his mind for now. He wants to
continue to enjoy this moment of domesticity with Alex. “Victoria also made her sons work for
wages in the vegetable gardens, and the girls were taught to cook and sew and bake. Speaking of
which, I made scones the other day. How does that sound for breakfast?”

“Just lead me to the coffee,” says Alex. He settles his blue-striped tie in place. “I hope this pattern
doesn’t make too much of a statement. I thought of wearing a rainbow tie, but I decided that might
be a bit unsubtle.”

“Maybe a bit,” says Henry. “Why are you wearing a moke as a tie pin?”

“It’s a donkey,” says Alex, “and it’s the symbol of the Democratic Party.” There is an American
flag pin on his lapel. He looks at it and says, “Too much?”

“Maybe,” says Henry. “I was hoping to conceal the fact that you’re American.”

Alex looks at him anxiously, then his face clears as he realizes Henry is teasing. He says,
“Bastard.”

Henry says, “Arsehole.”

Alex says, “Dickhead.”

Henry says, “Wanker.”

Alex says, “Penis breath.”

Henry wiggles his eyebrows and says, “No time now. Maybe later.”

Snickering, they make their way to the kitchenette. Bea has assembled them a pot of coffee ready
to perk, and Alex puts on the kettle for Henry’s tea. Henry gets out plates and cutlery and pops the
scones into the microwave to warm them up a bit. Then he puts butter and jam on the table, and
they’re actually managing to enjoy their breakfast when Philip suddenly barges in. Damn, thinks
Henry. I meant to remind Bea to lock our apartment door.

“So,” begins Philip threateningly, but then he stops abruptly, staring open-mouthed at Alex. Alex
has stood and is flashing him an easy grin.

“So, Pip,” he says. “How’s it hangin’, man?” He cuffs Philip’s shoulder, then sits back down.

“Philip,” says Henry. “I expected your head to be decorating Tower Bridge by now for breaking
that vase. I’d invite you to sit, but there’s no need; you treat my home as if you own it anyway.”
And indeed, Philip has already seated himself and grabbed a scone. He wolfs it.

“I can’t believe it,” says Philip angrily, spitting out crumbs as he speaks. “You know there’s a
communications lockdown, but you brought him here anyway.” He shoots Alex a look of utter
loathing. “Probably every tabloid photographer in town got a picture of him arriving. Henry, how
can you keep embarrassing the family this way?”

“Probably not all of them,” says Alex. “I don’t think there were more than seventy-five or eighty
out there when I got in last night.”

“How can you be so thoughtless?” says Philip to Henry, ignoring Alex. “That’s your problem. You
never think of consequences. The most charitable thing I can say is that you’re too young and
immature to be held responsible for your actions.”
“I’m twenty-three, Philip,” he says. “Mum was barely more than that when she met Dad.”

“Yes, and you think that was a wise decision?” says Philip. “Marrying a man who spent half our
childhoods making films, who never served his country, who got sick and left us and Mum—”

Henry had felt a spasm of intimidation when Philip came charging in a few moments ago. But his
attack on Arthur turns Henry’s fear into fury. “Don’t, Philip,” he says. “I swear to God. Just
because your obsession with family legacy didn’t impress him—” It may be hitting below the belt
to remind Philip of his troubled relationship with their father, but Henry is too angry to care.

Equally furious, Philip says, “You clearly don’t know the first fucking thing about what a legacy
means if you can let something like this happen. The only thing to do now is bury it, and hope that
people will somehow believe that none of it was real. That’s your duty, Henry. It’s the least you
can do.” Lie, Henry, and go back to being a beautiful blank cipher for people to project their
fantasies onto. You’ll get used to it, and we can always arrange a bit of rough on the side.

“I’m sorry,” says Henry. “I’m sorry I’m such a disgrace for being the way I am.”

“I don’t care if you’re gay,” says Philip. If? “I care that you’ve made this choice with him,” he
says, looking at Alex for the first time since he sat down. Henry is dumbfounded. Is it because
Alex is Mexican? Because he’s American? Or is it because Alex is fun and sexy and wonderful,
and Philip knows he will never be as happy as Alex can make Henry?

But then Philip clarifies his main objection. “Someone with a fucking target on his back. To be so
stupid and naïve and selfish as to think it wouldn’t completely fuck us all.”

“I knew, Philip,” says Henry. “Christ. I knew it could ruin everything. I was terrified of exactly
this. But how could I have predicted? How?” He hopes Alex understands that he doesn’t mean
Alex himself—it is the snake pit he inhabits. The private life of the President’s children is normally
off-limits—after all, attacking them leaves politicians wide open for similar invasions of their own
privacy, and who knows what reporters with an ax to grind may find once they start digging? But
now the gloves are off, and it seems to be open season on Alex (and eventually, he’s certain, it will
include June; maybe someone will dig up a disgruntled former boyfriend).

Henry also knows that if he had entered a relationship with one of Philip’s friends—another Nigel
—it could have been kept secret. But Alex is too famous. Just as Henry is Prince Charming, Alex
is the international golden boy, and that does heighten the possibility of exposure. No wonder we
fell in love. We were made for each other. But depending on one’s point of view, it was either
perfect, or else the perfect storm.
“As I said, naïve,” says Philip witheringly. “This is the life we live, Henry. You’ve always known
it. I’ve tried to tell you. I wanted to be a good brother to you, but you don’t bloody listen.” Sitting
next to Henry, Alex is maintaining an admirable silence in the face of Philip’s condescension, but
Henry sees him eyeing the coffeepot and wonders if he’s thinking of braining Philip with it. “It’s
time to remember your place in this family,” Philip continues. “Be a man. Stand up and take
responsibility. Fix this. For once in your life, don’t be a coward.”

Henry hears Alex’s gasp at Philip’s insult. If Philip had slapped Henry across the face, he could
hardly have done more to demean him. But the thing of it is, beneath the fluff of fear and doubt and
insecurity, Henry has a core of steel, and Philip has unknowingly exposed it. Henry sits up
straighter and sticks out his chin and says, “I’m not a coward. And I don’t want to fix it.”

Philip laughs contemptuously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t possibly
know.” Philip, I may be your younger brother, but do you think I’m still ten years old?

He says, “Fuck off, Philip. I love him.” Wow. This feels great.

“Oh, you love him, do you?” Henry can hear hundreds of years of aristocratic disdain in Philip’s
tone, a sneering superiority that denies real feeling as something vulgar and contemptible and lower
class. “What exactly do you intend to do then, Henry? Hmmm?” The singsong hum seems to set
something off in Alex; Henry sees his fist clench under the table. “Marry him? Make him the
Duchess of Cambridge? The First Son of the United bloody States, fourth in line to be Queen of
England?”

“I don’t care!” shouts Henry. And he really, truly doesn’t. “I’ll fucking abdicate!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Philip spits out.

Push me and see what happens, thinks Henry. “We have a great-uncle who abdicated because he
was a fucking Nazi,” he says, watching Philip flinch at Henry’s deliberate reference to the secret
archives confirming what has always merely been rumour. The tabloids would love to run a picture
of that Nazi Party membership card. “So it’d hardly be the worst reason anyone’s done it, would
it?”

He has risen to his feet, and Philip, not to be placed in a subordinate physical position again like
the other day at Henry’s desk, stands as well. But by doing so, Philip has inadvertently shown that
Henry is actually the taller of the two. Henry stands even straighter.
Henry says, “What are we even defending here, Philip? What kind of legacy? What kind of family,
that says, we’ll take the murder, we’ll take the raping and pillaging and the colonizing, we’ll scrub
it up nice and neat in a museum, but oh no, you’re a bloody poof? That’s beyond our sense of
decorum!”

He draws a breath and says, “I’ve bloody well had it. I’ve sat about long enough letting you and
Gran and the weight of the damned world keep me pinned, and I’m finished. I don’t care. You can
take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, Philip. I’m done.”
He stomps away to his bedroom. He hears a murmur of voices, and then Alex joins him.

Alex’s eyes are shining as he looks at Henry. “God,” he says, “you make me so fucking proud.”

Henry laughs shakily. “Really?” The burst of adrenaline from his argument with Philip has started
to ebb, and Henry is beginning to tremble a bit.

“Really,” says Alex. “I just told Philip you’re the bravest son of a bitch I ever met. I completely
fucking love you. I could drop to my knees and give you a blowjob right now, except for one
thing.”

“The time?” says Henry, eyeing the clock.

“My hair,” corrects Alex. “I worked so hard to make it perfect for your grandmother, and you’d
probably grab it to pull my head closer and mess it up.”

If Alex had meant to break the tension by making Henry laugh, he has succeeded. Hearing Henry’s
hearty peal of laughter, Alex looks extremely pleased with himself.

Henry laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. Then he says, “How about a cup of coffee?”

“Just remind me to pee before we leave,” says Alex. “While your grandmother is looking down her
nose at me, I don’t want to be squirming and have her think I’m scared.”

Their meeting is scheduled for eleven, and Buck House is only a couple of miles away, but Shaan
arrives to pick them up just a little past ten-thirty. It would never do to be late for a meeting with
Her Majesty. Shaan is driving an anonymous black van which is unlikely to be noticed in the
London traffic, and Zahra is in the front seat next to him. While Alex chats with Zahra, Henry
suddenly notices that the tag at the back of Shaan’s sweater is sticking out. Henry would not be
more shocked if Shaan had left his fly open. At the first opportunity, he leans forward and
surreptitiously tucks the tag into place.

Alex is wide-eyed as they enter Buckingham Palace by the back entrance, per Gran’s instructions.
Henry realises that, except for Philip and Martha’s wedding reception, this is probably the first
time Alex has entered its somewhat overpowering splendour. Henry wishes he could give Alex the
full Buck House experience and take him up the Grand Staircase, but Gran says they must stay
away from the front. All the same, he makes himself and Alex an unspoken promise: one day,
they’ll mount those stairs together.

The footman sent to meet them says, “This way, please.” He leads them into a part of the palace
Henry has never seen, the backstairs normally only used by servants. He wonders if this is meant to
be a subtle slight, to put the upstart American firmly in his place.

Finally, they turn a corner into a corridor with which he is more familiar, just outside the
conference room where he sometimes has to meet with Gran’s staff to plan upcoming royal events.
Then Henry’s eye is drawn to a small woman standing by the door. She is dressed in jeans and a
sweater, her glasses perched on the end of her nose and a softcover book stuck in her back pocket.
Henry can hardly believe it. He says, “Mum?”

She turns round, and her face lights up. She pulls him to her, and stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“Hi, my baby,” she says.

Henry is not sure what her presence here this morning means. So he turns to the one person he can
be sure of. “Mum, this is Alex,” he says. “My boyfriend.” He’s actually saying it out loud.

Alex steps forward, half-extending a tentative hand. But Catherine is having none of that. She pulls
Alex in and kisses his cheek too. She says, “My Bea has told me what you have done for my son.
Thank you.”

For the first time, Henry notices Bea in the doorway. She looks tired but triumphant.

Henry can only think of one person his mother would be here to see. “What are you going to say to
her?” he asks.
 “Well,” says Catherine with a sigh of resignation—she’s been dealing with her mother for sixty
years—“the old bird isn’t much moved by emotion, so I suppose I’ll try to appeal to her with
political strategy.”

What? Henry says, “Sorry—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ve come to fight,” she says firmly. “You want to tell the truth, don’t you?”

Henry says, “I—yeah, Mum. Yes, I do.” Six years ago he is might have expected her support, but
now he is totally confused, even as he is hoping against hope that he can trust her offer.

“Then we can try,” she says. She leads the way into the conference room. Henry thinks of an
emcee he once saw at an event: “And now, ladies and gents, it’s showtime!”

Chapter End Notes

The rumors about Edward VIII's Nazi Party membership have never been confirmed,
but it is undeniable that if Hitler had beaten England in World War II, he planned to
depose George VI and Queen Elizabeth (parents of Elizabeth II) and reinstate Edward
VIII as a puppet king, with Wallis Simpson as Queen. Hitler organized a royal tour of
Germany for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor just before the start of the war, and
they almost certainly discussed the plan at that time. Also, Edward VIII's father,
George V, had a first cousin (Charles Edward, Duke of Coburg, son of Queen
Victoria's hemophiliac son Prince Leopold) who was a member of the Nazi Party. (The
Royalty Channel has a program about Charles Edward called "Hitler's Favorite
Royal.") Charles spent several months after the war in prison for war crimes (there are
terrible stories about this grandson of Queen Victoria rooting through prison garbage
dumps for something to eat, though of course they pale in comparison to the stories of
the concentration camps). When Charles was released, he was ruined financially, and
spent his last years in a tiny cottage surrounded by memorabilia of England and his
grandmother, but he was never allowed in the UK again. Finally, Prince Philip, late
husband of Queen Elizabeth II, was also the brother-in-law of several prominent
Nazis, and for that reason (among others) the Queen's parents were not terribly
enthusiastic about the match.
 Command Performance, Part II
Chapter Summary

The summit meeting continues. The Queen sweeps in and tries to assert control (as
usual), but Henry shocks everyone by refusing to back down, and then Catherine
comes back to life with a threat for her mother. Public reaction to the news of Henry
and Alex overwhelms them all, and Bea quenches Philip's attempted support for his
grandmother. Later, Henry and Alex celebrate victory in their own special way, and
after Alex leaves, Henry makes a decision.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When they enter the conference room, Philip is already seated at the table. When he had barged
into the kitchenette earlier, he had been rather disheveled—hair uncombed, tie askew. Now he has
smartened up considerably, but Henry can see a small dot of blood on his jaw where he must have
nicked himself shaving, and a bit of foam behind his ear.

They sit anxiously around the table. Far away, a sound of chimes. Eleven o’clock. Precisely.

The Queen glides in, her expression as stony as the colour of her suit. There is a small diamond
brooch on her lapel in the shape of a teardrop, which Henry recognises: his great-grandmother had
worn it to his great-grandfather’s funeral. Gran had loaned it to Catherine for Arthur’s funeral, but
a somewhat shame-faced lady-in-waiting had shown up that same evening to demand its return.

A footman takes the silver teapot from the center of the table and pours into the Queen’s white
china cup. At a stately pace, she adds a bit of milk, picks up the sugar tongs and drops in a cube,
stirs, and then drops in a second. She lifts the cup and takes a delicate sip.

Alex coughs. It’s as if he just set off a firecracker. Heads swivel in his direction.

The Queen ignores him. “I had a visit earlier this year,” she begins conversationally. “The
President of China. You’ll forgive me if the name escapes me.” She tells some anecdote about
President Xi (Christ, Gran, thinks Henry, it’s not exactly a complicated name), something about
computer programs and storage in the cloud. Henry is only half-listening. He wants to scream. How
long are you going to ignore Alex sitting right beside me? And what about Zahra, who’s staring
daggers at you? Zahra and Shaan are not at the table; they have been consigned to chairs against
the wall.
But then the point of her pointless story emerges. “I have been told any number of lies can be
manufactured and disseminated. One could… create files that never existed and plant them
somewhere easy to find. None of it is real. The most flagrant of evidence can be discredited and
dismissed, just like that.” For the first time, she looks directly at Henry. “I wonder, Henry. I
wonder if you think any of this had to do with these unseemly reports.”

He is stunned. Normally, she is more subtle. But he grits his teeth and says, “It’s real. All of it.”

She glares at him. Then she turns a look of disdain on Alex. She says, “Very well. In that case.
Alexander.” She rolls his name on her tongue, as if she is tasting it; evidently she finds the flavour
unpleasant. “Had I known you were involved with my grandson, I would have insisted on a more
formal meeting.”

Why, Gran? So you could welcome him into the family with open arms? He begins, “Gran—”

“Do be quiet, Henry, dear.” Evidently she is not done trying to intimidate Alex. Looking at Alex’s
resolute expression, he thinks, But you picked the wrong person to frighten, Gran. He’s faced
down worse than you, and he was raised by two parents with backbones of solid steel.

Catherine says, “Mum—” but Queen Mary cuts her off with one raised hand.

She says, “I thought we had been humiliated enough in the papers when Beatrice had her little
problem. And I made myself clear, Henry, years ago, that if you were drawn in unnatural
directions, appropriate measures could be taken. Why you have chosen to undermine the hard work
I have done to maintain the crown’s standing is beyond me, and why you seem set on disrupting
my efforts to restore it by demanding I summit with some…boy—”

Her tone is icily contemptuous. Out of his peripheral vision, Henry can see Zahra stir restively. She
can threaten Alex with bodily mayhem, but no one else is allowed to attack him, nor to look down
on the First Son of the United States. Shaan touches her arm to quiet her.

“—when you were told to await orders, is truly a mystery,” the Queen continues. “Clearly you
have taken leave of your senses.” She pauses to see if her shot has hit home—normally, Henry
would be cowering by now. Seeing that he is still upright, she says, “My position is unchanged,
dear. Your role in this family is to perpetuate our bloodline and maintain the appearance of the
monarchy as the ideal of British excellence, and I simply cannot allow anything else.”
She takes another sip of tea, and makes a face; Henry wonders if it's already tepid. He looks down
at the grain of the table.

But then he suddenly becomes aware of his mother across the table. He watches her sit up
straighter, and then she leans forward. “Mum,” she says, “don’t you think we ought to at least have
a conversation about other options?”

Henry once saw a movie in which a man who has been in a coma for forty years awakens, then
folds his now-elderly mother into his arms. He is certain that his face mirrors that mother’s look of
stunned amazement. It’s as if Catherine has just risen from the dead.

Gran looks uncertain for a moment when Catherine speaks, seemingly surprised and obviously
dismayed. Henry thinks, All these years, Gran. All these years you’ve watched your own daughter
broken by grief, her children suffering, and I honestly believe you’ve enjoyed it. How could you?
But all Gran says is, “And what options might those be, Catherine?”

“Well,” says Catherine, “I think there’s something to be said for coming clean. It could save us a
great deal of face not to treat it as a scandal, but as an intrusion into the privacy of the family and
the victimization of a young man in love.”

For the first time, Bea speaks. “Which is what it was,” she says.

“We could integrate this into our narrative,” says Catherine. “Reclaim the dignity of it. Make Alex
an official suitor.”

The Queen’s mouth purses and her nostrils pinch, as if she has just sniffed a blocked drain. “I see,”
she says. “So your plan is to allow him to choose this life?”

“It’s the only life for him that’s honest, Mum,” says Catherine.

Queen Mary turns to Henry. She is trying to be persuasive—I’m just trying to help, dear—but the
squinted eyes and pursed lips betray her real feelings. “Henry,” she says, “wouldn’t you have a
more pleasant go of it without all these unnecessary complications? You know we have the
resources to find a wife for you and compensate her handsomely.”
Henry feels a mad desire to laugh. Are they actually offering to pay some woman to marry him
when Alex will do it for free? It’s not exactly in character for his normally tight-fisted
grandmother. “You understand,” she says, “I’m only trying to protect you. I know it seems
important to you in this moment, but you really must think of the future. You do realise this would
mean years of reporters hounding you, all sorts of allegations? I can’t imagine people would be as
eager to welcome you into children’s hospitals—”

“Stop it!” shouts Henry. He can’t believe she is actually implying that gay people must also be
child molesters. But he is also shocked at his own daring, and everyone else in the room seems to
be as well. “You can’t—you can’t intimidate me into submission forever!”

He feels Alex’s hand touching his, and he clutches it, hard. This is the love Philip and Gran want
him to turn his back on, and instead to choose some nameless woman who has to be bribed to
become his wife. He says, “I know it will be difficult. I… it’s terrifying. And if you’d asked me a
year ago I probably would have said it was fine, that nobody needs to know.”

He shudders inwardly, thinking how narrowly he had avoided such a fate. His guardian angel must
have been the one who shoved him into that cake. “But… I’m as much a person and a part of this
family as you,” he says. “I deserve to be happy as much as any of you do. And I don’t think I ever
will be if I have to spend my whole life pretending.”

“Nobody’s saying you don’t deserve to be happy,” says Philip, speaking for the first time. Henry
suddenly feels Alex’s hand squeezing more tightly, and notices Alex’s other hand clenching into a
fist beneath the table. Be careful, Philip. “First love makes everyone mad,” Philip continues. “It’s
foolish to throw away your future because of one hormonal decision based on less than a year of
your life when you were barely in your twenties.”

Philip, do you really think falling in love is merely uncontrolled hormones, and that being gay is a
choice, something I’ll grow out of? He says, “I’ve been gay as a maypole since the day I came out
of Mum, Philip.”

There is a little silence, and evidently Queen Mary thinks it’s time to take control of the situation
once more. “Well,” she says, “even if you’re willing to submit to the flogging in the papers, it
doesn’t erase the stipulations of your birthright. You are to produce heirs.”

Alex suddenly speaks. “We could still do that,” he says. Everyone turns to stare.

The Queen glares at him. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak in my presence,” she says.
Zahra makes an angry exhalation, and Henry remembers her words when she threatened him at the
DNC. Ask me if I’m afraid of the crown. This time, Shaan’s hand closes around her arm, as if he
thinks she might jump up and smack the Queen if he doesn’t restrain her.

Catherine looks both pained and exasperated, saying, “Mum—” while Philip jumps in with, “That
raises the issue of surrogates, or donors, and rights to the throne—”

Catherine stops him. “Are those details really pertinent right now, Philip?” she says, though in
fairness to his older brother, Henry has to agree that aristocratic inheritance laws in England are
pretty antiquated on the question of surrogacy. It’s rather ironic, in that Gran’s mother, an Earl’s
daughter, was long rumoured to be his biological child by the castle cook, although raised by the
Earl’s wife as her own.

Philip snaps, “Someone has to bear the stewardship for the royal legacy, Mum.”

“I don’t care for that tone at all,” says Catherine, in the same voice as Arthur used to use to rein
Philip in. Henry watches his brother’s fantasy of directly succeeding their grandmother vanish in
that single moment.

Gran dismisses the argument about what she calls “hypotheticals” to return to what she sees as the
issue at hand. “The country simply will not accept a prince of his proclivities. I’m sorry, dear, but
to them, it’s perverse.”

Everyone starts talking at once. Catherine says, “Perverse to them or perverse to you?” while
Philip rushes to their grandmother’s defense (Brown-noser, thinks Henry). Henry himself reminds
everyone, “It’s my life,” which he thinks should be obvious but which the others seem to have
forgotten.

Meanwhile, Bea has been scrolling through Shaan’s tablet. She breaks into their shouting match to
say, “Oh, will you all shut up for a second? Look.” She thumps the tablet down in front of Gran
and Philip, and Alex, Henry and Catherine stand up to crowd behind them. In their chairs against
the wall, Shaan and Zahra are staring at her mobile—no doubt they’re checking the news as well.

WORLDWIDE SUPPORT POURS IN FOR PRINCE HENRY AND FIRST SON OF US, reads
the chyron at the bottom of the picture. A montage of images scrolls across the screen: a support
rally in New York, a Paris bridge with a banner reading HENRY + ALEX WERE HERE, a mural
of Alex’s face on a wall in Mexico City (everyone there so proud of Alex’s Mexican heritage) and
wearing a crown, a crowd in Hyde Park bearing signs proclaiming FREE HENRY!, a
demonstration of support for them in Washington DC. People are wearing homemade T-shirts with
a line from one of Alex’s Waterloo Letter emails: HISTORY, HUH?
Catherine stares at her mother, then rushes to the windows. Unusually for such a bright day, the
drapes are closed, but Catherine grabs them and pulls them back. The Queen says quickly,
“Catherine, don’t—” but Henry is already next to his mother, looking out at the crowd. It’s not
quite as big a crowd as the one there for Philip’s wedding last year, but today is a weekday, not a
Saturday, and it isn’t a national holiday as it had been then. People also haven’t had months to plan
and prepare and gather, which makes what he sees even more impressive.

A huge crowd of people are waving signs and chanting, “Free Henry! Free Henry!” As if he could
reach down to touch them, he puts a couple of fingers on the glass, and the slight movement draws
a few people’s attention. They point at him, and everyone starts cheering and shaking their signs.

All my life, he thinks. All my life, I was so terrified that people would find out, and everyone would
hate me. Now everyone knows I’m in love with the most wonderful man on Earth, and he’s in love
with me, and they still love me anyway. When the baseline assumptions by which one has lived
one’s entire life are all suddenly thrown into the rubbish bin, it takes a bit of time to assimilate.

Catherine is looking at him. He suddenly can see his four-year-old self realising that everyone in
the country seems to know his name. He was too small to know words like vulnerable, but that was
how he felt, frightened and anxious and exposed. She had knelt down and promised him that she’d
never let anything touch him, not ever.

But then she hadn’t been able to keep that promise. Life had hurt him, and hurt him with a
vengeance. And Dad had gone away, and for years, it seemed like he lost his mother that day as
well.

But she is here now. Miraculously, she has come back, and she is ready to fight for him, like a
lioness defending her cub against the fangs and claws of anyone who would hurt him. She gives a
shaky sigh and pulls him close, saying, “Oh, my love.”

The Queen clears her throat. She is trying to reassert control. “This is… hardly representative of
how the country as a whole will respond,” she says.

Catherine pushes Henry behind her, protectively, defiantly. She says, “Jesus Christ, Mum.”

Henry only half-listens to his mother’s and grandmother’s ensuing argument about traditional
behaviour versus modern standards, aristocratic disdain versus egalitarian tolerance, Conservative
versus Labour. His eyes keep getting drawn to the crowd outside, and then to Alex, who is smiling
at him broadly. A new world of possibilities is opening before them.

But one thing his mother says does grab his attention.

“You know, I do think Labour is rather finished with the old guard. I wonder if I were to mention
those meetings you keep forgetting about, or the names of countries you can’t quite keep straight,
if they might decide that forty-seven is perhaps enough years for the people of Britain to expect
you to serve?” The term abdication has been taboo in the royal family since Edward VIII’s hasty
decampment on the eve of World War II to marry Wallis Simpson. It nearly toppled the throne.
But all the same, maybe it’s time for Gran to step aside; most women of her age retired long ago.

Only the tremor of the Queen’s hand betrays her interior agitation. Everyone else seems to be
holding their breath. In the deathly silence that follows Catherine’s threat, the Queen says, “You
wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I, Mum? Would you like to find out?” Oh, yes—Catherine is back.

She looks at Henry standing beside the window.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” says Catherine. “I’ve failed you.” Her look shifts to include Bea, who has
returned to stand beside her chair, and Philip, who has half-turned in his chair to face her as he
holds his grandmother’s hand. Who is supporting whom might be a matter of debate. “I’ve failed
all of you. You needed your mum and I wasn’t there. And I was so frightened that I started to think
maybe it was for the best, to let you all be kept behind glass.”

She looks at the Queen. “Look at them, Mum,” she says fiercely, The lioness is defending all her
cubs now. “They’re not props of a legacy. They’re my children. And I swear on my life, and
Arthur’s, I will take you off the throne before I will let them feel the things you made me feel.”

By the look on Alex’s face, Henry can only imagine what his own expression must be. Bea’s eyes
are huge, and she blinks rapidly once or twice. Philip looks away, his jaw trembling just a bit, but
the Queen squeezes his hand and it’s as if she’s a commanding officer ordering him to attention.
He shakes his head as if to clear it and begins to bluster. “I still don’t think—”

Quick as a flash, Bea grabs the silver teapot from the center of the table and dumps it into Philip’s
lap. Zahra gives an inelegant snort as Shaan looks away, his lips firmly compressed. For the sake
of the succession, Henry hopes the tea really is tepid.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Pip!” says Bea. “So dreadfully clumsy. You know, I think all that cocaine
I did must have really done a job on my reflexes! Let’s go get you cleaned up, shall we?” She hauls
Philip out as he sputters and squawks. She flashes Henry a thumbs-up as they exit.

The Queen is looking at the stained carpet, and just for once, Henry doubts that her first thought is
of the price of getting it cleaned. When she finally raises her eyes, she looks at Alex and Henry,
and they can see the terror in her face. They represent everything new and modern, a world that is
changing fast and which is quickly moving beyond her control. But then she straightens her spine
and says, “Well. I suppose.” Her voice is a bit shaky, but she rapidly masters it. “I suppose you
don’t give me much choice, do you?”

Catherine says in a hard voice, an echo of the tone the Queen has used to control each one of them
all these years, “Oh, you have a choice, Mum. You’ve always had a choice. Perhaps today you’ll
make the right one.” She leads them out of the room. Only Shaan remembers to bow to the Queen
as he withdraws.

Once they are in the corridor, the tension breaks: they collapse, giddy with relief, laughing and
teary-eyed. Henry pulls Alex close and they fall against a tapestry. Henry says, “I love you I love
you I love you,” and kisses Alex on the mouth. Alex’s tongue meets his, and it’s delicious and
wonderful and everything Henry ever dreamed of.

“Okay, you two,” says Zahra. “Enough with the PDA.” She checks her watch—it’s still set to DC
time, of course, but her mental computer rapidly calculates the time in London. “Nearly noon,” she
says. “You have enough time for lunch and to pack your bag before you have to get to the airstrip.
Maybe even a nap before you go. Your plane leaves at four local time.”

“My plane?” says Alex. “Aren’t you coming?”

“After all this, I think I deserve one night off,” she says. “Someone owes me a night on the town.
Someone who knew about you two all along, and who, if he had thought to bring me into the loop
at the very beginning, might have spared us all a good bit of this fuck-up.” She shoots Shaan a
look, then suddenly remembers Catherine standing behind the guys. “Sorry, Ma’am,” she says.

“Don’t give it a thought,” says Catherine. “I’ve said worse.”

“Alex, your mother says to get a good long nap on the flight,” continues Zahra. She had been
texting Ellen a running commentary throughout the meeting, and has obviously received
instructions about what they’ll be doing next. “She wants you at campaign headquarters bright and
early tomorrow. We’re going to resume your personal appearances next week.”

Alex looks stupefied, but delighted. “Will do,” he says.

They take back streets to Kensington, since they’d never get through the crowd out front. When
they get to the apartment, Alex says, “How hungry are you, baby?”

Henry grabs a scone from the forgotten plate still on the kitchen table. He takes a single bite. “I’m
full,” he says.

Alex takes a single bite as well and says, “Me too. I couldn’t eat another thing.” He considers. “At
least, I couldn’t eat any more food,” he amends.

“Remember what you called me earlier?” says Henry.

“Penis breath?” says Alex.

“Right,” says Henry. “You know, I hate false epithets.” He takes Alex by the arm to steer him to
the bedroom. “Let’s go make it deserved.”

It’s nearly three when Alex reluctantly gets out of bed. He throws on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt
and looks back at Henry, who is stretching luxuriously and yawning. He feels just like after
Wimbledon—fucked-out and boneless—and for exactly the same reasons. He sends up a silent
prayer of thanksgiving for the stamina, and speedy recovery, of men of his and Alex’s age.

Alex says, “It sounds like I may be busy again. We’ve got a reelection to get done, and I’m back on
the campaign.” He falters and says, “I don’t know when I’m going to be seeing you, but it better be
soon. Like tomorrow. The day after at the latest. I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be
apart.” He looks at Henry, and his face grows tender. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you too,” says Henry. “I want to be together with you forever.”

“I think we’re on the way,” says Alex. “Besides, just try to get rid of me.”
A snarky response—I tried once, but you came after me—pops into his mind, but he doesn’t say it.
It’s not funny and it wasn’t true even then. He didn’t want to get rid of Alex; he was just frightened
that exactly what has happened, might happen. Well, it did happen, and now he’s never been
happier.

Alex picks up the suit jacket he had discarded on the floor on their way to bed, and notices the
American flag pinned to the lapel. He pauses, then looks over at Henry and smiles shyly. “I’ve told
you about my Grandma Claremont, haven’t I?”

“The lady with the fragment of the Berlin Wall?”

“Exactly,” he says. “When I was little, I was looking through her jewelry box one day and I found
this really neat pin. She told me that Army wives used to have these monthly gatherings, and at
your first, the senior wife would present the incoming wife with this pin that says, ‘Army Wife,’ as
a recognition of how much they were sacrificing by being married to a member of the service. She
really treasured it. Of course, Mom has it now.”

“You never mention your grandfather,” says Henry. “What happened to him?”

“He died in Vietnam when Mom was just a baby,” says Alex. “Anyway, I know it’s not the same,
and I know the Prime Minister wouldn’t let you wear it openly, but would you wear this? You’re
changing your entire life and sacrificing so much, just to be with me.” He touches the tiny flag. “It
has a screw-clasp to hold the pin in place, so if you put it on a chain, the way I do with your ring, it
wouldn’t fall off.”

Henry can only nod. Alex removes the pin and brings it over, and as he takes it, Henry raises his
arms. They hold each other close, and then they kiss, tongues touching. Alex breaks away abruptly.
“You just better come to DC this week. If your grandmother says no, I’ll come kidnap you.” He
hurriedly finishes throwing things in a bag, and says, “I love you.” Then he’s gone.

Henry is still in bed, thinking of all that has happened these last couple of days, when he sees on
his mobile that there is a Twitter post from Alex. It’s a photo of a mural of the two of them, Henry
dressed as Princess Leia, all in white with starlight in his hair, Alex as Han Solo with a blaster on
his hip, both of them haloed by a rising sun. Alex has written beneath, Never tell me the odds. The
likes are pouring in so fast the counter can hardly keep up.

Henry gets up and grabs a quick shower, then gets dressed, attaching his flag pin to his inside
 breast pocket, next to his heart, until he can get a chain. He goes to his office and is surprised to
find Shaan at his desk.

“I thought you would be out with Zahra,” says Henry.

“My fiancée is on a conference call with the President and the campaign chairperson,” he says. “I
thought I could just as easily make reservations for dinner and the theater tonight from here as from
home, and give her a little privacy.” Shaan adds, “Besides, there will be a good bit of work with
your schedule, Sir, once the announcement of royal courtship has been made. I think everyone is
hesitating a bit at the moment, unsure of how to proceed.”

“Alex wants me in DC later this week, so we have to factor that in,” says Henry. “I’m not sure
what he has planned.”

“Please let me know as soon as you hear from him,” says Shaan. “By the way, the Princess of
Wales wants you to join her for dinner tomorrow evening. I believe she is making some changes in
her schedule and living arrangements, and wishes to discuss them with you.”

“Please tell her I accept with pleasure,” says Henry. “I’ll let you know what I hear from Alex,
though he probably won’t get into DC until midnight our time.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Shaan. “If you’re going to Washington, we will need to arrange Security.”

“That’s true,” says Henry. Shaan’s words help him come to a decision about something he needs to
do. He says, “Shaan, do you think that by any chance, you could find out the address of Ken
Lewis? I’d like to go speak with him.”

Shaan permits himself a smile. “Certainly, Sir,” he says. “If I may say so, very good, Sir.”

Chapter End Notes

The movie Henry remembers is "Awakenings," starring Robin Williams and Robert de
Niro. It's exactly the sort of inspirational and tragic story that would utterly enthrall
Henry, and it even leaves the viewer with a bit of hope. The look on the face of the
elderly mother of the middle-aged man who comes back to life is worth the cost of the
rental.
Henry's thought about his great-grandmother's possible birth by surrogate has a real-
life basis. The rumors about the birth of Elizabeth II's mother were spelled out in print
for the first time in a book by Lady Colin Campbell ("The Queen Mother"), but they
had been circulating in aristocratic circles for years. The Queen Mum's father was the
Earl of Strathmore, and he and his Countess were the proud parents of eight children
when she was told that her health made another pregnancy inadvisable. But then, in
1893, their firstborn, a little girl named Violet, died at the age of 11. The Countess was
devastated. In 1900, she disappeared from Society for a while, and in August they
announced the birth of their daughter Elizabeth, who grew up to become the Queen
Mother. A few years later, they had a little boy so that Elizabeth would have a sibling
close in age. Or did they? Rumor had it (then and now) that the Earl was indeed the
father of both children, but Elizabeth's mother was actually a French cook who worked
at their Scottish castle, while the mother of the little boy was a Welsh parlourmaid.
Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson did their best to keep the story going by giving the
Queen Mum the nickname "Cookie," though the royals claimed it was because of the
Queen Mother's fat, dumpy appearance (hardly the most flattering explanation, of
course). Serious royal biographers dismiss the story out-of-hand, but there is an
undoubted mystery about the Queen Mum's birth--exactly when it took place
(sometime in August 1900, but no one knows the definite date) and where (in
Scotland? in London? in a nursing home, at home, or in the back seat of a taxicab?),
but no one can say because the birth was not properly registered. Decide for yourself!
Next week: Ken resurfaces!
 Mending a Bridge
Chapter Summary

After the summit with Queen Mary and a celebration with Henry, Alex has left to head
back home. Henry decides that he needs to fix things with his former PPO Ken, whose
advice to "get his head out of his arse" Henry knows he should have taken in the first
place, and whose predictions of disaster have proven only too true. When he arrives at
Ken's home in North London, he is received with an angry confrontation and tears of
outrage, but everything comes out all right in the end.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Henry had only expected Shaan to find Ken’s address, and then Henry planned to drive there on his
own. But Shaan said, “I do not believe it likely, Sir, that you are familiar with that part of London.
I am afraid you may get lost. I will be very glad to take you, and when you are finished, I will
come back and pick you up. Or I can wait, if you prefer.”

“What about Zahra?” says Henry.

“She is still taking care of issues from the events of the past couple of days,” says Shaan. “The
campaign did not expect such a strong show of support for Mr. Claremont-Diaz and yourself, so all
of their plans for damage control seem to be somewhat superfluous. They must decide the most
expedient course to pursue, and it is difficult for them to choose. And of course, my fiancée does
not trust her colleagues to make such an important decision without her input.”

I bet that’s putting it mildly. Even though he has only had a handful of interactions with Zahra
personally, Henry had heard enough from Alex to know that the only person to whom she would
be likely to surrender control of such an issue would be President Claremont herself. “But surely,
you still need to be getting back to her soon. I thought she said you owe her a night on the town.”

“Our dinner reservation is at nine p.m., but she says the campaign is at far too critical a point to
bother with a theater performance,” says Shaan resignedly. “She says she would be on her phone
the entire time anyway, so why waste the money on tickets? My consolation is that this will all be
over in a month, and President Claremont cannot run for reelection.”

“Well, as long as she doesn’t mind if you drive me over,” says Henry.
“On the contrary, Sir, she was thrilled when I broached the subject. She said, ‘At least it’ll get you
the fuck out of my hair for a while.’ Forgive me, Sir—I am quoting her.”

“More colourful American speech,” says Henry, nodding. “I completely understand.”

In the same anonymous black van they had used that morning, they leave Central London and head
northeast. Henry has to admit that Shaan was right; this is indeed a part of London with which he is
unfamiliar, and the winding streets are quite confusing as they twist and turn and suddenly change
names for no discernible reason. But while there is none of the obvious prosperity which forms a
backdrop for Royal London, all the same, on the faces of the people entering the small shops on
the high street there is a look of cheerful determination to make the most of what they have. We
may be poor, but we’re also honest and hardworking, and we’re tough as old boots. No wonder the
neighborhood appeals to Ken.

They turn a few corners and enter a street of small bungalows and bijou residences. It’s quiet and
pretty, and Henry imagines that the Texas lake house must have felt quite homely to Ken. Shaan
pulls up outside a small white cottage with blue shutters and says, “I believe that this is the house,
Sir. I will wait until you have been admitted, and then please call me when you would like me to
come and fetch you.”

For the first time, Henry feels a stab of nervousness about how he may be received. He’s so used to
being welcomed wherever he goes, he hadn’t given it a thought that Ken might not be happy to see
him. After all, they hadn’t parted very well.

But once more, he must screw his courage to the sticking place. He can just imagine a pun from
Pez, that he should be accustomed to this sort of screwing by now. He goes to the door and rings
the bell, and he immediately hears a baby begin to cry.

A woman’s voice calls, “Whoever just woke up my baby, you’re in big trouble.” The front door is
opened by a pretty but obviously furious woman with a screaming baby in her arms. “Okay, you
nitwit,” she begins, but then stops in confusion when she sees who it is. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,
Your Royal Highness.”

“Not at all,” says Henry. “I do feel quite a chump—I certainly didn’t mean to wake David.”

She looks over his shoulder and says, “Please come in, Sir. The neighbours are twitching aside
their front curtains to take a look at you. Royals don’t often stop by this part of town.”
He enters a small vestibule which leads into a low-ceilinged parlour. A large recliner sits in a
corner facing the television, and Henry can easily imagine Ken coming home and putting his feet
up as he sets a glass of beer on the occasional table next to the chair. Of course, the table also holds
the telly's remote control. Henry says, “I was wondering if by any chance Ken might be home and
available, Mrs. Lewis.”

“Sondra,” she corrects him. “It’s really Alexandra, but no one’s called me that since the vicar
christened me.” The baby has continued to scream while they’ve been speaking, and she has to
raise her voice to make herself heard. “No, Sir, I’m afraid he’s not in. Davy! Hush, little man!”

“Again, I do apologise for disturbing you,” says Henry, raising his voice as well. “Do you expect
him home any time soon?”

“Oh, there’s no telling, Sir,” she says. “Davy! When he worked for you, Sir, he would have been
home by now unless he was getting overtime, but there’s no telling with His Nibs—oh, I beg your
pardon, Sir; I mean His Royal Highness Prince Philip.”

“’His Nibs’ is a much nicer name than what I usually call him.”

“Be quiet! Oh, I’m sorry, Sir, not you—he wants his bottle and he won’t hush until he gets it.”

“Can I help?” asks Henry. “I could hold him while you go warm it. Isn’t that what you do with
baby bottles? I don’t have much experience with infants, I’m afraid, though I do like them. And as
a rule, they seem to like me.”

“Um,” says Sondra. “I hate to ask—”

“You didn’t ask, Mrs. Lewis,” says Henry. “I offered. Here, hand him over.”

“Mind his head,” she says. Miraculously, David—Davy—quiets as soon as Henry takes him; he
seems to be utterly fascinated by this new person. One small hand reaches up and tries to grab
Henry’s nose.

“Well,” says Sondra, “if you’re sure, Sir. I won’t be a tick.” She calls over her shoulder as she
heads toward the back of the house, “If he gets fussy, Sir, he likes being walked.”
When Sondra returns with the bottle, Henry tries to return the baby to his mother, but Davy starts to
whimper. Sondra says, “I think he wants to stay with you, Sir.” Davy then points to the bottle, and
Henry says, “I’ve never done this, but if you tell me what to do?” Under Sondra’s supervision, he
feeds the baby several ounces and then pats his back, and is rewarded with a resounding burp.
Sondra offers Henry Ken’s recliner, but Henry says, “Oh, no, a man’s recliner is sacred,” and so
Sondra seats him in a rocker instead. As Henry rocks back and forth, Davy’s eyes grow heavier and
heavier.

A car pulls up outside.

“That’ll be Ken,” says Sondra. She looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. “A bit early for—”

“For working under His Nibs today?” says Henry.

“Indeed, Sir,” she says. She stands, and normally Henry would as well, but he doesn’t want to
disturb the sleeping baby—again. “I’ll just go through to the kitchen to meet him. Excuse me.”

A door opens, and Henry hears Ken’s voice. “Hello, love,” he says. He sounds dog-tired, and quite
dispirited. He hears the sound of a kiss. “Thanks, love,” Ken says. He stops, clears his throat, and
goes on. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I quit.”

“Not to worry, love,” says Sondra soothingly. “I’m sure it was for a good reason. It’ll be fine.” A
silence—Henry imagines she is hugging him. “You go through to the lounge and I’ll bring you a
nice cup of tea, all right?”

“It’ll take more than tea to figure out what we’re going to do now,” says Ken.

“Just go have a seat,” says Sondra. “Put your feet up and I’ll be right in.”

Ken enters the parlour—sorry, the lounge—and stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Henry, and
his sleeping son in the Prince’s arms. His mouth drops open.

“Hello, Ken,” says Henry. “It’s good to see you. I’d stand to greet you, but someone doesn’t like
being disturbed when he’s asleep.”
“Uh,” says Ken. He blinks. “Your Royal Highness.” He swallows and says, “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sure,” says Henry. “Thought you finally got shut of me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Ken, then quickly amends, “I mean, no Sir, not at all, Sir. What are you—”

“What am I doing here?” asks Henry. “I’m here to see you, Ken—that is, if you’re willing to see
me. I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I behaved very shabbily toward you.”

“Not at all, Sir,” says Ken. “I was out of line.”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Davy opens his eyes. He smiles; but then suddenly, a look of
intense concentration settles on his small features. Suddenly, he grunts.

“Is he okay?” says Henry. “What’s he doing?”

“Uh,” says Ken. The baby grunts a couple of more times, then gives one enormous push. The most
godawful stench fills the room.

“Oh, God, Sir,” says Ken, scarlet with embarrassment. “Oh, Sir, I’m so sorry.”

Henry can’t resist. He says, “Not at all, Ken. I thought the baby was responsible.”

Ken looks at him blankly, then smiles slowly and mutters something.

“Did you just call me a bastard?” says Henry sternly.

“Not at all, Sir,” says Ken. Then he adds, “I called you an arsehole.”
Henry looks puzzled. “I wonder what brought that particular part of the human anatomy to mind.”

Both men start laughing. Sondra comes in with a tea tray and says, “You two sound cosy—” but
then the odour hits her. She sets the tray down on a small coffee table and says to them, “Can’t you
two smell that? Give him here. I’ll change him. ‘Man may work from sun to sun—‘”

“’But a woman’s work is never done,’” finishes Henry. “My grandmother used to say that.”

“Her Majesty?” says Sondra.

“Oh, no, not her,” says Henry, glad to hand over the stinky baby, who is nonetheless laughing and
cooing and quite pleased with himself. “My other grandmother. My Granny Fox.”

“Well, you two sit and enjoy your tea,” says Sondra with heavy irony, “and I’ll go take care of
him.” She looks back over her shoulder as she leaves and says, “Men!”

After she goes, Ken crosses to the window. “Let me open this, Sir,” he says. “It’ll help.” He adds,
“At least with Mr. Claremont-Diaz, your partner will never say, ‘Men!’ in that tone.”

“No,” says Henry. “But he looks at me and says ‘Brits!’ in just that same tone from time to time.
Of course, I come back with, ‘Yanks!’ Word to the wise, Ken: nothing gets an American
Southerner like Alex quite as much as calling him a Yank. He gets totally indignant and insists,
‘I’m not a Yankee!’ I enjoy it no end.”

“Good to know,” says Ken. They both smile. But then their masculine camaraderie evaporates.
Henry has to say something, and apologies are not a dialect with which he is much familiar.

“Ken,” he says, “I wanted to come by to say—I’m sorry. You were totally justified in what you
said. That doctored picture was a silly idea, and you warned me that the whole situation would
blow up in my face, and it did. Feel free to say, ‘I told you so.’”

Ken says, “Thank you, Sir. But I’m sorry, too. I was out of line. If my mum ever finds out I told a
royal to ‘get his head out of his arse,’ even big as I am, she’ll wash my mouth out with soap.”
Henry shrugs. “Perhaps it was a bit, er, blunt,” he says, “but something more diplomatic wouldn’t
have registered in quite the same way. And as I said, it was justified.” He pauses. This next part is
even more difficult. “And so was calling me a liar and a hypocrite. Believe me—I felt quite
ashamed, especially because that’s exactly what I was being.”

“Again, Sir,” says Ken, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“I will,” says Henry. “As long as you forgive me.” He extends his hand. “Friends?” he says.

“Friends,” says Ken. His voice cracks just a little bit. But as they shake hands, he laughs and says,
“If we were real he-men, we’d probably bump chests or do one of those weird non-handshake hand
claspings, but I never quite got the hang of them. And I never saw the point of ramming my chest
into another bloke’s. I always thought it hurt.”

“I always hated the punch on the shoulder,” says Henry. “My brother’s mates used to do that to me
when he brought them down from uni. When you’re only twelve or thirteen and some big bloke of
eighteen who plays football and shaves twice a day thumps you—now, that hurts.”

They exchange the rueful smile of younger brothers the world over. Henry is amazed how well this
is going. And mentioning Philip has given him the perfect opening for his next words.

“So,” says Henry. “You’re at Clarence House now. How do you like working for my brother?”

Ken says, “I’m not allowed to say, Sir.”

“NDA’s?” says Henry.

“Got it in one,” says Ken.

“I grew up with him,” says Henry. “I know exactly what you can’t say.”

“Indeed, Sir,” says Ken. He shrugs. “Besides, I don’t work for him anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” says Henry. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you telling Sondra when you
came in. Couldn’t take it anymore, huh?”

“I can’t say, Sir,” says Ken.

“Believe me,” says Henry, “you can’t tell me anything I haven’t experienced myself.”

“Sorry, Sir, but I still can’t tell you,” says Ken. “I find that once you start making exceptions, it’s
too easy to slip up and say something to the wrong person. And that’s a betrayal of trust. I can’t do
that.”

Henry knows he was right about Ken, and Ken is proving it anew with every word. It’s what makes
what Henry wants to suggest so perfect. But he has to work his way to this delicately.

“Let me make this easier for you,” says Henry. “My brother came to Buck House this morning for
a family conference to discuss my, um, situation with Alex. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Ken. “I was part of his Security detail. I was hoping I’d see you, but you hadn’t
yet arrived when we got there.”

“He probably came early to confer with our grandmother and plan a strategy. A strategy, by the
way, which utterly failed. Alex and I are still committed and together.”

Ken smiles. “I’m glad, Sir,” he says.

“About an hour after our summit was supposed to start, he came out,” continues Henry. “I’ll bet he
was madder than a wet hen, as the Americans say. What did he have on instead of the trousers from
the suit he came to the conference in?”

“How did you—” begins Ken, but then stops.

“My sister dumped a pot of tea in his lap to shut him up,” says Henry. “What was he wearing?”
Ken looks away, smiling. “Joggers,” he says. “I’m not sure where he got them. And I can only tell
you that because he was in public and anyone might have seen them.”

“Okay,” says Henry. “So there he was, furious. And I’ll bet he took it out on you all.”

Ken’s face is stubbornly non-committal.

“So you got back to Clarence House,” says Henry. “Where would he have gone next? Let me
think. Once he got a clean pair of trousers, he would have gone to—to his study. Am I right?”

Ken says, “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, Sir.”

“Okay,” says Henry. “A few minutes later, he called you in. And I bet you found everything that
had been on his desk on the floor, and he snapped, ‘Clean this up!’ Queen Victoria used to do the
same thing when she got angry, so I wonder if the habit is inherited. He did that once and tried to
make me pick things up, and our father was furious. He made Philip do it himself. Knocking things
over, Philip had also managed to break a lamp, so Dad took away his pocket money until it was
paid for. It was weeks before he got any. Dad also took away his Cornettos for a month. I think that
was the worst part for him. Bea and I enjoyed it to no end.”

Ken can restrain himself no longer. “I utterly refused, Sir,” he bursts out. “I told him I wouldn’t
allow Davy to behave like that—well, I meant when he’s older, of course.” Ken can tell him all this
without violating the NDA because he’s recounting his own actions and words, not Philip’s. “Then
I really lost my temper. I told him to take his job and shove it up his arse, and I said, ‘I’m done!’ Of
course, then I had to drive around for a while to work up the courage to come home and tell Sondra
I’d lost my job again, for the second time in a week.”

“It’s also the second time today Philip got a strip torn off,” says Henry. “This morning, I told him
to take his legacy and his decorum and shove them up his fucking arse. And I told him, ‘I’m done!’
too.”

“I told him to shove his job up sideways,” says Ken.

“Ouch,” says Henry. “His seat is going to be sore.”

They both laugh. But then they grow serious. “Of course, what isn’t funny, is that you’re out of a
job again,” says Henry.

“Something will come up,” says Ken bravely. “It always does.”

“I suppose,” says Henry. Then, seemingly apropos of nothing, he says, “Ken, by any chance, have
you ever heard of Maria Theresa?”

“Eighteenth-century Queen of Hungary, Queen of Bohemia, and Holy Roman Empress after her
husband was elected Holy Roman Emperor—and after the electors had been persuaded with a good
bit of money from the Austrian treasury,” says Ken promptly. “She’s often called the Empress of
Austria, but that is incorrect; the Austrian Empire wasn’t established until the end of the Holy
Roman Empire a quarter-century after her death. Also, and perhaps more famously, mother of
Marie Antoinette, as well as a dozen more.” Seeing Henry’s stupefied look, he says, “I’ve always
loved British and European history, and I read a lot.” He nods at the bookshelves lining two walls
of the room and part of a third.

“Did you study it at university?” says Henry.

“I never got to university,” says Ken. “No money. And I had a fever the day of my A-levels, so I
didn’t do as well as I should have. No scholarship. So that was that.”

Henry thinks with a pang of shame of how blasé he had been about his own A-level scores. Of
course Oxford would admit him, no matter how badly he had done. And he never gave the cost of
his schooling even a moment’s thought.

“Well, that’s how it goes sometimes,” says Ken. “So I went into the military instead. But the way I
see it, if I hadn’t gone into the army, I wouldn’t have met Sondra, so it all worked out. If you look
for it, you can always find the good in a situation. I know—I’m a regular Dr. Pangloss.”

Henry is dumbfounded. A PPO who quotes Voltaire? Next, Ken will be repeating Voltaire’s
famous quip—that the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.

Ken says, “What made you think of Maria Theresa, Sir?”

“Did you ever hear of her adviser, Count Tarouca?” asks Henry.
“Remind me,” says Ken.

“Perhaps uniquely among royalty, before and since, Maria Theresa employed an adviser, Count
Tarouca, whose sole responsibility was to tell her when she did something stupid,” says Henry.
“He didn’t want the job, because he thought she’d get angry and throw him in prison or something,
but she presented him with a signed job description which specified that his only responsibility was
‘to correct the Queen when she is wrong, and in plain and straightforward speech, without fear of
causing offense.’ I don’t know if he ever told her to get her head out of her arse, but she valued him
as her most important adviser.”

Henry sits forward and continues, “You see, Ken, we royals have a problem. We’re surrounded by
people who either advise us to do the expedient thing, rather than the right or honourable thing, or
else by people who just tell us what we want to hear. If my father had lived, I’m sure he would
have finished bringing me up to be brave and honourable; he was well-known as a man of
integrity, even in a cutthroat field like show business. But he died when I was young. You know
my brother—it sounds like only too well—so you know he’s been no help.”

“What about Mr. Srivastava?”

“Shaan is everything good and honest, but he’s so polite and aware of protocol, he hesitates to give
me a kick in the arse when I need it,” says Henry. “He’s perfect at what he does, but he’d never
grab me by the shoulders and smack me a good one no matter how much I deserved it.”

Ken smiles. “So you want me to be your own personal arse-kicker?”

“Only when necessary,” says Henry. “But I truly would love for you to come back. So would Bea.
She misses you. Of course, with increased job responsibilities, you’d be getting a higher salary.
How much of a cut did you take working for my brother?” Ken names a figure that makes Henry
wince. “Let’s start by doubling that,” he says. “Would that be enough? I feel like I really owe you,
after what my pigheadedness put you through. Maybe Bea and I can arrange a signing bonus.”

He hears a gasp behind him. Unnoticed, Sondra has come to the doorway. Henry politely stands in
the presence of a lady, and she rushes over and throws her arms around him. “I don’t mean to be
forward, Sir,” she gabbles, “but with the extra, maybe I’ll actually get to spend an evening or two
with my husband instead of him working all those double shifts!”

“What would you say, though, if I borrow him for a couple of days towards the end of this week?”
asks Henry. “I think I’ll be going to Washington for a bit. Have you ever been to America, Mrs.
Lewis?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to see it,” she says. “And it’s Sondra.”

“Sondra, then,” says Henry. “But one day soon, you’ll have to come to America with him. I think I
may be going back and forth a bit for a while, and I can’t expect Ken always to leave his family
behind. He’d miss you both too much.”

“Take him any time you need him,” says Sondra. “My mum just lives around the corner, and she
always comes to stay when Ken’s out of town working.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” says Henry.

“Oh, yes, it’s lovely having your mother-in-law practically next door,” says Ken sardonically.

“Hey,” says Henry, “at least she’s not President of the United States and able to order you to be
arrested and water-boarded.”

As they laugh, Henry says, “Well, I should be getting back; I’ve intruded enough on your time.”

“I didn’t see a Palace car outside,” says Ken.

“No,” says Henry. “I’m supposed to call Shaan and he’ll come pick me up. By the way, we’ll be
sort of creating your new job as we go along, but I’m going to ask Shaan to be your direct
supervisor. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course,” says Ken. “I’ve always liked Mr. Srivastava. As you say, he’s fair and honourable.
And he’s easy to work with.” He hesitates. “If it’s okay, Sir, you don’t have to bother Mr.
Srivastava. I can take you home. My car can almost drive there by itself.”

As they head to Kensington (Henry having called Shaan to tell him he’s off for the rest of the
evening, and to enjoy his dinner), they talk about Henry’s concept of Ken’s new job. “I’d say I’d
like you to be the older brother I never had,” says Henry, “except I do have an older brother, such
as he is. I don’t think he’s a bad man, but he needs someone to tell him to get his head out of his
arse too. I like to think he needs it more than I do, but I’m obviously not unbiased.”

Ken smiles, but says nothing. Henry has noticed this over and over; Ken never says anything about
anyone that is either unkind or critical. It’s a skill Henry hopes he can learn—and if he wants to be
a politician, Alex is going to have to learn it too, or at any rate, to criticize policy, not personality.
“It sounds like you want me to play Mentor to your Telemachus,” says Ken.

“Oh, no,” says Henry. “You’re not that old.” But he is amazed all over again. European history, a
French philosopher, now Greek myth. He wonders if Ken can also teach him how to do minor car
repairs. Probably.

Ken smiles ruefully. “Sometimes I feel like I am.”

Henry says, “Have you ever given any more thought to going to uni?”

“With Davy, there’s really no money now,” says Ken. “And if anyone ever goes to uni, it’ll be
him.”

Henry thinks, This isn’t fair. I have so much, and he has to struggle for everything. If Alex’s party
is really for correcting such inequities, no wonder he’s a Democrat. He wonders if he and Bea can
arrange something to help Ken, but they have to be careful. He doesn’t want to make Ken feel like
a charity case.

“When would you like me to start?” asks Ken as they drive through the palace gates.

“We’ve both had a hell of a week,” says Henry. “Let me find out Alex’s plans for my coming to
DC, and maybe you can start with that trip. In the meantime, get de-stressed from all this. The
madness will be starting up again before we know it. President Claremont still has to get reelected,
and I doubt any of us will be able to draw a deep breath until she is. So, relax while you can. And
Bea and I really will see to that signing bonus.”

As Henry climbs out of the car, Ken says, “I can’t very well give you a bro-hug from behind the
steering wheel, Sir, but I’m giving you one in my heart. God bless you.” He smiles impishly and
raises a fist. “But we can do this,” he says. “How about a fist-bump, like the one you had with Mr.
Claremont-Diaz at that interview after your brother’s wedding? And was it my imagination, Sir, or
were you a bit uncomfortable doing that?”
 “I admire your perception,” says Henry. “But it wasn’t half as bad as having him end up on top of
me, shut in a hospital supply closet. I’ll tell you about it one day.”

“I can hardly wait,” says Ken. “I’ll see you later this week, Sir.”

As Ken drives away, Henry waves. As he turns to enter the palace, he suddenly thinks of this time
two days ago. That photograph hadn’t been posted yet, but he remembers the feeling of impending
doom, that something bad was about to happen. Or a year ago tonight, when he was lying on the
floor of the Buck House ballroom in a pile of buttercream. And the one common denominator?
Alexander Claremont-Diaz. He shakes his head, but he also smiles. As he told Alex early this
morning, he’s not sorry a bit. He wouldn’t change a thing.

Chapter End Notes

As an inner-city boy from Cleveland, I grew up with numbered streets, usually with
attached compass points (e.g., I grew up on West 86th Street), and which were used as
connectors between named streets; West 86th is between Lorain and Denison
Avenues. But then I went to London, and found streets which twist and wind and turn
back on themselves, and which change names for no apparent reason whatsoever--
Cook's Row becomes Baker's Lane which becomes Ironmonger's Alley, but unless you
are closely watching the street signs, you'd never know the name had changed. It's
probably easier nowadays with GPS, but back then, taxicab drivers had to pass an
intensive exam in finding any given street to get certified. I've placed Ken's home in
Tottenham, a working-class area of North London, so no wonder Shaan doesn't think
Henry could find it on his own.
Queen Victoria did indeed knock things off her desk when she got upset--and in those
days of ink bottles, what a mess it must have made! Elizabeth II's grandfather, George
V, had photographs taken of the precise location he expected to find things on his
desk--and he had a ton of little knick-knacks, photographs, etc.--and anything in the
wrong place was likely to provoke a screaming fit from His Majesty and everything
would end up on the floor. Nowadays, Prince Charles has been known to pile up
stacks of books and knock them over when he gets upset, and then call in his servants
to put everything to rights. As Henry thinks, it must be an inherited habit, and like
Ken, I wouldn't tolerate such behavior from a child, let alone a fully-grown adult!
I will be adding a new chapter to my other series, "Together Forever," tomorrow, in
celebration of my birthday. In that series, it's 2054, and Henry (whose birthday,
according to CMQ, is March 12; Alex's birthday is March 27) is depressed about
reaching the same age as Arthur was when he died. Of course, Alex uses his own
special ability to rescue Henry from the megrims. If you think it sounds intriguing,
check it out!
 Political Maneuvers, Part I
Chapter Summary

Pez shows up "naked" on Henry and Bea's doorstep with an offer of support for his
best mate. Catherine steadfastly maintains her advocacy for Henry, and assists him in
some delicate political maneuvering with his grandmother and with the Prime
Minister. Alex calls with some unsurprising news about who is responsible for outing
them, but with some shocking news about who has unmasked the perpetrator. With
assistance from Catherine, Pez, and even the Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry sets off
the join Alex for an address to the nation, and Philip shows up to see him off--and
receives a surprise of his own.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s early Tuesday morning—only a little after eight—when there is a sudden imperious knocking
on the apartment door. Hammering would probably be closer to the mark; and it only begins after
someone rattles the doorknob and twists it a few times, but Henry and Bea have remembered this
time to lock it.

Henry is still in his dressing gown, having just gone into the kitchenette to make a cup of tea to
take back to his bedroom. Luckily, when Bea confiscated his phone and laptop, she had forgotten
about the tablet. (Of course, so had he.) With Alex here, he hadn’t bothered with technology; and
after Alex left and Henry had straightened things out with Ken, the events of the past few days
seemed to catch up with him all at once, and he fell asleep on one of the music room couches about
eight p.m. He only roused himself around eleven long enough to brush his teeth, get into pyjamas,
and crawl into bed. But now, he’s going to find out what people are saying about Alex and himself.

Bea emerges from her bedroom. She is also in a dressing gown, but her eyes are glittering and the
tennis racket is once more in her hand.

She calls through the keyhole, “If you’re Philip, I’m making a pot of tea—hot tea this time.”

“Well, let me in immediately, and make sure you make enough for me. I prefer Darjeeling.” It’s
Pez.

Bea throws the door open, and perhaps for the first time since they were boys, Henry is greeted
with the sight of Pez’s bare face—no eyeliner, no mascara, no makeup artfully accentuating Pez’s
cheekbones. He looks oddly young and vulnerable, and his look of worry and concern only makes
him appear more so. He pulls Henry to him in a rib-bruising hug, then steps back, his brown eyes
searching Henry’s face. “I’ve been so scared for you,” he says, and for once, there is no artificial
emphasis in his voice; this is Henry’s best mate, pure and simple. “How are you? And don’t you
dare lie to me. I know you too well.”

“I’m wonderfully fine,” says Henry, smiling widely. “In fact, I’ve never been better.”

Pez turns to Bea. “Beatrice, how is he really?”

Bea’s face is also wreathed with a smile. She says, “After confronting his inner demons, telling
Philip to shove his lectures up his arse, facing down Gran with Mum’s full support—you should
have seen her; I felt like I was watching Lazarus rise from the dead—and spending hours after the
meeting sequestered with Alex in his bedroom—he really is wonderfully fine. When he actually
manages to stay awake, he purrs more loudly than Mr. Wobbles.”

Pez smiles slowly. In a soft voice, he says, “Will wonders never cease.” Then he smiles more
broadly. “Okay, that’s it. I demand full disclosure this time. And I want to hear all about the
celebratory sex. Did you remember the tape measure this time? I’ve mentioned it before.” Then his
face goes blank, and he claps his hands to his cheeks like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. He
feels for his omni-present Gucci cross-body bag, finds it, and says, “Hold that thought. I’ll be back.
By the way, H, if you want to go get ready to face your day, you’ll have time.”

Pez rushes to the guest half-bath near the door. When Henry comes out of his bedroom half an
hour later, he has showered, shaved, and dressed, and Bea, who has bathed and dressed as well, is
making a pot of tea. When Pez finally emerges from the guest bath a few minutes later, he is in his
usual makeup. “Thank God you have good lighting in there. I apologise—I don’t normally enter
your home so naked.”

They recount the events of the previous day to Pez. He has to stop them a couple of times to blink,
fan his cheeks, and apply the extreme tip of one finger to the outer corners of his eyes. “Give me a
moment,” he says. “I didn’t spend forty-five minutes putting on my face to let tears ruin it five
minutes later.”

He tells them how he had emailed Henry the moment he saw the Daily Mail story online. When he
didn’t hear back, he rightly assumed that there must be a communications lockdown at the Palace,
and he asked his hosts (he was in India at the time) to take him to the airport in New Delhi.

“India may once have been a colony of yours, but I cannot say that the clerk spoke the Queen’s
English perfectly,” he says. “I told him I had to schedule a flight to London at once, and he kept on
insisting there were no flights until the following day. I said, ‘My dear sir, you do not seem to
understand that I have my own jet. My pilot simply needs to file a flight plan.’ Obviously, we
eventually got into the air. Thank God for private jets. Everyone should have one.”

“We’ll pass the suggestion along to the PM,” says Bea with heavy irony. “Maybe she could look
into it after she finishes cutting unemployment benefits.” Royals are not supposed to express
political opinions, but even Gran has called the policies of the current Conservative Prime Minister
“uncaring” in the privacy of the family circle.

“Well, where do we go from here?” asks Pez. “What does Alex have to say?”

“I wouldn’t know. Somebody won’t surrender my mobile,” says Henry, glaring at his sister.

“No she won’t,” says Bea. “It’s still not safe until they find the leak.”

Pez pulls out his mobile and says, “I could contact my goddess. Nobody breaches my protection.”

“Don’t call June now,” says Henry, eyeing the clock. “It’s the middle of the night there. Alex’s
Secret Service Agent Amy left a text during the night to say they had been rerouted to New York
because of thunderstorms, but they expect to be in DC this morning. Mid-afternoon our time.”

“In that case,” says Pez, “I’ll head home and take care of a few things. Call me when you’re ready
for my help.” He stands. Bea and Henry walk him to the door. Pez exchanges air kisses with Bea,
but he gives Henry another bear hug. As Pez releases Henry, he squeezes Henry’s shoulders and
says, “I am truly sorry for all you two had to go through to get here, but now you can be out and be
proud. No more skulking in the shadows and sneaking around–you can just be yourselves, and love
each other openly. I am happier for you than I can possibly say.”

“Thanks, mate,” says Henry. Normally he would be misty-eyed at their sentimental parting, but
he’s shed enough tears over the past days. Now it’s time for joy.

He had told Shaan to take today off, but his equerry comes into work anyway. “How was your
dinner out with Zahra last night?” Henry asks.

“Fine,” says Shaan. “But we did not go out. My fiancée continued conferencing with the campaign,
so we simply ordered pizza. And unfortunately, despite so little rest the night before, her internal
clock would not allow her to sleep and we were up most of the night once more. She said she
would sleep on the plane.” Shaan cannot control a small smile. Henry thinks he knows how they
must have passed their sleepless night, and he smiles too.

Around noon, there is another knock on the door. Bea comes out of the music room, where Henry
has heard her playing an electric guitar most of the morning. She says, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Mum, darlings,” calls Catherine’s happy voice. “Let me in. My arms are full.”

Henry rushes to the door and unlocks it, then takes several large carrying bags from their mother.
One holds a couple of bottles, while the others seem to be filled with take-out food. “I was in
meetings all morning about moving back to London. Then I was starving, and I thought, ‘I’m going
to buy some food and see if my two favourite babies are available for lunch!’”

Shaan has come out of the office, and she says, “Shaan, I’ve brought plenty. You’re welcome to
join us if you like.” Henry and Beatrice exchange a look. Shaan hardly ever sits down at the same
dinner table as royalty, except at an occasional large formal banquet where he is needed to partner
some lone female guest. When they’re traveling, he will sometimes share a bite in the car with
Henry, but he usually prefers to eat alone—because, Henry suspects, his lunch hour is his only real
break all day from their endless royal concerns.

True to form, Shaan murmurs, “You are very kind, Your Royal Highness, but I was just thinking I
might take the Prince up on his offer to me that I might leave early. I am quite exhausted by the
events of the past several days.”

“You certainly deserve some time off,” says Henry. “You should take tomorrow off as well. Alex
wants me to come to Washington soon, so we may have another overseas trip that will be quite
tiring. On the plus side, though, you’ll get to see Zahra, perhaps sooner than you expected.”

“An advantage indeed,” says Shaan, smiling. Catherine shoots Bea and Henry a rather puzzled
look; she had met Zahra yesterday, and the latter had been even more intimidating than usual.
They’ll have to tell her about the engagement after Shaan leaves.

“Well,” says Catherine, “if you must go, of course… but first, you must join me and my children
for a toast. I’ve brought champagne. Bea, not to worry; I’ve brought you sparkling grape juice. Do
you have glasses handy?”
“Champagne flutes?” says Bea. “Yes. Let me go fetch them. I know the champagne cork should
pop, but do we need a corkscrew for the sparkling juice? Oh, wait, what am I thinking? Of course
not. It’s a screw-top, isn’t it?”

When Bea returns, Henry has popped the champagne and he starts filling glasses. Shaan shakes his
head to the wine. “I will be driving home,” he says, “and as tired as I am, the alcohol may affect
me adversely. If I may, I will join the Princess with the grape juice.”

When the glasses are filled, Catherine raises hers and says, “To the triumph of true love, and a
bright new future.” Everyone raises their glasses and sips, though of course Henry wishes Alex was
there to share the moment with them.

Shaan raises his glass a second time and says, “Perhaps, Ma’am, it should have been the first toast.
The Queen.”

Bea murmurs, “Current and future.” Henry grins, and they drink once more.

Shaan sets down his glass and says, “If you will excuse me, Sir, Ma’ams…”

Bea says, “Shaan, can you wait one minute? I have an idea. Henry, Mum, charge your glasses.”

Henry refills the flutes, a bit puzzled when Bea hands Shaan her phone. “Shaan, can you make a
video clip?” She picks up the electric guitar she was playing all morning.

“Of course, Ma’am,” he says. Smiling, he films Henry and Catherine toasting each other while Bea
picks out “God Save the Queen” on the guitar. Henry suddenly remembers humming that very tune
in the Red Room at the White House banquet in January to deflate the stiffy Alex’s kisses had just
given him. He smiles broadly. It is not a memory to be shared in the presence of a chap’s sister, let
alone his mother.

It turns out to be even more of a shame that Shaan is missing the meal, since Catherine had brought
Indian take-out. Over plates of curried meat and basmati rice, she tells them about touring some
empty London royal residences. While Arthur was alive, they had all lived at Clarence House, but
after he died, with Henry and Bea at uni and Philip in the military, Catherine had moved to York
Cottage on the Sandringham estate, only retaining a bedroom at Buckingham Palace for those rare
occasions when she had to stay the night in London. She now intends to move back to London full-
time, but Philip and Martha have Clarence House, so she needs something else.
She says, “I’ll probably end up settling on St. James. It’s been empty since your Gran’s sister, my
Aunt Anne, died fifteen years ago, so it’s available. Your father—” she stops and falters, but then
gives her head a little shake and presses on. “Your father said it was a gloomy old place, but a lick
of paint and some new drapes will work wonders. For some reason, Aunt Anne was devoted to
navy blue walls and heavy velvet covering all the windows, but something lighter and brighter will
completely change it. Someone suggested I might find an apartment here at Kensington, but I don’t
think the two of you want your mummy just upstairs.”

Both Henry and Beatrice think it is a good sign that she is speaking of their father; for the past five
years, merely mentioning him in passing would make her eyes fill with tears. Now, as she chatters
away, they exchange a look. Yes, Mum’s really back.

“Henry, darling,” she says as they start clearing up, “I know I told Shaan yesterday to ask you to
dinner tonight, but might we postpone it a day or two? I’m afraid I’m rather knackered after
walking around all those places today.” She adds hurriedly, “But I don’t want to let you down if
you had something you wanted to discuss. I’ve let the two of you down enough to last a lifetime. I
can never say enough just how sorry I am. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”

“Of course, Mum,” says Henry. “Please, don’t worry. If I need anything, I’ll call.”

“Well, I’m going to do better, you’ll see,” she says with determination. “Anything you need,
anything I can help with—just say the word.” She turns to her daughter. “And of course, you too,
favourite daughter.”

Bea blinks. Favourite daughter had been Arthur’s pet name for her, and she knows her mother’s
use of it is quite deliberate. She responds as she always did with her father: “Only daughter.”

“Technicality,” says Catherine, completing the customary exchange. She smiles. “And Bea,
dearest,” she adds, “please forward that video to me that Shaan took. I want to send it to some of
my old mates from uni. I haven’t been very good about staying in touch these past few years, and it
could help break the ice.”

“Yes, Bea,” says Henry. “Send it along to me as well.”

It’s around three when Henry hears a snatch of music. It’s his mobile, and it’s the theme from the
BBC’s 1995 production of Pride and Prejudice. June.
Henry calls out sternly, “Beatrice! I demand my mobile. That’s June, and she may have news about
Alex’s arrival.”

Bea brings out the phone. “Here,” she says. “Just be careful. Remember the le—”

“The leak, yes, I know,” says Henry. He opens June’s email and finds a string of red heart emojis.
Alex must be home, and he told her about the meeting with Gran. He also sees that his mailbox
contains dozens of emails from Pez while he was still in India, as well as the forwarded video of
the toast. In his return email to June, he includes the video. God save the Queen.

Before the afternoon is over, Henry and Alex have managed to establish a multi-sided email link,
Alex to June to Pez to Bea to Henry, and back again with the answer. It’s awkward and their
conversation can’t help but be somewhat stilted, but at least they’re in contact. They still have to be
careful. The leak has not yet been found.

In this roundabout fashion, Henry learns that Nora has been incommunicado for some days. When
Alex adds im glad pez has been there for you, Henry can read between the lines how hurt Alex is
feeling about Nora’s behaviour.

But Henry is not surprised by it; even in the relatively short time he has known her, he has learned
that warm emotional support is not Nora’s strong suit. She’s been Alex and June’s friend since long
before Henry met her, and he doubts that this is the first time such a thing has happened. No doubt
she’ll turn up in a day or two with a ready explanation for what had caused her to drop out of sight.

That evening, he finds he is right. His mobile rings: Supersonic man out of youuuuu… It’s Alex.

But just to be sure, he answers cautiously, “Hello?”

“Baby.” Indeed, it is Alex, and his tone of one of wonder and delight. “Nora found the fucking leak
and how we got outed, and you’ll never guess who clued her in. Fuck. I can’t believe it.”

Will this nightmare soon be over? Well, in a way it already is—evidently he and Alex can have
their privacy again, but of course, now everything is changed. The whole world knows about them.
And, thinks Henry, isn’t it wonderful? “Someone told Nora?” asks Henry. “Who?”
“Rafael Luna,” says Alex. Henry feels his knees go weak from shock, and he drops onto one of the
tobacco-coloured couches. How did this happen?

Alex explains, between bites of something by the sound of it, about the Richards campaign hiring
investigators to look into their relationship—their former animosity was too well-known, and their
sudden claims to be best mates seemed a bit odd after the wedding cake fiasco. Then their vastly
more frequent meetings set political antennae quivering, and specialists in oppo research went to
work.

They soon unearthed the reservations for next-door suites with a communicating door in Berlin.
They quickly found the photo from Wimbledon of Alex appearing to whisper sweet, private
nothings into Henry’s ear. They noticed that Henry had been in New York with Pez the day the
announcement came out about Rafael Luna, and they went to work to see if Henry and Alex might
have met across town at the DNC. They found the bartender, who sold the info about Henry
joining Alex for drinks. Then they retrieved the elevator tape… It went on and on and on.

“Then they hired some dirtbag photographer to follow you around in DC when you came to meet
June,” says Alex, “and he got the limo photo. It was all orchestrated by the Richards campaign.
Then they somehow hacked my phone—yours was too hard to get into.”

“Superior British manufacturing,” says Henry.

“Try Japanese, but whatever,” says Alex. “So they got our emails.” Alex takes another bite. “Raf
sent all these coded memos outlining the plot from inside the campaign to Nora, and she’s been
holed up ever since figuring them out. That’s why no one could reach her.”

“How did she find out it was Luna?” asks Henry.

“That part, I figured out,” says Alex. “He signed them with initials from the Five Guys order I used
to pick up for him when I was working for him, oh, a long time ago.” Alex takes another bite.
Henry is starting to get hungry. “That’s what I’m eating right now. In honor of Raf—bacon
cheeseburger, grilled onions, A1 sauce. There’s a Five Guys just around the corner from here.”

Alex swallows and continues. “The upshot is, Richards is gonna be in big trouble. His ass is grass,
and the press is revving up the lawnmowers. And one of Rachel Maddow’s producers just called.
Rachel wants to interview me—both of us, if it can be arranged. And I don’t know if you heard, but
Raf resigned from the Richards campaign.” He sounds triumphant.
But then his tone changes, suddenly becoming a bit diffident. “I want to give a speech about this—
about us—to the nation. June’s writing it. I know this is going to affect the campaign, and I want in
on the discussion. I was wondering—can you come to DC? I know we talked about it. I was
thinking Friday. Will your grandmother let you?”

It's less Gran’s say than it is the Prime Minister’s, thinks Henry. Royals are supposed to apolitical,
and this could be read as trying to influence an American election. But he says confidently, “I’m
pretty sure, yes.” Mum told me anything I need, just ask. “By the way,” he adds, “I’m just glad they
never uncovered our interactions on Skype.”

Alex makes a loud, explosive noise. “Stop making me laugh,” he finally manages to gasp out. “I
just spit bacon cheeseburger all over my bedspread.” Then he adds in as close to suggestiveness as
he can around a mouthful of sandwich and an occasional giggle, “How about a little skexing right
now?”

“First finish your food, then ring me,” says Henry with a grin.

Later, Henry phones his mother. She answers on the first ring. “Hello, darling,” she says brightly.

“I know you said you’re tired, but I need to ask you to look into something. I didn’t wake you, did
I?” asks Henry.

“No, of course not,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

“Mum,” he says, “I know you can handle Gran, but how good are you at tackling the PM?”

***

Two announcements are issued Thursday, 1 October, one from 10 Downing Street and the second
from Buckingham Palace. The latter reads:

It is with great pleasure that the Queen announces the royal courtship of her beloved grandson,
His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales, son of the Princess of Wales and the late Arthur James
Fox, with Mr. Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz, son of President Ellen Claremont and Senator
Oscar Diaz, both of the United States of America. Her Majesty knows that her beloved people join
her in extending every good wish and prayer to the happy young couple.
From 10 Downing Street:

The Prime Minister joins Her Majesty the Queen in extending heartiest congratulations to His
Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales and Mr. Alexander Claremont-Diaz. But this should in no
way be interpreted as an endorsement of President Ellen Claremont as the next President of the
United States. Neither the Royal Family nor the British government expresses an opinion about the
outcome of the upcoming election, other than to wish for a continuation of our historic ties of
friendship with the American people, and an election result which will continue to strengthen and
promote Western democracy.

Henry barely finishes reading the two announcements when his mobile rings. “Are they okay,
darling?” asks Catherine.

“Perfect,” he says. “You’re amazing. I’ve seen you with Gran, but what did you do to the PM?”

“”Your father,” she says, and clears her throat. “Your father always said you can argue principle
until you’re blue in the face, but nothing works like flattery. And I was so deferential and smarmy
with her, I think I would have made Uriah Heep blush. But obviously, she knows she can’t forbid
your relationship, and she’s seen the backlash against The Daily Mail for what they did. Yes, that
one particular issue set record sales, but then people started cancelling subscriptions left, right, and
centre. I read online they’ve seen an eleven percent drop, and that’s huge.

“The PM has also been informed that speakers at Hyde Park Corner are running ten-to-one in your
favour, and support marches are planned all over the UK for the weekend. So she agreed to issue a
statement.”

“Mum, you’re a miracle-worker,” he says.

“Not at all. It’s the least I can do for my baby.” She adds, “Just one thing, though. The PM said that
she does not want you attending any of the rallies or marches. I think she feels caught between a
rock and a hard place. On the one hand, some of her constituents disapprove of your relationship
with Alex, but even with them, you’re overwhelmingly popular. And on the other hand, everybody
loves a lover. People are just so happy for you, and they feel very protective.”

“I always thought there was nothing worse they could find out,” says Henry.
“Don’t be silly,” says Catherine briskly. “It might be different if Alex were some toffee-nosed
chinless aristo, but as it is, the Archbishop who helped me with the wording for your
grandmother’s announcement said to me, ‘Believe it or not, Ma’am, but if I’d had a chance at the
prince or young Mr. Claremont-Diaz when I was their age, I might have been willing to give it a
try.’ So if you and Alex should have a falling-out, I could probably get you the Archbishop’s
number. Though I doubt your taste runs to bald septuagenarians with potbellies.”

He laughs. Then he says, “Mum, Alex called last night. He wants to give a speech to the nation
tomorrow and he wants me there. Think it could be arranged?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says. “How long would you be gone?”

“I’d leave early tomorrow,” he says. “When would you want me back?”

“The PM would probably be happy if you were out of the country Saturday, so how about coming
back Sunday? Think the White House would put you up that long?”

“I’ll make sure, but I think so,” he says. He wonders if the President will assign him that
aggressively pink bedroom again. Probably, since it’s the usual suite for visiting royalty.

“I’ll take care of it,” says Catherine with finality. “Then starting Monday, you have to start a
damage control tour. We want people to think you truly do love and revere your grandmother and
the institution of monarchy, even if you did slag us all off in those emails. Not that you ever
expected anyone’s eyes to see them except Alex’s, or wrote anything we didn’t deserve.”

He calls Ken to make arrangements for him to accompany him to DC, as they had discussed the
other day. He adds, “By the way, my sister and I discussed that signing bonus I mentioned. We
came up with a figure which I hope will be satisfactory.” He names it, and he hears Ken take a
breath. Then he adds, “Of course, then my sister said, ‘That’s my half; now cough up yours.’ So
we doubled it. Shaan’s cutting the check this afternoon if you want to stop by to get it.”

Ken seems to be in shock. “I don’t know what to say, Sir.”

“My experience is that when one doesn’t know what to say, it’s best to say nothing,” says Henry.
“Just take it with our most sincere apologies and deepest thanks. If I don’t see you this afternoon,
I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Alex’s speech is set for eleven a.m. in DC, and Henry is planning
an early start to get there in plenty of time.
Pez has volunteered the use of his jet. “It would otherwise just be sitting in the hangar—I’m not
going anywhere that I need it for a bit,” he says. “But you owe me.”

“And the cost?” says Henry.

“An invitation to this year’s New Year’s Eve Party,” says Pez. “No ducking out early. And I want
to stay at the White House, preferably across the hall from my goddess.”

“That’s Alex’s room,” says Henry.

“Like he’ll be sleeping there,” scoffs Pez. “He’ll be sneaking down the hall to be with you.”

***

Surprisingly, despite the early hour, Philip shows up the next morning to see Henry off.

“Just thought I’d stop by to wish you a safe journey,” he says. “I used to know an American at uni
who’d say when I left for a trip, ‘Don’t take any wooden nickels.’ I never really knew what it
meant, but I always assumed he meant well.”

“I’m not sure,” says Henry. “I’ll have to ask Alex.”

“Ah, yes, Alexander,” says Philip. He pauses and looks away. “Tell him I said hello,” he mumbles.

Henry says, “What? I don’t think I heard you correctly, Pip.”

“You heard me,” says Philip. “I’m trying here. Don’t push your luck.”

Henry can hardly believe his ears. Maybe this can be the start of a better relationship. He can
almost hear his father’s voice: “Give him a chance, mate. He’s trying. Often very trying, but he is
your only brother.”
 Henry extends his hand, and Philip shakes it. “I’ll give Alex your best,” he says.

“By the way,” says Philip, “about that PPO you recommended—Lewis? I had to let him go. I don't
know what you and Beatrice were thinking. I won’t repeat what he said to me, but impertinent
doesn’t begin to cover it. I fired him on the spot. We’re all well-rid of him.”

Just then, there is a knock on the door. Henry says, “Enter.”

“It’s time to leave for the airstrip, Sir,” says Shaan. “Ken has your bag.” And there is Ken, right
beside Shaan, carrying a small hold-all. Shaan sees Philip and bows, saying, “Oh, good morning,
Your Royal Highness. How kind of you to come see His Royal Highness off.”

Ken bows as well, his eyes studiously fastened on the carpet. “Good morning, Sir,” he says.

Philip stares at Henry, open-mouthed. Henry can’t help but smile. He’s tempted to add, Philip, I’m
sure you remember Ken, but he’s sure Ken would lecture him about enjoying Philip’s discomfiture
rather too much. After all, Ken’s job description specifically includes correcting him when he
behaves unworthily, though the actual words arse-kicking as required had been left out in favour of
more formal phrasing. Henry also has a sneaking suspicion Ken would have to kick his own arse
for enjoying it just a bit too much himself.

He simply says, “Thank you for stopping by, Philip. I’ll see you when I get back. I won’t be here
Sunday morning to take Gran to church, so you’ll be on duty. Tell Martha I said hello.” He turns to
Shaan and Ken. “Gentlemen, let’s go. We are about to witness American politics at its finest.”
Then they head to the airstrip.

Chapter End Notes

You may be surprised to learn that the strict political neutrality of the British
monarchy is of relatively recent origin. The last sovereign who took an active hand in
political maneuvering was Queen Victoria, whose intransigence over her Ladies of the
Bedchamber actually led to the fall of a government, in complete defiance of the
voters' wishes, back in the 1840's. Prince Albert continued to exercise political power
until his death in 1861--one of his last acts was preventing a possible war with the
United States despite the British government's obvious preference for the Confederacy
during the American Civil War. After he died, Victoria continued to make her
affection for the Conservatives over the Liberals very obvious until her own death in
1901. But ever since then, British kings and queens have refrained from expressing
political opinions. There is no actual legal prohibition to prevent them from doing so,
and since the British have no written Constitution, there would also (obviously) not be
a constitutional crisis due to Henry's action. Like so much of the unwritten British
Constitution, this is one of those things "established by custom and precedent," just
like so many other strictures in the UK. Neither the Monarch, nor any Royal Highness,
even votes, since someone would inevitably find out who they voted for, and their
choice would be going viral within an hour. It was therefore quite a shock when Queen
Elizabeth II was reliably reported to have called Margaret Thatcher's conservative
policies "uncaring," a comment I have put into Queen Mary's mouth. There are also
rumors that Prince Charles is privately an unabashed Liberal, which may cause him a
bit of trouble if the Conservatives are still in power when he eventually succeeds his
mother (may that day be long delayed). It would probably be a tossup as to whether
Henry's relationship with Alex would be more of an issue because they are gay, or
because Alex is the son of a liberal Democratic President with his own political
ambitions for the future.
 Political Maneuvers, Part II
Chapter Summary

Henry arrives in Washington for Alex's Address to the Nation. At the Support Rally on
the Mall the next day, Henry's PPO Ken has a surprising encounter, and that evening
in the Capitol, Henry makes a new acquaintance of his own. After the guys celebrate
Alex's success in their own signature way, Henry heads back to England to begin his
post-outing "damage control" tour.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

About half-an-hour outside of DC, Henry changes into a navy Burberry suit, a plain light-blue
button-down, and a solid purple Burberry silk tie. He has studiously avoided checks and pinstripes
which might strobe on camera, as well as violate the unspoken royal prohibition on patterned
neckwear; but the suit is perfectly tailored, and knowledgeable fashionistas will speedily identify
the British label. The Prime Minister is bound to approve.

As he descends the jet’s stairs, Ken and Shaan unobtrusively following, he is surprised to see a
helicopter with a large American flag on the side. One of Alex’s usual Secret Service Agents,
Amy, waits for him on the tarmac.

She says, “Your Royal Highness, it’s good to see you again. I hope you had a good flight.”

“Yes, thank you.” He smiles. Whenever he sees Amy, he remembers her opening the door to the
Red Room at the White House banquet in January as Alex frog-marched him inside, and then
utterly stunned him by shoving him onto a table and French-kissing him beneath a portrait of
Alexander Hamilton. Then later that same evening, she had shown Henry the way to Alex’s
bedroom. She’s been part of their story almost from the start.

“We’ve brought the White House helicopter to take you to the Residence, where Alex is waiting
for you. Eagerly, as you can imagine.” She smiles, then turns to Shaan and Ken. “Ken, we’re
putting you up across the street at Blair House. You can trust us to keep the Prince safe, and you’ll
be in easy reach if he needs you.” Amy calls him Ken? Oh, that’s right—they met in Berlin, when
Ken was one of my PPO’s and Amy was guarding Alex instead of Cash.

Ken seems a bit taken aback. It’s his first time in Washington, since he wasn’t yet part of Henry’s
personal security back in January. He did not expect to be turning over his charge to unknown
American agents immediately upon landing, not even agents from the Secret Service. But Shaan
says, “Thank you, Ms. Chen. We know that with you, His Royal Highness will be perfectly safe.”
The Secret Service runs a pretty tight ship, and they can be territorial where Presidential security
(and, by extension, the security of the President’s guests) is concerned.

Amy continues, “Shaan, Zahra says she will be personally responsible for looking after you.” She
smiles, but lest Shaan might be picturing some romantic idyll, she adds, “She says that at this point,
the campaign needs every pair of hands, and she’s got some volunteer work for you. She says she
has several reams of campaign mailings that aren’t going to fold themselves.”

Henry says, “I’m not sure what Alex has planned for me after his speech, but I do know that all of
us in the British Delegation are in good hands.”

Amy says, “Well, then, if you’re ready, Sir, we’ve got the chopper to take you to the Residence.
It’s not even an hour until the broadcast.”

As they head to the White House helipad, Ken seems awestruck, looking out the windows at sites
he has only previously seen in photos: the Washington Monument, the Capitol Building, the
Lincoln Memorial. Henry quite enjoys seeing Ken with mouth agape and eyes like saucers, just
like any other tourist—and just like Henry himself, the first time he came to Washington.

In just moments the White House comes into view. As they hover in preparation for landing, he
sees Alex, hair whipping in wild tangles in the wash from the helicopter blades. As they land and
Henry steps out, Alex laughs and cups his hands around his mouth to shout something. Henry can’t
quite make it out. He calls, “What?”

Alex shouts, “I said, ‘You look great, baby!’”

Alex takes Henry’s hand as they run into the Residence together. Henry wonders if he will ever get
used to doing this in public without looking around to check if they’re being observed. As soon as
they enter the building, Alex leads him into a secluded stairwell by the door and says, “Get your
ass over here, Your Royal Highness.” His eyes are smouldering as he pulls Henry close, and then
their lips are touching, and their tongues, and it’s just so bloody wonderful.

Henry runs his hands up and down Alex’s body, thinking, I know this body so well. I know every
inch, every bone and muscle and sinew, every mole and hair and dimple. You’d think by now I’d be
used to it, but it still feels new to me, like there’s still more to discover. I could throw him to the
ground and ravish him here on the parquet, right this very minute.
The way Alex’s hands are running over him, he suspects the feeling is mutual. But even as they
clutch and kiss, a crisp voice says, “God. Can you two stop?” It’s Zahra. “Alex, your speech is in
half an hour, and we need to get you ready for the cameras, Prince.” He’s noticed over the years
that Americans often call him that—Prince. He hasn’t decided whether it makes him feel like an
eighties rock star, or more like someone’s Irish Setter.

“Give us a break, Zahra,” says Alex. “Weren’t you young once? Back in the olden days?” He
catches Henry’s eye with a grin, then suddenly looks down and whistles the opening bars of God
Save the Queen. The tips of Henry’s ears turn red, but he still smiles. He hopes Zahra hasn’t
noticed the stiffy.

“My Country, ’Tis of Thee?” says Zahra.

“Just a moment of Anglo-American cultural intersection,” says Alex.

Zahra looks at them witheringly—a particularly appropriate adverb at the moment. “I don’t want to
know,” she says with finality. “And as for you,” she says to Alex, “the stylists just spent half an
hour on that hair, and now it’s all to do over again. Come on, both of you.”

As they sit side by side, the hairstylists patiently restoring Alex’s tangles to glossy waves and
curls, the makeup people wielding their brushes and powders on Henry’s face, he suddenly flashes
back on sitting next to Alex getting ready for the Dottie-and-Stu interview. Is it really less than a
year ago? When the makeup people step back, Henry looks into the mirror. Dad stares back at him,
a movie poster from Arthur’s early career come to life.

They walk into the ground floor reception room where Henry had met President Claremont and the
First Gentleman at the banquet in January, and Henry thinks of turning to face blazing brown eyes
and wanting to make a mad dash for the door. Alex interrupts his memories by whispering, “You
ready for this?”

Henry smiles. “Of course,” he says. “I’m just channeling my inner Nancy Reagan.” He gives Alex
a look of exaggerated adoration, like a stoned groupie who unexpectedly finds himself just inches
away from the band’s lead singer at a rock concert.

Alex grins nervously and whispers, “Dickhead.”

“You know it better than anyone else, love,” Henry answers softly. Alex giggles, and Henry sees
something he never expected to witness—Alex’s hand is trembling. Henry extends two fingers and
gently touches Alex’s palm to still it. “Five minutes for the rest of our lives,” he says. He can’t
help sounding a bit grim.

Alex reaches out his hand. His thumb touches Henry’s collarbone, and the fingers slip under the
knot of Henry’s tie. As they look into each other’s eyes, a kaleidoscope of images and sounds,
tastes and smells plays out between them.

The odor of chlorine at the pool in Rio. The heart-stopping whump of a wedding cake hitting the
floor, and the feeling of peculiar soft stickiness as Henry’s head smashes into it. Alex’s lips, cold
and wonderfully soft under a linden tree in a frozen garden. The taste of lake water in Henry’s
mouth on a hot summer night in Texas.

And weaving in and out, always and everywhere, the taste of Alex on his tongue, the beloved
aroma of Essence of Alex in his nose, and the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen tenderly
watching him from the next pillow.

Alex smiles. “You are,” he says wonderingly, “the absolute worst idea I ever had.” In his own
idiosyncratic way, it is one of the most loving things Alex could possibly say. Henry smiles
slowly, and Alex leans in and kisses him gently on the lips.

They hear a throat hesitantly clearing. “Alex,” says the floor director, “um, if you could stand at
the podium…” Alex walks to the lectern, and self-confidence seems to drop over him like a cloak.
Henry thinks, You don’t need to be nervous, love. You’re going to do just fine.

“If you could just stand here, Your Highness,” says the director. Henry stands on a taped X on the
carpet, positioning himself near Alex’s left shoulder. On the screen he will appear to the right and
a little behind, so as not to overemphasize Henry’s greater height.

The floor director, eyes on the clock, starts mouthing a countdown as he holds up three fingers.
Three, two, one. He points at Alex, and the teleprompter starts rolling.

Alex says, “Good morning.” A second’s pause. “I am, and have been—first, last, and always—a
child of America.” His voice is clear, strong, confident. Henry beams at him proudly, thinking,
Christ, I love this man. I am blessed beyond all measure.

When the speech is over and they are off the air, a White House staffer turns up the sound on a TV
monitor. A blonde woman and an older man are dissecting Alex’s speech. The staffer gives a
thumbs-up, saying, “Well, Nicolle and Brian like it. What’s Fox saying?”

The staffer who evidently drew the short straw has been watching his phone, listening to the audio
through ear buds. He shrugs and says, “The same old bullshit.”

Henry rushes over to Alex and folds him in his arms. “Christ,” he says, “now I’m the one who is
so incredibly proud,” mostly echoing Alex’s words after Henry tore a strip off Philip before the
summit with the Queen. “I could make you the same offer you did me on Monday morning right
here and now, and I wouldn’t even mind if you messed up my hair.”

Alex laughs shakily and says, “Let’s go upstairs to change, and I just might take you up on it.” His
eyes search Henry’s face. “Did I really do okay?”

By way of response, Henry kisses him.

“Okay,” says Zahra as she comes over. “Get a room, boys.” But she is smiling. “Thanks for doing
exactly what we expected you to do, Alex,” she says. “But the real thanks have to go to June. The
speech was perfect. Of course, the campaign had enough snafus already without help from you
two, but if that speech doesn’t rescue the situation you’ve created, nothing will.”

June rushes in, closely followed by President Claremont and the First Gentleman. Senator Diaz
brings up the rear. Everyone crowds around Alex, hugging him and patting him on the back. Then
June says, “And—Henry. Without saying a word, you made your love for Alex so plain. Anyone
could see how perfect the two of you are for each other. Great job.”

“For sure, mijo,” says the Senator. “You’ll fit into this family just fine.”

“I agree,” says the First Gentleman. “And it’s not easy—I speak from experience.”

“Thank you, Senator, and thank you, June, but all I did was stand there. Alex is the one who pulled
it off,” says Henry. “And thank you, Mr.—” but then his mind blanks. He knows he knows the
First Gentleman’s last name, but Alex always refers to him as Leo, and that’s how Henry has come
to think of him. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember your surname,” he says, blushing.

“Not a problem,” says the First Gentleman. “Just Leo is fine.”

“Well, ‘Just Leo,’” says the President, “we better get a move-on. Lunch is in fifteen minutes
upstairs in the Family Dining Room.” She turns to Henry. “I’m afraid it’s nothing special, Your
Highness,” she says. “Chips and cheeseburgers—you know, fast and simple. And ice cream for
dessert. I hope it’s okay.”

“Of course, Madam President,” says Henry. “It’s one of my favourite lunches.”

“Good,” says the President. “Tonight, we’ll probably send out for pizza—on Fridays, I like to send
the kitchen staff home early if there’s no big banquet. I hope that’s okay for you too. We want you
to feel at home while you’re here.”

“Yeah,” says the Senator snidely, “Ellen wants you to feel like family at her table. So she’ll treat
you the way she does the rest of us—she won’t pay any attention to you, and if you need
something, you’ll have to get up and get it yourself.”

“That’s enough out of you, Oscar,” says the President. “If you don’t like the treatment you receive
at my table, you can always go eat somewhere else.”

“Can you two try getting along for like, I don’t know, five minutes?” says Alex. “ Jesus. Henry’s
here. Stop embarrassing me in front of him.”

President Claremont has the grace to blush. “You’re right, baby-child,” she says. “I’m sorry,
Prince.” Henry restrains himself from barking. “But believe me, you’ll understand one day.”

“No he won’t,” says Alex. “Henry thinks I’m perfect.”

“God knows why he would,” says June. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. You may not have
completely hooked him.”

“Oh, he’s hooked, all right,’ says Alex. “Who could turn their back on my signature charm?”

“How long do we have?” says June.

“Enough,” says the President. “I have meetings all afternoon. Let’s get moving.” She turns to
Henry. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, Your Highness—I put you in the Queens’ Bedroom.” He
was right—it is the pink room.

“Mom,” says Alex. “Did you or did you not just hear my speech? We’re together.”

“Sugar,” she says, “if Fox found out I deliberately put him in your room, there’d be hell to pay.
You should know that.” She turns back to Henry. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Not at all, Madam President,” says Henry. “I’m under your roof, and I respect your wishes.”

“It’s my roof now, but it’s only on loan from the American people,” she says. “If I want a crack at
having it for another four years, we have to mind our p’s and q’s. Thank you for understanding.”

“Oh, well,” says Alex cheerfully. “I’m only right around the corner. It’ll be fine.”

“You break something sneaking around in the dark, you’re paying for it,” the President warns. “In
the meantime, why don’t you two go change clothes? I wouldn’t want you to drip something on
that beautiful tie, Prince.”

“No great loss if he did,” says Alex. “All Henry’s ties are boring.”

After lunch, Ellen heads off to her meetings, Oscar leaves for the Capitol, Leo goes to his office,
and June says she has an article to write. “So you two will be on your own,” says June. “Think you
can find a way to keep yourselves occupied?”

“Maybe if we put our heads together,” says Alex. “Why are you looking at me like that, June? Get
your mind out of the gutter.” June leaves the Family Dining Room rolling her eyes.

Alex turns to Henry and says, “So, what were you saying after the speech about demonstrating
your pride in me? I’m up for any little token of appreciation you’d care to offer.”

Henry says, “Oh, I have something in mind, but you might think it’s a sidesaddle.”
“A what?” says Alex.

“A sidesaddle,” says Henry. “It’s what my Granny Fox used to call a present for someone else
that’s really a gift to yourself. It’s like if you gave me a new mixer because you know I love to
bake, but it’s really because you plan on eating everything I make. A gift that gives the giver as
much pleasure as the recipient. And what I have in mind for you—definitely a sidesaddle.”

“Well, in that case, as we say in Texas,” says Alex, “Yee haw! Let’s saddle up, pardner.”

That evening, Henry checks in with Ken. “Are they taking care of you, Ken?” he asks.

“Oh—Sir,” says Ken, “like royalty. The tour guide took me everywhere—it’s amazing. Oh, and I
found souvenirs for the family. Now Davy’s teething, I found him a dummy that says, ‘Someone I
know went to Washington DC, and all I got was this stupid binky.’ I got him a little T-shirt too, and
several for Sondra. I even picked up a Washington DC Visitors’ Guide for her mum. I didn’t have
any American dollars, but of course the bank card converts pounds to dollars at the current
exchange rate in the blink of an eye. Is this a great time or what?”

“Did you get a chance to talk to Sondra?” asks Henry.

“Yes,” says Ken. “She says to tell Mr. Claremont-Diaz the speech was brilliant, and to tell you,
Sir, that you looked wonderful standing next to him. She says women, and more than a few men,
are in mourning all over Europe and the UK, but everyone’s still happy for the two of you.”

“Are they feeding you well?” asks Henry.

“Oh, gourmet fare every meal so far. They said they like to keep visitors happy.”

Henry thinks, No pizza and cheeseburgers for him.

“Do you think you’ll need me tomorrow, Sir?” asks Ken.

“Not during the day,” says Henry. “Evidently there’s something big out on the Mall tomorrow in
support of me and Alex, but Security says we have to stay here. Tomorrow night, though, Alex
thought he might take me to see the Capitol. Would you like to go along?”

“It would be wonderful,” says Ken. He pauses. “Again, Sir—thank you. Thank you.”

“Of course, Ken,” says Henry. “And thank you.” They ring off.

He decides to get a shower and go to bed early. Alex said he was going to stop by the Capitol
tonight to set things up for tomorrow, and Henry’s internal clock is still five hours ahead of
Washington time. When he comes back into the bedroom from the en suite, a towel around his
waist, he thinks, I thought I left more lights on. I wonder if the bulbs burnt out.

As his eyes become accustomed to the low light of a single lamp across the room from the bed, he
suddenly becomes aware of a figure on the bed. A naked figure. Curly black hair, chin dimple. One
knee artistically bent, arms above the head.

Alex says, “I figured you might want to turn in early.”

“Won’t your mum be angry if you sleep here?” asks Henry.

“Who said anything about sleeping?” says Alex. “But I am looking forward to falling asleep in
your arms. It’s the best sleep ever. I’ll even agree to be the little spoon.”

Henry thinks, Forgive me, Madam President—I’m only flesh and blood. He drops the towel and
dashes across the room.

The next morning, after toast and cold cereal for breakfast—Alex says he’s too tired (wink, wink)
to fix a more elaborate breakfast for everyone in the second floor Family Kitchen—they gather in
the third-floor Solarium to watch the livestream of the rally on the Mall. Nora has stopped by to
join them; as soon as he sees her, Henry rushes over to hug her and kiss her cheek. “Nora,” he says,
“I don’t know what to say besides—thank you. And God bless you. If it weren’t for you and your
computer skills, this situation could never have reached such a wonderful resolution. You’re
brilliant.”

“Yes, I know,” says Nora with her usual air of cool amusement. “We geeks have our uses.” She
shrugs, and then obviously dismissing the subject, she says, “Oh, damn, I forgot to get a can of
soda.” She nods at the serving bar across the room and says to Henry, “Prince, can you go fetch?”
There is a little sparkle of mischief in her eye.

“Woof, woof,” says Henry with a grin, and then he goes to get her a can of Coke.

The rally is bigger than any Gay Pride Parade Henry has ever seen (and maybe now, he’ll actually
be allowed to attend one in person someday). The sun is shining in the bright blue October sky, and
the happy crowd is waving rainbow flags and carrying signs with slogans like ALEX AND
HENRY 4EVER and FIRST SON OF OUR HEARTS + THE PEOPLE’S PRINCE.

They see Amy front and center in June’s yellow HISTORY, HUH? T-shirt and wearing a trans flag
pin, and Cash laughing beside her with Amy’s wife on his shoulders. Then Henry sees someone in
the crowd that makes him do a double-take.

“Henry,” says June, “isn’t that your PPO? Ken, right?”

Sure enough, Ken is right next to Amy and Cash. He wears a neon-pink T-shirt reading HISTORY,
HUH?, and he has a rainbow painted on his cheek. Henry grins. Ken is laughing, and Henry has
never seen him looking so relaxed. An utterly beautiful woman is hanging on his arm, and Henry
wonders what Sondra will say if she sees this on TV. Then before the camera moves on, they see
Ken take out his phone. Uh-oh, Ken. I bet it’s Sondra. But Ken is still laughing as he starts
speaking.

That evening, Henry has just come downstairs for the expedition to the Capitol when Ken appears.
He is in his customary dark suit.

“Where’s your T-shirt, Ken? And why did you wash off your rainbow?” says Henry with a grin.

Ken grins as well. “To attend a Prince of the United Kingdom visiting the United States Capitol
Building, somehow neon-pink didn’t seem quite proper,” he says.

“Did you enjoy the rally?” asks Henry.

Ken says, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Everyone was so happy. And so friendly. Americans
can be amazing. But of course, you know that, Sir.”
“Indeed,” says Henry. “I saw your very lovely friend hanging on your arm. As the camera panned
over the crowd, it looked like your phone had just rung. Did Sondra see her too?”

Ken actually laughs aloud. “Yes, Sir, she did,” he says. “But she knows she doesn’t have anything
to worry about. And once I explained the situation, she laughed like anything.”

“Really?” says Henry. “What was the situation?”

“Well,” says Ken, “Amy and Cash called me this morning and invited me to the rally. Of course,
you had said you’d be staying here, so I said I’d love to see it. It was like the Mardi Gras
celebrations in New Orleans that I’ve read about, only more so. And I bought another sackful of
souvenirs—even the street vendors take bank cards these days.

“As I was getting my cheek painted, this beautiful woman came running over and said, ‘Hello,
handsome!’ I said, ‘Good morning, Madam,’ and her eyes grew huge and she said, ‘You’re British!
Do you know Prince Henry?’ I said yes, as a matter of fact, I was here in the US with him. The
next thing I knew, she threw a rope of rainbow beds around my neck, then said, ‘And this is for
him,’ and kissed me on the mouth. I thought, ‘This is just like Mardi Gras!’ As for the kiss from
the lady, Sir, I hope this will suffice.” He blows Henry a kiss.

Henry pretends to be disappointed. “I suppose it’ll have to do. I don’t want Sondra coming after
me.”

“A wise decision, Sir,” says Ken. “So then the lady said, ‘I just live round the corner. If you like, I
could give you something really special to remember America by.’ I said, ‘Thank you, Madam, but
I’m a married man.’ Then without batting an eye, she said, ‘So am I!’”

Henry bursts out laughing, and Ken joins him. “You saw her, Sir,’” continues Ken. “I said, ‘Are
you pulling my leg?’ And she said, ‘Don’t they have drag queens in England? And it’s not your leg
I’m interested in pulling, mister.’”

When Alex comes in a moment later, he says, “The car’s here to take us to the Capitol. What’s so
funny?”

Still laughing, Henry says, “I’ll tell you one day, perhaps. Just chalk it up to another lesson from
Mentor for Telemachus in the ways of this naughty world.”
Alex grins. “I didn’t think you had that much to learn. You two ready?”

The Capitol is even more amazing on the inside than it is from the exterior. Henry is used to the
ornate interiors of Buck House and Kensington, but compared to the flamboyant murals which
decorate the Capitol, the English palaces seem positively Shaker-like in simplicity.

Henry and Ken almost get cricks in their necks staring at the soaring painting on the ceiling of the
Capitol Dome, The Apotheosis of George Washington. The mural depicts Washington being deified
as he is received onto Mount Olympus, and various Roman gods instructing prominent Americans
of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in different scientific disciplines. Reading from the
guidebook he picked up earlier today, Ken says, “That’s Venus helping Neptune with the
transatlantic cable—it was being laid when the mural was painted in 1865—and Vulcan creating
the steam engine. I wonder how James Watt happened to get left out?” Watt, whose steam engine
powered the Industrial Revolution, came from Scotland.

“Details,” says Alex, overhearing them as he strolls by. “Did you happen to notice the American
eagle and the Spirit of Liberty trampling kingly power beneath Washington’s feet?”

“Oh, is that what they’re doing?” asks Henry blandly. “I did notice Minerva instructing American
sages beneath the rainbow. Which one is supposed to be gay?”

“There’s another mural I wanted to be sure to point out to you across the way—Cornwallis
Surrendering at Yorktown,” says Alex. “But first, there’s someone who wants to meet you.” He
turns to Ken. “Ken, there’s Secret Service everywhere. Henry will be safe with me. Stay here and
keep on drinking in the glories of American culture.”

Henry and Ken exchange a grin and an eye-roll. Americans.

Alex leads Henry to where Oscar stands chatting with a tall, dark-haired man. Oscar sees them and
says something, and the man turns around. The force of the his sheer sexiness hits Henry like a
blowtorch. Rafael Luna. Photographs will never do this man justice.

Luna smiles, but he almost seems a bit embarrassed to meet Henry’s eye. He’s probably not sure of
how he will be received after the events of the last couple of months. Well, he has nothing to fear
from Henry. If Alex can tolerate Philip, Henry isn’t going to judge Luna.
“Mr. Senator,” says Henry, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much
about you.”

“Not all of it good, I’m afraid,” says Luna as he shakes Henry’s hand.

“We all follow the course that seems right to us at the moment,” says Henry. “And when the winds
change, we correct course and sail on. Alex and Nora tell me you were instrumental in exposing
the plot against us. Thank you.”

Alex and Oscar are beaming as Henry and Luna converse. There’s always something immensely
satisfying when one’s friends like each other. It’s not always the case.

After they get back to the White House, Henry brushes his teeth and gets a quick shower, then
climbs into bed and shuts off the light. But he doesn’t settle in for sleep or lock the door; and sure
enough, a few minutes later he hears the doorknob quietly turning and a soft whisper: “H?”

“A?” he answers.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” says Alex. “Did you turn down the thermostat? It’s October,
asshole.”

“Well, climb in bed and get warm,” says Henry. “But you know you’re not supposed to be here.
Back home, it’s treason to disobey a direct command from the Queen.”

“So sue me,” says Alex. He climbs into bed and reaches for Henry. “Hey!” he says. “You’re
naked. What, were you expecting company?”

“Living in hope doesn’t always mean dying in despair, no matter what Franklin said,” says Henry.
“And, I’m not sure, but I don’t think you snuck down the hall to discuss my sleepwear.” But while
we’re on the subject, why do I even bother packing pyjamas when I’m coming to see Alex? They’re
never on for more than five minutes.

“Point,” says Alex. “C’mere.”

In the dim light from the White House grounds, Henry studies Alex’s beautiful face. His last
conscious thought before their lips meet is, as always, Christ, I love this man.

The next morning, as the limo conveys them to the airstrip, Ken smiles. “If I may say so, Sir,
you’re looking very… satisfied this morning.”

“Probably not unlike how I expect to see you tomorrow,” says Henry.

“That would be lovely, Sir,” says Ken, “but a teething baby has no grasp of the concepts of either
romance or timing.”

“Maybe the dummy will help,” says Henry. “My nanny said she used to put a drop of whisky on
mine, but I read that doctors nowadays discourage the practice.”

“A cold wet face cloth to suck on is as much as they allow,” says Ken gloomily. “I do wonder how
people ever manage to have a second child—or after all this, why they would want to.”

“That’s true,” says Henry. “But since we’re both youngest children in our families, we should be
grateful for our parents’ bravery.” As they chat, Henry smiles, thinking, This is wonderful. It is just
like talking to an older brother, if the older brother in question isn’t an arsehole like Philip.

A few minutes later, a little electric Nissan joins them on the airstrip. Shaan emerges from the
passenger seat, his fingers covered in sticking plasters. Seeing their look, Shaan holds up his hands
and says, “Paper cuts.”

“Stop whining,” says Zahra from the driver’s seat. She looks even more frazzled than usual.
“Prince,” she calls, “I understand you want Alex in the UK for royal courtship photos. We can give
him to you for one night in a few weeks, but that’s it. He’s been sitting on his ass as far as the
campaign is concerned long enough.” She seems supremely unconcerned that Alex has only been
uninvolved because of a direct Presidential order.

They turn to the airplane stairs. “Shall we, gentleman?” says Henry. As he had told Alex that
morning in bed, he has a damage control tour ahead of him, starting tomorrow, and he feels a
strange, tingly combination of excitement and apprehension. Once they are in the air, he takes out
his phone and smiles. Alex has sent him a text with a long string of heart emojis and a simple
message: KNOCK ’EM DEAD! You can DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But the next set of emojis causes
Henry to tilt his mobile closer to his chest so no one walking by can see it. It’s a string of purple
 eggplants followed by a simple message: MISS YOU ALREADY.

As the plane heads east, Henry smiles. He misses Alex already too, but he is also excited about his
tour. In fact, he can’t wait.

Chapter End Notes

First, many thanks to Bobbie for her suggestion for the saying on the pacifier. We
came across similar items in our last trip to Chicago, though there are currently no
teething babies in our family for whom to buy one (thank God).

Air Force One (the plane) and Marine One (the helicopter) are only thus designated if
the President is aboard. (They can magically become Air Force Two and Marine Two
if they're being used by the Vice President on her own.) Otherwise, they're just White
House air transport.

Prince Charles has mentioned the American habit of calling him "Prince" (rather than
"Sir" or "Your Royal Highness"). But he doesn't mind being spoken to as if he were a
house pet; the only form of address he'll immediately correct is if people call him
"Your Majesty" (an honorific specifically reserved for the sovereign--it's not rightly
his yet!).

Next week: Henry's tour. There are a few surprises in store, including one for which I
hope you'll all eventually forgive me.
 Open and Out There, Part I
Chapter Summary

After returning to London from Alex's speech in DC, Henry starts his "damage control
tour". Step One is an interview with a BBC anchor, which Shaan and Ken help Henry
to prepare for. Henry also has afternoon tea with Pez and Beatrice, and Pez comes up
with a plan for new charitable ventures for the royal siblings. The day after Henry's
interview--which goes surprisingly well, despite the reporter's attempts to trip him up--
Henry heads to the North of England for a speech and a royal walkabout. An
unexpected incident leads to a shocking and tragic outcome.

Chapter Notes

I'm sorry this is posting so late; my wife had to have surgery VERY early this morning
(Monday), and I've been serving as her private duty attendant ever since we got home
this afternoon. Thankfully, the surgery went well and she looks like she'll make a full
recovery--but now I have a procedure Wednesday! Ah, the joys of growing older!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

On Monday morning, Henry meets with Shaan and Ken in his office at nine a.m. Shaan has
discarded the sticking plasters on his fingers, and when Henry comments, “Shaan, your hands look
better,” Shaan says, “Fortunately, paper cuts heal quite rapidly. I have every expectation of making
a complete recovery very soon.”

“Let’s hope so,” says Henry. “Ken, I imagine Sondra and Davy were happy to have you home.”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” says Ken. “But Sondra’s mother took Davy to her place for the night. I barely had
time to give him the souvenirs I picked up for him in Washington before she took him away.”

“So you and Sondra were on your own?” says Henry.

“Yes, Sir,” says Ken. Henry thinks, That would explain why you look like Mr. Wobbles after a very
large bowl of cream. Ken smiles beatifically, obviously happy and at peace with the world.

“Right,” says Henry. “So, this morning we need to discuss some of the arrangements for my
damage control tour. The public has been very supportive so far, but now I need to convey to them
that nothing has changed—I’m still Prince Henry, even if they do know I’m queer.”

“I have been in contact with Buckingham Palace and Her Majesty’s Press Office,” says Shaan.
“They suggest—and Her Majesty is in complete agreement—that we start with an interview with a
sympathetic journalist, and then tour the country visiting some of the charities of which you are
patron. The Press Office suggested we conclude with the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust,
although Her Majesty has expressed some doubt about their willingness to receive you at the
children’s cancer ward again.”

Ah, Gran. You’ll never change. Aloud, Henry says, “Will there be walkabouts?”

“Once more, Her Majesty is unsure about the wisdom of your doing so,” says Shaan. “She is
concerned about potentially unpleasant incidents.”

“What do you think, Ken?” says Henry. “Do you think you can keep me safe?”

“I’m not worried,” says Ken. “People love you. I can’t see them trying to hurt you.”

“Well, as long as demonstrators don’t cover me in too many rotten eggs and tomatoes, I’m quite
confident that you can protect me,” says Henry.

“I’ll be at your side, every step of the way,” says Ken.

“As will I,” says Shaan. “You need someone to take the flowers and cards people will give you.”

“Then that’s all right,” says Henry. “As to the interview—do they have it scheduled? And do they
have anyone in mind to do it?”

“There is a reporter with the BBC named Sharita Gupta,” says Shaan. “She does not normally do
pieces on royalty—she prefers to concentrate on what she calls ‘serious journalism’—but she is
eager to interview you. Assuming that their plan meets with your approval, Sir, the Press Office
would like the interview to take place as soon as possible.”

“In an ideal world, Alex and I would have liked to come out to a journalist—someone like Ronan
Farrow, maybe in a Vanity Fair article,” says Henry with a bit of a sigh. “But since the truth is out
there now, I suppose I might as well get the interview over with sooner rather than later. I wish I
could just make a speech to the nation the way Alex did and have done with it, but since I’m not
my grandmother doing a Christmas broadcast, I don’t think the PM would agree to that.”

“Mr. Claremont-Diaz is not getting away without also having to do an interview,” says Shaan.
“Perhaps you have not yet spoken with him today, Sir, but my fiancée told me early this morning
that he will be appearing tomorrow night on the Rachel Maddow programme.”

“Well, let’s hope that Ms. Gupta will be as diplomatic and fair-minded as Ms. Maddow always is
with her guests,” says Henry. “Well, gentlemen, I suppose that’s all for now. I’d better start
prepping myself for potential ‘gotchas!’ Any suggestions for Telemachus, Mentor?”

“My mother likes to say, ‘Say the true, but not the unpleasant; say the pleasant, but not the
untrue,’” says Ken. “The reporter might try to trick you into saying something unkind about Her
Majesty or Prince Philip. There are rumours out there that neither one approves of your relationship
with Mr. Claremont-Diaz. She might also try to get you to endorse an election win for President
Claremont, or to put you on the defensive by speaking of the disapproval of a significant portion of
the country for behaviour which she will say they see as perverse.”

“Perhaps we might practice a bit, so that I have a ready answer in case she asks me something
rude,” says Henry. “The way we did last year, Shaan, before the interview I did with Alex when he
came back after the wedding cake mess. And Ken, since rudeness does not come naturally to
Shaan, I’m counting on you to try to rattle me in as disrespectful and mean-spirited a manner as
you can. Whatever you do, don’t hold back. The last thing I want to do is to get all red-faced and
defensive in response, or caught with my mouth hanging open in stunned disbelief.”

“Rude and disrespectful with a member of the Royal Family, Sir?” says Ken with a rueful grin. “I
suppose I could just manage that if I really put my mind to it.”

“That’s what my brother tells me,” says Henry with an answering smile.

Pez joins Henry for tea that afternoon, and Beatrice joins them. They sit around the small table in
the kitchenette. Pez asks, “So I take it everything went well in Washington? Alex’s speech, of
course, was fabulous.”

“”Did you know June wrote it?” asks Henry.

“Beautiful and talented,” says Pez. “I’ve always said it—a goddess.”

“Indeed,” says Henry. “Now we’re planning my apology tour. I have an interview tomorrow to
kick things off.”

“Just amongst ourselves,” says Pez, “I must admit, every time I hear someone refer to it as an
‘apology’ tour, I feel quite irritated. Are you supposed to be apologizing for being gay? If you ask
me, I think an apology is due to you—and Alex, obviously—for what happened to you. I don’t see
why some people think you should be making apologies to anyone.”

“Hear, hear,” says Bea.

“I appreciate that, especially from you, Bea,” says Henry, “because I feel terrible that this mess had
to involve you. They were just rumours before; but now thanks to me and my big mouth—or I
suppose, since I was writing, not speaking, I should say me and my big hands—all the rumours
about you and your problems have been confirmed. I’m so sorry, Bea.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” says Bea. “If anything, I’m glad it’s out there, so I don’t have to
go about a whiff of rumour trailing after me, like a piece of loo paper stuck to the sole of my shoe.
In an odd sort of way, it’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever done for me. Now everyone knows
yes, I had a problem, but I got treatment for it and I’ve been in recovery ever since. I just wish there
were a way I could help more people with addiction issues to follow my example. And as for your
hands—it’s because of their size that you’re such a great pianist, baby brother.”

“But you’re right, H,” says Pez. “You do have big hands. Long fingers.” He smirks. “Lucky Alex.”

“Well, you may not feel I owe you an apology, Bea,” says Henry, “but Gran and Philip certainly
think they both deserve one. And some of the bigwigs at Whitehall think I should apologise,
because what I wrote might be construed as disrespectful to the very idea of monarchy.”

“Hypocrites,” says Bea. “I’ve heard more than a couple of them ripping apart their families and
friends, especially after they’ve got a few drinks under their belt. And that’s speaking in public.
Your emails were supposed to be private—you never expected anyone to read them but Alex.”

“Again, I appreciate your support,” says Henry, “but Whitehall, Philip, and Gran all disagree.”
“Oh—Pip and Gran,” Bea snorts disdainfully. “Pip was born with a bug up his arse, and Gran
wouldn’t recognise a good mood if it jumped in her lap and licked her face. I mean, really—when’s
the last time you saw her smile? I suppose I should feel sorry for her, but I don’t. She chooses to be
ill-tempered.”

They have another cup of tea while Pez regales them with the latest tales from his homeless shelter
in Brooklyn. When Henry went with Pez to New York for its opening, the news had come out that
same afternoon about Rafael Luna joining the Richards campaign. Henry immediately went across
town to the Democratic Convention to check on Alex, and of course, so many things had proceeded
from there.

Pez has had nothing but headaches with the shelter ever since. In three months, there have been
two directors, and both have resigned in disgrace—one for using racial slurs about some of the
potential clients, and the second for trying to fiddle with the accounts.

“He barely got his arse in the chair and opened his laptop before he started trying to cook the
books,” says Pez gloomily. “I said, ‘My dear man, did you think we wouldn’t audit things monthly
while we’re still trying to get the place up and running? The Okonjo Foundation has been setting
up non-profits for years, and I have an entire building full of lawyers and accountants whose only
job is to oversee the cash end of the enterprise, especially once people start donating. Did you think
we wouldn’t find out?’”

“What did he say?” asks Bea.

“What could he say? I told him, ‘Make full restitution and you can avoid gaol time, but I hope you
know your career in charitable foundation work is over. Once word gets out, no one will touch
you.’ But he just snickered and said, ‘Oh, there are plenty of billionaires here in New York with
bogus charitable foundations that they use as personal slush funds. They’ll snap me up in a
minute.’” Pez sighs. “The sad thing is, he’s probably right. Really, if someone wanted to take the
place off my hands, I’d sign it over in a heartbeat. It really needs a director who can live full-time
in New York and do hands-on supervision to get it up and running.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” says Henry. “I’m sure finding an honest director can be quite a headache,
especially from overseas. But sticky fingers seem to be one of humanity’s most common failings. I
suppose that’s why St. Paul says the love of money is the root of all evil.”

“The Prophet says much the same thing. He says, ‘The love of this world is the root of all evil.’”

“Well, not to add to the general gloom by bringing his name into the conversation again, but Pip is
lecturing even more than usual about money,” says Bea. “Evidently Parliament is rumbling about
funds being set aside for me and Henry when we live off the interest on the money Dad left.” Bea
shrugs. “Some members in the Commons are complaining that we certainly don’t need any
taxpayer cash. Pip says, ‘If you two would just do something with the money we could shut them
up, but as long as you’re just sitting on it, certain Members are going to go on calling you parasites.
Can’t you go buy a yacht or something?’”

“Some people are just determined to stir up as much trouble for other people as they can,” says
Henry. “Whatever happened to ‘live and let live’?”

Pez’s thoughts seem to have wandered. But then suddenly he snaps back to attention, and says, “H.
Bea. I have the most fabulous idea. It could solve all our problems.”

“Go for it,” says Henry.

“Okay,” says Pez. “H, what if you were to set up some sort of charitable foundation? You could
take the royal monies that are piling up and put everything into your charity. Bea, you could do the
same sort of thing. You two don’t need the money, and this way it would be doing good, not just
sitting in the bank accumulating interest. All you need is a focus for your foundations—you know,
identify a need and then set something up to meet it.”

Henry suddenly remembers the sheer, stark terror he had felt back in Texas when he thought Alex
was about to say he loved him, and that eventually someone would find out about them. He
remembers saying, “I don’t have a family that will support me,” but he had been thinking of
emotional support, not actual physical issues like a roof over his head or food for his stomach.

He will always have Dad’s money to fall back on. But he knows that many LGBTQ people,
especially young people, are not so fortunate. Teens get outed, and then so many parents kick them
to the kerb. And all too often, then the kids think they only have two choices: prostitution, or
suicide. Whenever he’s heard of such things, Henry has thought, That’s horrible. Somebody should
do something. Well, people are always telling him that he’s somebody.

Henry says, “Pez, you’re a genius. I could set up a foundation to help homeless queer youth. We
could call it, ‘The Prince Henry LGBTQ Youth Foundation Trust.’”

“And I could use my royal money for addiction and recovery centres,” says Bea excitedly. “The
Princess Beatrice Addiction and Recovery Foundation Trust.’”
“But we don’t know anything about running charitable foundations,” says Henry.

“Gee,” says Pez, “if only you were best mates with someone who already has a foundation with
about a gazillion lawyers who could guide you through what you need to do,” says Pez. “Oh, that’s
right—you are.”

“Pez, you’re the best,” says Henry. “But you said this could help all of us. What’s in it for you?”

“”Homeless queer youth are not only at risk in the UK,” says Pez. “How about in the US? Starting
with a certain shelter in Brooklyn? Of course, it’ll be complicated signing it over, but the lawyers
will help us dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. You’d be relieving me of an endless headache, and
it’d give you an excuse to spend time in the States. Aside from sex with Alex, of course—not that
there’s anything more important than that.”

By the following morning, Henry feels quite chuffed. He and Pez and Bea had spent the rest of the
afternoon excitedly making plans for the new foundations. And he also feels totally prepared for
his interview this morning. Ken had thrown himself with gusto into the offensive persona of a
hostile interviewer; more than once, the truculent insolence of his questions left Shaan open-
mouthed with shock. Alex was highly amused when Henry described the scene that evening. “I
wish I could have been there,” said Alex. “I could have given Ken a few suggestions.”

“”I’ve no doubt of that,” said Henry, “but believe me, he did quite well enough on his own.”

So Henry now feels pretty confident as he faces Ms. Gupta, a dark-eyed woman in her late
twenties. Her slender frame and diminutive stature combine to convey an air of fragility, an
impression which Henry is certain must be utterly deceptive. The BBC does not promote shrinking
violets; the world of television journalism, half serious news and half entertainment, largely driven
by anchor personality, demands cutthroat ruthlessness in order to survive.

She fulfills Henry’s expectations within the first few minutes of the interview. “Your Royal
Highness,” she says, “the revelations about your private life in general and of your romance with
the President’s son in particular have come as quite a shock to the British people. And there are
rumours that certain members of your family have been highly critical of your relationship.”

“Oh, I don’t think people feel shocked about my relationship with Alex, do you?” says Henry with
an easy smile. “I think that that would imply that I and my activities are much more important to
people than they really are. Of course, people may feel surprised—the way our feelings toward
each other changed certainly surprised us.”
“Your feelings toward each other have been the source of a great deal of speculation for quite some
time,” says Ms. Gupta. “There were rumours of animosity between you at the time of your
brother’s marriage, a dislike which led to the unfortunate incident at his wedding.”

“An unfortunate incident. That’s putting it diplomatically,” says Henry with a rueful grin. “Taking
a header into a smashed wedding cake is exactly the sort of experience for which the phrase ‘a
sticky situation’ must have been coined. But there was never any animosity between me and Alex.”

“Rumour told a different story,” she says. “And there are also rumours that the claim to be ‘best
mates’ was all a strategy of damage control—an exercise in PR spin.”

“Rumour always says all sorts of outlandish things,” says Henry blandly. “But I will admit that
‘best mates’ was probably something of an exaggeration. We had liked each other on the few
occasions we had met, but I’m not sure if we had run into each other more than half a dozen times
before my brother’s wedding. And it was seldom for more than a few moments.”

“But then it all changed,” she says quickly.

“Yes, but again, it was gradual,” says Henry. “We were thrown together to prove that we really did
like each other, and we started contacting each other fairly frequently to arrange our next public
meeting, and we discovered that we really had a great deal in common and that we truly enjoyed
each other’s company. And it went on from there.”

Ms. Gupta says, “Can you remember the moment when you first knew you were in love?”

Henry remembers it as if it were just this morning, but he resolutely puts aside the memory of the
smell of chlorine and the mental image of a Greek god in a wet swimsuit. “Oh, I think it was for
both of us as Mr. Darcy says in Pride and Prejudice—we were halfway in before we realised
anything had started.” He shrugs. “I imagine it’s that way for most people.”

“Would it be fair to say that you are hoping that President Claremont will be reelected? I’m sure
Alex would be upset if she lost.”

“I’m sure he would be,” says Henry. “But my position is the same as that of our Government: I
want the victory to go to the candidate who would most faithfully serve the American people, and
who would continue to build on the historic ties of friendship between our two nations.”
Since she can’t rattle him with questions about Alex, she decides to try another tack. “There are
those who interpret some of your comments about certain members of the Royal Family in what
are being called ‘The Waterloo Letters’ to infer that your relationship with them is less than
cordial,” she says. “Some say that Her Majesty was quite offended by your fairy tale about the
prince born with his heart outside his chest, since it seems to accuse her of coldness—some might
even say cruelty—in her relationship with her family. And there are also rumours that some
members of your family highly disapprove of you being with Alex Claremont-Diaz. Do you care to
comment?”

“Thank you, Ms. Gupta, for giving me the opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding about my
relationship with my family, particularly with Her Majesty and with my brother, since I presume
that it is they to whom you are referring,” says Henry. “I can assure you that there is no truth to any
of the speculation about dislike or unkindness. Her Majesty and my brother are both as supportive
and affectionate with me as they always have been.”

“And the fairy tale?”

“First,” says Henry, “I never expected or intended it to be read by anyone but Alex. And the story
is fiction—I did not write a literal description of Her Majesty’s character, any more than I was
actually born with such a life-threatening deformity as having a heart outside of my chest cavity.
Of course, I can’t control what people might read into it, any more than you can control my reading
bigotry into your use of the term fairy tale. Personally, I prefer fable.”

Ms. Gupta actually blushes. Henry thinks, Gotcha! “I beg your pardon, Sir—I certainly intended
neither disrespect nor insensitivity.” She switches to another topic. “Any truth to the rumour that
Prince Philip deliberately shattered a priceless national treasure?”

Henry says, “Everyone in the Royal Family is very much aware that we do not own the treasures
which surround us in the palaces; we are merely custodians, holding them in trust for the nation
and for future generations. Of course, accidents happen from time to time—like if you accidentally
chipped a teacup from your grandmother’s wedding china. But just as you would never deliberately
pick up that teacup and shatter it against a wall, nor would Philip break anything on purpose. Yes,
a piece was broken—by accident—but the conservators assure us that they can repair it as good as
new.”

It goes on like that for the better part of an hour. By the end, Henry feels as tired as he does after a
game of racquetball, but he knows that he has won. He overhears one of the crew muttering, “Well,
that was a waste of videotape. She didn’t manage to trip him up even once.”
Tripping me up was her goal? I thought she was supposed to be a sympathetic journalist. Did Gran
deliberately set me up? Sadly, he wouldn’t put it past her; but he thinks it unlikely. Gran’s goal has
always been to protect the royal family, and hurting him could undermine them all.

An edited version of the interview appears online within a couple of hours, and Henry watches it
critically. Even he is impressed; he comes across as relaxed, easy, and certainly unapologetic.
Sharita Gupta has an air of resigned acceptance as she introduces the tape, and he has to admit that
she is being a good sport about her failure to embarrass him. He also notices that the exchange
about his “fairy tale” has been edited out. He decides to tell Shaan to send her flowers along with a
note he hurriedly pens thanking her for a “unique experience.” At least it was easier than morning
coffee with Emily Stokes-Howard.

His mobile rings almost as soon as the online interview ends; it’s Alex. “Way to go!” he chortles.
“You handled yourself like a real pro. You even controlled your blood flow—the tips of your ears
didn’t turn red even once, no matter how much she tried to rattle you. I was impressed.”

“Me too,” says Henry, “and thank you; but I can’t claim credit for my ears. Pez did my makeup,
and he smeared concealer on them just in case.”

Before Shaan and Ken leave for the evening, they do a quick run-through of Henry’s schedule for
the next day, which will be the beginning of the actual tour. They have decided to start with
Yorkshire, which is a good mix of left and centre-left cities and right-wing rural areas. If there is
going to be an incident, it would be in the North, and Whitehall wants to get it out of the way.

Of course, Henry feels a bit of nervousness as they set out, but Shaan and Ken seem quite relaxed.
For luck, Henry is wearing a new tie Pez had given him the day before yesterday. From a distance,
it reads as solid blue—per tradition—but it is woven in some of the most subtle gradations of blue
silk Henry has ever seen, navy blue and royal blue, true blue and sky blue, light blue, pale grey,
even sea green and aqua. It also contains random gold threads throughout that glitter in the autumn
sunshine. With it, Henry is wearing the blue blazer he had worn to Paris, and at his wrists there is
the gleam of Dad’s gold cufflinks.

They start with a visit to an organisation which assists low-income students in finding university
scholarships, and Henry can almost see the wheels turning in Ken’s head: I wish I had known about
this place fifteen years ago. The visit goes well, and Henry can discern no real change in any of the
staff’s customary manner or behaviour. Then he heads outside, where a crowd of well-wishers have
gathered to welcome him. The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly, and several people tell him to
say hello to Alex. This is going amazingly well, he thinks. Why was I always so frightened about
people finding out I’m gay? No one cares.

Then two things happen in quick succession. Out of the corner of his eye, he perceives sudden
 movement; something is flying towards him. Then, just a second later, he is knocked to the
sidewalk, and something heavy falls on top of him. He looks up to see Ken, who is running his
hands over Henry’s arms and trunk, crying, “Henry! Henry! Are you all right? Did it hit you?”

In the strange way minor details can stand out during such moments, Henry thinks, That’s the first
time Ken has ever called me Henry. Ken’s shocked and terrified eyes are scanning Henry minutely,
as if searching for signs of injury. Did something happen that he expects me to be wounded? And
how funny—Ken’s eyes are green; I always thought they were blue.

Then suddenly, the side of Ken’s head explodes. A shower of red spills down Ken’s face and drips
onto Henry’s cheeks and nose and his beautiful new tie. Ken looks puzzled for a moment, and then
he slowly slumps over and to the side.

“Ken!” screams Henry. In response, Ken closes his eyes.

Chapter End Notes

First off, I have to thank my faithful commentator and correspondent Lamsfan, who
has said several times how much it rankles for Henry to be expected to make an
"apology" tour, when apologies are really due to Henry and Alex for the intrusion into
their private life. (If you go back to some of those comments, you'll see that most of
Pez's remarks are pretty much verbatim quotes!) I appreciate Lamsfan's input much
more than I can say--though I always agreed with Lamsfan's point, I don't know if I
could have expressed the idea so clearly and concisely on my own. Thanks, friend!

When I was young, calling a homosexual a "queer" was about as rude and demeaning
an insult as could be made, so I apologize to any of my contemporaries who find the
term offensive. But gay friends tell me that modern LGBTQ's have adopted the word
as a badge of pride, so I have Henry use it quite unselfconsciously (as does CMQ on p.
390). CMQ has also said in interviews that in an alternate reality, Henry and Alex
would have come out publicly in an interview with Ronan Farrow in "Vanity Fair," so I
have Henry say just that.

Before his investiture as Prince of Wales at Carnarvon Castle in 1969, Prince Charles
expressed the hope that demonstrators wouldn't cover him in too much rotten egg and
tomato; I put the remark in Henry's mouth while his tour is being planned. Of course,
over fifty years ago, Charles was safe; in those days of unquestioned respect for the
Royal Family, no one would ever have dreamed of throwing things at him. (Twenty
years later, things had changed; during a royal walkabout, a demonstrator sidled up
and smashed a pie into Charles' face!) I've modeled Sharita Gupta just a bit on Martin
Bashir, whose sympathetic questioning led Princess Diana into exactly the sort of
trouble Henry so skillfully avoids. In fairness to the late Princess, though, Henry
enjoys a supportive and loving relationship with his partner, of the sort of which Diana
could only have dreamed.
There have been assassination attempts on the lives of both Queen Elizabeth II (for
example, at the Trooping of the Colour in 1981) and on that of Prince Charles (in
Australia in 1994; oddly enough, his would-be assassin is now a barrister). Neither
attempt was serious, since both Royals were shot at with starting pistols, which are
basically cap guns and which fire blanks. Both the Queen and her son were lauded in
the press for their cool courage in the face of potentially mortal danger. Those of us
who lived through the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan (or, for those of you
who tuned in late, who have seen the videotape) have seen how PPO's throw
themselves into the path of attack, just as Ken does here. And all too often, the main
target of the attack escapes injury, while innocent bystanders suffer tragic
consequences.
 Open and Out There, Part II
Chapter Summary

The assassination attempt against Henry leads to a surprising reconciliation. The

"damage control" tour is completed with a happy reunion, and Henry excitedly
prepares for Alex's official royal suitor visit.

Chapter Notes

My parents had three sons and two daughters by 1953 (such large clusters of Baby
Boomer offspring were not unusual), and then I came along the next year and messed
up the symmetry thing they were trying to accomplish (though actually, it was my
father's Y-chromosome that did it; I was just an innocent bystander). Two of my three
older brothers are now dead, and we just got word that my last remaining brother is
dying of inoperable cancer, and may not see the summer. I'm therefore sure that my
family situation somewhat colored this chapter; I think on some level, no matter what
we write, we're just telling a version of our own story.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Time seems to stop. Then slowly, so slowly, Ken’s eyes flutter open. With a dazed expression, he
puts a hand to the side of his head, and then looks at his red-stained fingertips. His eyes close in
obvious relief. Flat on his back on the pavement next to Henry, he says, “Paint.” He opens his
eyes and looks at Henry. “I think it’s the shit animal-rights activists throw at ladies in fur coats. But
it stunned me for a second, smacking me in the head like that. Fuck—that hurt.”

He rolls over and gets on his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. On the sidewalk, they
see the tattered remains of a water balloon; it was the balloon exploding as it hit the side of Ken’s
head that made it look like a bullet must have shattered his skull. On the sidewalk, Henry also sees
a small pile of what looks like metal filings and glass chips.

“Shrapnel,” says Ken. “It must have come from inside the balloon. No wonder that hurt. Another
inch or two, and it would have gone into my eye.”

Henry also rolls over, stands up, and helps Ken to his feet. He gives Ken a bear hug. “Thank God,”
says Henry, “thank God.” Then he turns to the crowd, holding Ken’s arm aloft like a boxer who
has just won a match. Everyone gives a ragged cheer.
Henry then notices a commotion from within the crowd. A group of elderly ladies are beating
someone with their brollies; the man has sunk to his knees under their onslaught. “Shame on you,”
they are saying. “Is that how your mum brought you up to behave?”

Henry calls out, “Ladies! Please stop—we’re fine! Don’t hurt him!” For the first time since all this
began, Shaan is beside him, and Henry realises the entire incident has only taken a minute or two—
about the time it would take Shaan to get over to him from where he had been passing off the
accumulated bouquets to members of the reception committee. Shaan is pale with shock and fright,
but he shoves into the crowd, clearing the way for Henry to reach the man on the pavement whom
the women had been beating.

“Are you okay?” asks Henry. The man gives him a dirty look as he stands. He has greasy black
hair and a two-day growth of beard. The point of one of the ladies’ brollies must have caught him,
because there is a gash on his forehead and blood is running into his left eye.

“Of course I am,” he says. “What do you take me for, a bloody poof like you?” Then he sways on
his feet, and is sick down the front of his dirty white T-shirt.

In the distance, Henry hears an ambulance siren, and a moment later he sees flashing lights in his
peripheral vision. Paramedics seem to materialise out of thin air. They come rushing up to Henry,
demanding, “Sir, are you okay? Do you need us?”

“I’m fine,” says Henry, “but I think this chap could use your services. And I’d like someone to go
check out my PPO.”

“The other team is with him right now,” they assure him. They turn to the demonstrator. “Now,
what sort of mess have you got yourself into?”

Henry makes his way over to Ken, who is sitting in the back of the ambulance between the open
doors. Henry says, “Ken, are you okay? Have they checked you for concussion? Any blurred
vision? Dizziness or nausea?””

“Not to worry,” says Ken. “I’m fine. They don’t even think the glass chips cut my scalp, which is
good—otherwise, they would have shaved half my head to clean the wound. And they said my
skull is too thick to be hurt that easily. As this incident has proven—I am indeed completely bone-
headed.” Ken looks at Henry ruefully. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he says. “I promised to keep you safe, and
at the first real test, I fumbled the ball. I was watching the people crowding up to you, and
completely missed someone throwing projectiles from a distance. I’m so sorry, Sir.”
“Don’t be a chump,” says Henry. “No one expected something to get thrown at me. And by
knocking me to the ground, you would have saved my life if it had been something worse. You
have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“I still feel terrible, Sir,” he says. “And I know I look a proper fool.” He does indeed appear
somewhat the worse for wear. Paint has clotted the hair on one side of his head into sticky clumps,
and dripped down his face onto his white shirt and the jacket of his suit. “Sondra is going to kill me
when she sees this shirt,” he says, “and this is only the second time I’ve worn this suit.” Even if
cleaners could remove the paint, the knee of one trouser leg had been torn in their tumble to the
pavement. The suit is ruined.

“Are you kidding?” says Henry. “More likely she’ll kill me, for getting you into this danger. And
don’t worry about your clothes. Naturally, we’ll replace them.”

Ken looks at Henry, and for the first time since this mess began, a smile crosses his face. “I’m so
sorry, Sir,” he says, “but I think when we did our bro-hug, the paint made you rather a mess as
well.” Henry looks down, and indeed, red is smeared across his clothing. The jacket from Paris,
and Pez’s beautiful new tie. But they’re just clothes; they can be replaced. Friends can’t.

“Looks like it’s a trip to the tailor for both of us,” he says. Looking down once more at the tie, a
mischievous thought occurs to him. “Maybe my friend Pez can help us find something.”

The look Ken gives him is so horrified that Henry starts laughing, and after a moment, Ken joins
in. The tension which has gripped them since the incident began starts to break. Someone snaps a
picture, and this is the photo which The Daily Mail runs the next day in an obvious attempt to
regain public approval, beneath a headline reading, LAUGHING IN THE FACE OF DEATH: Our
Courageous Prince and His Gutsy PPO.

But Ken is feeling considerably less than gutsy when his mobile rings and he reads the Caller ID.
Reporters have been monitoring the entire episode, and it must have already hit the airwaves. Ken
groans, and at Henry’s enquiring look, he says, “And awaaaay we go.” He presses the Answer
button and says heartily, “Hul-lo, darling, how are you and Davy?” Henry can hear Sondra’s
furious tone from several feet away, and he feels a stab of sympathy for Ken, which quickly turns
to empathy when his own mobile rings and he reads: Alex.

“Hul-lo, love,” he says, his tone an exact replica of Ken’s just the moment before.
“Henry?” Alex’s voice is rough with emotion—anger, fear, and relief at hearing Henry’s voice. “I
just got a push notification on my CNN feed that there’s been an attempt on your life, and I see a
picture of you all covered in blood. I almost shit my pants, I was so scared. Where the fuck was
Ken, and why the fuck wasn’t he keeping you safe? You tell him from me, the next time I see him,
I’m gonna kick his ass!”

“Where was Ken? Oh, just twiddling his thumbs—and, incidentally, saving my life,” says Henry.
“If he hadn’t knocked me to the ground and it really had been something more than a balloon filled
with fake blood, yes, I might have been injured. But he was right there, throwing himself on top of
me. If it had been a bullet, he would have taken it. As it is, we’re fine, although we both look like
extras from some cheesy disaster movie. Ken’s hair has almost as much fake blood in it as mine
had buttercream last year.”

There is a brief silence, and Henry can hear Alex’s shaky breathing. When he speaks again, he
sounds considerably calmer. “Well, as long as you’re really okay,” he says quietly. “Shit. I never
expected to see my future husband in a breaking news story almost getting killed on the street
during a royal walkabout.”

“Well, put your mind at rest,” says Henry. “I’m all safe and sou—wait a minute. Wait a minute.
What did you just call me?”

“Asshole? Dickhead? That’s what I usually call you.”

“No, I think it was something else. Future something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You sure you didn’t get a concussion or something?
Maybe the paint fumes are making you hallucinate.”

“I don’t think so,” says Henry. His smile is getting broader with every word Alex says.

“Okay,” says Alex. “I said future husband. Jesus. I can’t believe I said that. As I’ve said in other
contexts, it just slipped out.”

“Say it again,” says Henry. “I want to savour the moment, before I have to go wash the fake blood
off my face.”
“Futurehusbandfuturehusbandfuturehusband,” says Alex. “There, you happy now? Fuck. I always
figured I’d ask someone to marry me someday, but I never thought it would be another guy, on a
cell phone, from thousands of miles away.” He sounds almost resentful. “I always figured with you,
I’d exhaust you with several hours of sweaty monkey sex and then catch you in a weak moment.”

“I’ve no objection to the hours of sweaty monkey sex,” says Henry, “but you know, love, you
don’t really have to try that hard. My answer would be the same no matter what.”

“Well?” says Alex.

“Well, what?” says Henry. “Oh, do you mean, will I marry you? Let me think about it.”

“You ass-fucking dickhead, don’t you dare—”

“I’m sorry, love, you’re breaking up,” says Henry. “I’ll call you. Maybe sometime this evening.
Wait, I’m sure I’ll be busy. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.”

“Henry,” starts Alex furiously, but then Henry interrupts him with peals of laughter.

“Sorry, love,” says Henry, “but I couldn’t resist. I’m feeling a bit not myself after this afternoon’s
excitement. Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot. I always thought I’d ask you in a moonlit garden or
the Santa Chiara Chapel, but here I am agreeing to the angriest proposal I’ve ever heard of,
couched in the most scatological language in the history of romance. Who could say no to that?”

“I totally fucking love you, jerkoff,” says Alex affectionately. Henry can hear the smile in his
voice. “And I want the whole nine yards—rose-covered cottage, white picket fence, two-point-four
children, and all the other bullshit. Just don’t get killed between now and then, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” says Henry. He notices Ken is off his mobile, so he says, “Oh, I’d better go find
out what we’re doing next with this tour. We’ll talk tonight. I love you, Alex.”

“Right back at you, baby,” says Alex. “Oh, and you can tell Ken I’ve changed my mind. I won’t
kick his ass after all.”
“Good choice,” says Henry. “He’s an Army vet, and he’s bigger than you are. Of course, most
blokes are.”

“Shut up,” says Alex. “Is it too late to take back my proposal?”

“You could, but only if you want to be sued for breach of promise,” says Henry. “Need I remind
you of the skill of the royal solicitors?”

“Oh, a lawsuit—that’s all the campaign needs,” says Alex. “I guess I’ll let the proposal stand.”
After another round of I love yous and I’ll talk to you tonights, they ring off.

Henry Is still smiling when he strolls over to join Ken and Shaan. “You look happy, Sir,” says
Shaan. Correctly guessing Henry’s caller, he says, “How was your conversation with Mr.
Claremont-Diaz?”

“Wonderful,” says Henry. “Ken, how about you and Sondra?”

“Well, after some discussion, she’s agreed that it’s only the demonstrator who’s responsible for
this,” says Ken. “And I reminded her that such things are all in a day’s work for a PPO. I told her,
‘Hey, it’s not like it was when I was in Afghanistan. There, people were shooting at me every day,
and with real bullets, not throwing balloons filled with fake blood.’ She calmed down after that. I
figured we could keep the bit about the shrapnel to ourselves.”

After some negotiating with Whitehall, 10 Downing Street, and Buckingham Palace, and a series
of anxious phone calls from Bea and Catherine, the decision is made to continue the tour. Although
she does not actually call, Gran sends a message through Catherine that cancelling the remainder of
the tour would be cowardly. “‘The British Royal Family is expected to maintain a stiff upper lip in
the face of danger,’” says Catherine, in an obvious verbatim quote from her mother.

Thinking the matter settled, Henry takes a quick shower to wash away the fake blood which had
dripped onto him, and is just getting into comfortable sweats for a quiet evening to recuperate from
the day’s excitement when he hears a knock on the hotel room door. He opens it, and is shocked to
see, instead of Shaan checking to make sure he doesn’t need anything, that it is Philip on the
doorstep. Henry’s mouth drops open.

“Hello, little brother,” says Philip, not meeting Henry’s eye. He does not extend a hand to shake,
and he is obviously extremely uncomfortable. “All safe and sound, I hope.”
“As you see,” says Henry. Though of course, you don’t really; you’d actually have to look at me to
see how I am.

“And Lewis? I trust he’s all right? Though if he isn’t, it’s his own fault. It was his job to protect
you. Gran wants you to sack him immediately.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” says Henry sharply. “If anything, it’s Gran’s penny-pinching that only
budgeted for one PPO that made this situation possible. And surely you’ll agree that no one’s eyes
can be everywhere, and watching the immediate vicinity of where I was would be more important
than scanning the horizon for possible danger.” Henry pauses, then says, “Where are my manners?
Have a seat, Pip. Would you like me to have them send up a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” says Philip. He drops into a chair, but he still hasn’t looked at Henry even once.

“I suppose Gran sent you to check up on me?” says Henry.

“Actually, no,” says Philip. “It was Mazzy. She insisted I should go see for myself that you’re
really all right.” Henry thinks, Again, Philip, to see for yourself you have to look at me. I’m over
here, not outside on the village green.

“Well,” says Henry, “here I am. All safe and sound, and no worse damage than a ruined tie. I’d
show it to you, but you’d actually have to look at me to see it in my hands.”

Finally, Philip raises his eyes and looks at Henry’s face. And Henry sees something he hasn’t seen
since the day Dad died—there are actually tears in Philip’s eyes. And just as on that occasion,
Henry watches a single tear course down Philip’s cheek. “God, Henry,” says Philip shakily. “When
I saw the footage, I was so—scared…” He swallows.

“You were frightened?” says Henry in amazement. “For me?”

“Who else? Lewis?” says Philip irritably. “Of course I was frightened for you. You’re my brother.
You could have been killed.” He takes a breath, obviously mustering his courage for what he must
say next. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. And Beatrice too, of course.”
Henry just looks at him. Everything he can think of to say in response—I’m all ears or Go for it
—sounds flippant, and whatever this is, it sounds important.

“When Dad died…” Philip shakes his head. “No, wait. It goes back further than that.”

Looking away once more, Philip continues, “Mum told me once that when I was born, she and Dad
just didn’t know what to do. Dad was an only child and had never been around babies, and Mum
never expected to get married, so neither one had ever given parenthood a thought. And when I
came along, they hadn’t even been married a year, and they’d barely celebrated her return from the
maternity ward when they found out Bea was on the way. I remember Mum once saying, ‘It took
six years and three babies to figure out what was causing it. I was a slow learner, but I enjoyed the
lessons.’”

“Ew,” says Henry. There’s something so innately gross about imagining one’s parents in bed,
although unless one is adopted, obviously, they must have done the deed.

“You can say that again,” says Philip with a tiny smile. “Mum said she was so flummoxed that
when Gran offered to help, they just stood aside and let her take over. I can’t remember a time
when Gran wasn’t in charge of me, though I could never figure out why Mum thought Gran would
be any less cruel with me than she was with her.”

Henry nods. He and Bea had always spent a lot more time with Mum and Dad than Philip; it
seemed like Pip was constantly at Windsor having afternoon tea with Gran. She said that as the
future monarch, he needed special instruction in the art of reigning.

“I remember whenever I’d misbehave, she’d hit me with a spoon on my wrists,” says Philip. “That
doesn’t sound like it would be all that painful, and it doesn’t really leave a mark, but believe me, it
hurt. I quickly learned not to cross her.”

He smiles ruefully. “The one bit of misbehaviour she allowed was when I’d get into a temper and
knock something over. She said her father used to do the same thing. The courtiers would say he
was ‘going to Nashville,’ because he would have these shaking rages where he would knock things
over and literally grind and gnash his teeth. Gran seemed to think it was cute when I did it, though
Dad certainly didn’t. Nor did Lewis when I knocked everything off my desk and called him in to
clean it up. I’m sure he told you about that.”

Henry says nothing.

“So when Dad died…” Philip swallows. “Gran sent for me. It was that very same evening. I
thought she just wanted to tell me how sorry she was about what had happened, but she never said
a word. All she said was, ‘I’m sure you know, Philip, that your mother is a broken reed, and that
you can’t lean on her. Nor can your sister and brother. They need you to take charge. You have to
be firm with them and tell them what’s what.’

“Then Bea started with the drugs, and you were always so sullen and angry—sorry, H, but you
could be a real arsehole back then.” Henry thinks, You think so? “And there was my friend Nigel,
always dropping hints that you had talked him into doing something…”

“Try the other way round,” says Henry. “You have to remember, I was only seventeen, and he was
a big, strong bloke of nearly twenty-three. I’d had a few crushes on chaps at Eton, but we never
actually went all the way. It was Nigel who taught me what gay sex was about—and not very
skillfully, I might add.”

“I thought as much,” says Philip, wincing slightly. “Though I did always wonder about you and
Okonjo.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” says Henry. “Pez is like my br—” he stops abruptly.

“Like your brother?” says Philip sadly. “Probably more like a brother than your real one has ever
been.” Philip looks him squarely in the eye. “I’m so sorry, little brother,” he says quietly. “When I
saw you online all covered in blood and I realised you might have been killed, all I could think
was, ‘And if I lost him, all Henry would ever have known of me is that I’m a blustering bully who
treated him like a somewhat dim preschooler.’”

He swallows again. “I could say it’s all Gran’s fault, that she was telling me I had to lay down the
law with you—which she was—but you showed us all at Buck House last week that we don’t
always have to do what she says. When she said to say that the photo of you and Alex was
doctored, you said no. When she implied that being gay meant you must be a paedophile as well,
you said, ‘Stop it!’ Any time, I could have done the same, but I never did.”

“I had Alex next to me for courage,” says Henry. “Without him, I’m not sure I could have.”

“Poor Mazzy will never do that for me,” says Philip. “Gran has her completely flattened. And as
soon as we got back from our honeymoon, I started bullying her too. There’s another apology I
need to make.”
“I’m sure she’ll accept it,” says Henry. “I’ve watched her. I think she really does love you.”

“God knows why,” says Philip. “I don’t deserve it, though I love her too. And believe it or not,
Henry—I love you. I don’t want you to have to go to Pez for brotherly support, or to Lewis—from
what I hear, he’s becoming like a big brother to you too, the big brother I never was. Not to take
anything away from either of them, but I’m your brother. I know it’ll take a while for you to trust
me, but I’m going to do better. I promise.” He stands and extends his hand. Henry stands as well
and shakes Philip’s hand, and then on impulse, he pulls Philip in for a hug.

Philip stands rigidly, then hurriedly taps Henry a couple of times on the spine, in a sketchy
imitation of patting his back. Henry can’t help it—he giggles. “This feels weird,” he says. He
releases his brother.

“You can say that again,” says Philip. “I guess it’ll take a while to work our way up to brotherly
hugs.” But then he starts laughing. Henry’s giggles turn to full-throated laughter, and tears are soon
rolling down their faces. Now, this feels like being with a brother.

They go downstairs to the hotel bar to have a pint together, then Philip says he has to leave. At the
door, he turns to Henry with a glint in his eye “Hug me again and I’ll thump you,” says Philip, but
he’s grinning as he says it.

“Ooh,” says Henry, “I’m scared.” He uses the same tone as he used to use when he was a little boy
and Philip would threaten him. “We could do the shoulder-punch thing like your mates from uni
liked to do to me. I don’t know if I ever told you, but that hurt.”

“Did you ever tell me? Only about fifty thousand times,” says Philip. He raises his voice an
octave, in imitation of indignant little brothers the world over. “Ooh, Mummy, Pip’s mates are
hurting me!” His voice drops back down to its natural timbre. “I don’t know if I ever told you this,
Henry, but you were a real whiner when you were a little boy.”

“Only about fifty thousand times,” says Henry. “But I thought you used to say ‘a real wanker.’”

“That too,” says Philip, smirking. They shake hands and punch each other’s shoulders, both of
them punching as hard as they can but trying not to actually hurt each other.

As he waves him off, Henry thinks, That felt more like having an actual brother than it’s ever felt
before. Of course, it’s early days—time will tell exactly how sincere Philip is being—but Henry is
willing to meet him halfway. Henry just wants to make Philip sweat a little bit—he’ll have to earn
Henry’s trust.

There are no further incidents on rest of the tour, and Henry never feels in any sort of danger. If
anything, he notices that the crowds are even more friendly and supportive now than they have
ever been with him in the past.

There is some gentle ribbing in the press about the pasting the elderly ladies had given the
demonstrator with their umbrellas. One American talk show host starts an opening monologue by
saying, “You know, if there’s one thing I love about the British, it’s how polite and well-bred they
are. I mean, I’m sure you’ve all seen pictures like this.” A photo flashes onscreen of an African-
American politician, a circle of tough-looking Black men standing protectively in front of him,
arms folded over their chests and guns at the ready.

“But here’s the British version,” says the comedian, and there’s a doctored photo of Henry
delivering a speech behind a semi-circle of angry-looking old ladies, arms folded across their
chests and umbrellas in their hands. The photo goes viral, and soon everyone is speaking of “Prince
Henry’s Granny brigade.”

For Henry the real highlight of the tour is the last stop: the children’s cancer ward at the Royal
Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. Little has changed; as Henry trundles in another load of
children’s books, he sees a number of familiar faces among the staff. After he reads a couple of
books to the younger children and chats with some of the older ones, he notices Miss Beth, the
nurse who had interrupted his visit last year with the little girl who loved Star Wars.

“How are you, Sister?” he says politely. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Your Highness,” she says. “And there’s someone here who also wants to see you.”

He hears a happy shout: “Henry!” A child’s running feet make a clatter on the lino floor, and a
little girl throws herself into Henry’s arms, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Sure enough, it’s Claudette. But what a different Claudette this is! She positively glows with good
health, colour in her cheeks and thick, luxuriant black curls covering her formerly bald head. She
now wears the Starfleet scarf tied decoratively around her throat. She kisses his cheek and says,
“Henry! I’m all better now!” She peers at him more closely. “Henry, why are there tears in your
eyes? And why are you smiling and crying at the same time?”
“It’s what grownups do when they’re really, really happy,” he tells her. You never had the chance
to get all better, Dad, he thinks, but I’m glad there’s been a miracle for this little girl.

“My Gran does stuff like that too. Grownups are weird,” she says with a shrug. She tilts her head to
the side and looks at him inquisitively. “Henry, are you going to move into the White House with
Alex? I like him—he’s fun.”

“I’m think President Claremont is too busy to have me underfoot,” says Henry, “But I agree with
you: Alex is fun. And I like him too.”

All in all, the tour has been a success. Now Halloween is fast approaching, and Alex will soon be
here for the royal courtship photo shoot. Designers have been making prototypes of royal courtship
souvenirs, and it only awaits Alex and Henry’s joint final approval before production will begin.
Henry tells Alex, “Well, love, it’s too late to back out now. Your face is on the tea towels. Not to
mention the chocolate bars, the T-shirts, and the thongs.” Alex groans when Henry mentions the
underwear.

Henry has ordered a suit to replace the one he ruined hugging Ken, and he’s also been shopping for
ties—one special tie in particular for his trip to America on Election Night. But what he’s really
enjoyed has been listening to Ken talking about his sessions with the royal tailor.

“You have to remember, Sir,” Ken will say wonderingly, “I’ve always bought my suits from the
clearance rack at Marks and Spencer. Forgive me, but I have to ask—do all your suits have lined
trousers? I had no idea such things existed.”

Then one day, Ken comes in with a new story to tell. “Now I’ve heard it all,” he says. “I couldn’t
believe what the tailor asked me when I went in for my fitting.”

“What’s that?” says Henry.

“He was kneeling on the floor to measure my inseam when he suddenly sat back on his heels and
gave me a searching stare—in a place where I don’t normally get stared at,” says Ken. “Then he
said, ‘Unless I miss my guess, Sir, I’d say you dress right. Would you say that’s true?’ I didn’t
know what to say. All I could think of was the Army parade ground, where the CO orders you to
‘dress right dress,’ and it means hold out your arm and make sure you’re standing an arm’s length
apart from the bloke next to you. But it was just me and the tailor—there was no one standing
beside me.
 “So I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and then he told
me.” Ken shakes his head. “I can’t say I ever gave the matter any thought, Sir. He said, ‘I wouldn’t
want you to think I was getting fresh, brushing against anything I shouldn’t while I was measuring
your inseam.’ I told him I wasn’t worried, since I’m a happily married man.”

“That was no protection for you with the lady at the rally in Washington,” says Henry with a grin.

“True, Sir,” says Ken with an answering smile. “But he wasn’t done. He asked me, ‘Would you
like a little extra fabric on that side, Sir? Some gentlemen think it’s less binding, and it gives a bit
more—um—leg room.’ I told him, no, I was sure it would be fine as it was. Honestly, Sir—you
toffs amaze me. You think about things I never even considered.”

Henry says with a laugh, “You’re absolutely right, Ken. I never noticed any real difference. I
always thought blokes who claim they need extra fabric are either making an empty brag, or else
indulging in wishful thinking.”

He and Alex talk every night, of course—and sometimes several additional times over the course
of the day. The campaign is becoming even more hectic as Election Day approaches and polls
tighten. Alex says, “I can hardly wait to see you, baby. I try to sleep at night, but as soon as I lie
down, my brain starts going in circles and pretty soon I’m up again. I always get my best sleep in
your arms—after you tire me out, of course.”

“I’m ready, willing, and after weeks of not seeing you, more able to tire you out than you can
possibly imagine,” says Henry.

Finally, the big day arrives. Alex will be coming this morning (and so will I, thinks Henry, cringing
at his own terrible pun). Bea has convinced their mother that more than anything else on Earth, she
wants to look at paint chips and fabric swatches for Catherine’s new digs at St. James, so Bea will
be spending the night at Catherine’s and the guys will have the flat to themselves. Henry has baked
a bunch of treats that he knows Alex likes and had the refrigerator stocked with ingredients for
preparing simple meals, so they won’t have to go out. Instead, they can spend every possible
moment just enjoying (ahem) each other’s company.

My future husband, he thinks happily. Of course, I said yes without the added inducement of the
sweaty monkey sex, but we can still put it on the agenda. He catches his reflection in a mirror and
is struck by how happy he looks. He heaves a deep sigh of contentment, and then he grabs a jacket
to go meet Alex’s plane at the airstrip.

Chapter End Notes

Okay--you were all correct; there's NO WAY I would kill off the most popular
character I ever created! (Actually, the ONLY character I ever created--CMQ created
all the rest of them in this series!) I hope the police never accuse me of something and
confiscate my computer, because I can just imagine what they would make of my
searches for "ways to hurt people badly but without killing them"! I thought about a
tomato, but rejected it because it wouldn't really stun Ken--just anger him. Then I
thought about a paintball. Being struck in the temple with one of those may cause a
nasty concussion, or at least a bruise, but no matter how closely Ken was
concentrating on the rest of the crowd, there's NO WAY he would miss someone
pulling out a paintball gun--those weapons are the size of bazookas! So I came up with
a water balloon filled with fake blood, but loaded with with stuff to make it really
SMACK.

By the way, those of you like me who can never remember the difference between
barristers and solicitors, here's an easy memory crutch: you solicit a solicitor's help for
a will or any other such desk work, but a barrister appears before the bar of the court.
But oddly, at least from an American POV, prosecutor and defense attorney are not
separate career tracks for English lawyers--the same person can defend someone, and
then serve as prosecuting attorney against someone else the following week. How
wide is that ocean anyway?

If Queen Mary sounds a little cold about Henry's situation, she is merely following in
the footsteps of her ancestor Queen Victoria. Victoria's second son, Prince Alfred,
barely survived a serious assassination attempt in India in 1868, but her primary
response was irritation at the fuss being made of him--she thought people were too
worried about her son and no longer sufficiently concentrating on her grief over the
loss of Prince Albert seven years before. Of course, Victoria herself would eventually
survive no less than EIGHT attempts on her life, the most serious being a blow on the
head by an assailant appropriately named Robert Pate (giving rise to puns which,
despite the seriousness of the attack, caused quite a bit of giggling at the time).

The father of Queen Elizabeth II, King George VI (memorialized in the film "The
King's Speech") used to suffer from TOWERING rages, which would spring up over
the most trivial situations. Like Queen Mary's father, he would grind and gnash his
teeth, and his courtiers did actually call these tantrums "trips to Nashville." Also, QE
II's mother--remembered by most of us as the "Queen Mum"--spent a good bit of time
raising Prince Charles; QE II and Prince Philip were away a lot, so she took over.
Those who know him trace a lot of his whininess and self-centeredness to his
grandmother and her fussy sympathy and indulgence.

Those of you who, like me, question the sincerity of Philip's reconciliation with Henry:
remember, CMQ came up with this, not me!
 Public Courtship, Part I
Chapter Summary

Alex arrives in England to have the official Royal Courtship photos taken with Henry.
Dinner with the Queen that night results in some amazing and completely unexpected
revelations, and also exposes a side of Queen Mary which none of her family ever
suspected.

Chapter Notes

I apologize for missing last week--the dear friend who goes over my writing (and who
has saved me from a number of embarrassing gaffes) seemed to think getting his term
papers completed and studying for his end-of-term exams more important than going
over my next chapter. Go figure.

I also think that on some level, I'm drawing this out a bit because I'm already suffering
anticipatory grief at the thought of finishing! I don't want to leave the guys behind, nor
to take my leave of all you wonderfully kind and supportive readers--I have no words
to express just how much I have enjoyed interacting with you. By the way, I was
originally going to end this on the morning after the election, but I am already
planning an epilogue about the guys' post-election vacation on the Gulf Coast. I'm
trying to convince my wife that we could write off a trip down there as research, but
thus far, she remains unconvinced that the IRS would accept it.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

As they drive out to the airstrip to meet Alex’s plane, Shaan turns to face Henry in the back seat of
the limousine. “Have you given any thought, Sir, to how you will greet Mr. Claremont-Diaz?
There is bound to be a large contingent of reporters and photographers to record your reunion.”

Henry opens his mouth, then closes it abruptly. I must look like a fish just caught in a net.
Foolishly, he hasn’t given this issue a single thought.

“We don’t want a repeat of the negative press which arose when Her Majesty returned from her
round-the-world tour in 1965,” Shaan reminds him. There is an infamous newsreel clip which
always shows up in royal retrospectives—his grandmother, just returning from an absence of some
six months, greeting her own mother with a formal kiss on the cheek, and then turning to the five-
year-old Catherine and her three-year-old sister and shaking the little girls’ hands. Knowing Queen
Mary as well as he does, Henry would have been more surprised had she swept her daughters into
her arms, but even sycophantic commentators at the time had been taken aback by her coldness.
No, they don’t want a repeat performance, with Henry greeting Alex with a formal handshake. But
at the same time, there are bound to be comments—some of them negative—if Alex and Henry
kiss, as most people would after a three-week separation from their partner. Henry doesn’t know
what to do. He asks, “What do you think, Ken?”

Ken is driving. His job description is vague enough to call on him to serve as Henry’s chauffeur on
special occasions, like greeting Henry’s future husband at the airstrip. “Well, Sir,” he says, “it’s not
as if everyone hasn’t seen the photo of the two of you in the limousine in Washington. As I recall,
when he picked you up in Texas, you hugged him. Would that serve again?”

“I suppose so,” says Henry. “I just have to keep my hands up North. I don’t want anyone taking a
snap which makes it look like I’m grabbing for his bum.”

“I think it far more likely that Mr. Claremont-Diaz would be the one to engage in such behaviour,”
says Shaan. “My fiancée has often remarked how much he enjoys being provocative.”

“True,” says Henry, “but I think he would enjoy his mother’s victory next week even more. I don’t
think he would do anything to endanger that, no matter how mischievous he might be feeling.”

“I am sure you are right, Sir,” says Shaan as they pull into the airstrip parking lot. “At least I hope
so.”

A few minutes later, Alex is dashing down the airplane stairs to run straight into Henry’s waiting
arms. His eyes are filled with delight and he is grinning broadly, mirroring the expression of joy on
Henry’s own face. They hold each other tightly, but both keep their hands some inches above the
small of each other’s backs. Alex gives Henry a wink with the eye which is turned away from the
photographers, and whispers, “Later,” as he pats Henry on the shoulder.

The photographers are snapping away, and as soon as the guys separate and turn to face the
reporters, they start shouting questions.

“How does it feel to be back in jolly olde England, Alex?” asks one.

“Oh—you know,” Alex says off-handedly. “I wasn’t doing anything tonight, so I thought I might
as well get in a little sight-seeing. Oh, and maybe grab a chance to see this guy,” he says, squeezing
Henry’s bicep. “I wouldn’t want anyone else trying to snap him up.”
Everyone laughs. Another reporter says, “What do you say to that, Your Royal Highness?”

“I’m just pleased as Punch to welcome Alex back to Britain,” says Henry. “But he knows he
doesn’t have anything to worry about. I’m no longer available for snapping.”

Everyone laughs again. One reporter shouts, “Any additional announcement soon, Sir?”

“I presume you’re asking about an engagement announcement, but before I drop such a bombshell,
I’d better talk it over with Her Majesty and the Prime Minister—and maybe even Alex might
appreciate having a little input into the decision,” says Henry with a wink. “But until that time,
there are still photos to take and Christmas cards to sign. Though to my knowledge, there are
currently no plans for Alex to endorse a line of skincare products like my sister-in-law.”

Everyone laughs once more. Really, thinks Henry, the way they’re laughing at anything I say, I
wonder if I should consider a career in standup comedy? Another reporter calls out, “How’s the
campaign going, Alex?”

“Couldn’t be better,” says Alex (though this is not actually true; it’s already obvious that it’s going
to be a real nail-biter on Election Night). “Normally at this point in an interview I’d say, ‘Vote
Claremont,’ but you guys probably aren’t registered to vote in the States, and we don’t need any
more allegations of voter fraud.” The election is a week away, but the Richards campaign is
already claiming that a Claremont win will be a sure sign of fake ballots. States with Republican-
controlled legislatures are busily disqualifying absentee votes on the flimsiest of pretexts.

“Well, if you gentlemen will excuse us,” says Henry, “Alex and I need to get back to the palace.
He has to start signing those cards.”

A reporter for a conservative-oriented network calls out with a sneer, “Henry, how about a kiss?”

“I appreciate the offer,” says Henry sweetly, “but as I said, I’m no longer available.”

The reporter flushes red and starts sputtering, “No, I meant you should kiss Al—” but his
indignation is drowned in another shout of laughter.

Alex whispers, “Good one, baby.” He grins, and takes Henry’s hand quite unselfconsciously. They
head to the limo, where Shaan and Ken stand, both smiling broadly. “Welcome back, Sir,” says
Shaan, and Ken adds, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”

“Thanks, guys,” says Alex. “It’s good to see you too. Now let’s step on it. I have precisely thirty-
two hours with my boyfriend here, and I don’t want to waste a single minute.”

They get to Kensington Palace, and as they carry the luggage upstairs, Alex says, “Oh, before I
forget, June and Nora send their love. Is Bea home?”

“No,” says Henry, “though you’ll see her at dinner. Gran is insisting on a family meal tonight. I got
stuff so we could eat in, but the Queen has other ideas. After dinner, we’ll all go our separate ways
—Bea is spending the night at Mum’s, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“Oh, thank God,” says Alex. “When you said ‘separate ways,’ I thought you meant us two. I was
afraid I’d be staying at Buckingham Palace, and you’d be coming back here.”

“Not a chance,” says Henry. “I have plans for after dinner. And I think it was Bea’s suspicions of
what those plans might be that made her decide to go to Mum’s—she was probably afraid she
might cramp our style. I think she suspects we may want to swing naked from the chandeliers, but
it’s a little inhibiting knowing one’s older sister is right in the next room.”

“Speaking of naked,” says Alex, “I should grab a shower and try to get a nap before dinner. I don’t
know, babe—you look a little tired and grubby too. Maybe you should join me.”

“I do feel somewhat in need of a lie-down,” says Henry. “Someone I love very much was coming
to see me in the morning, so I was too excited to sleep last night.”

When Henry removes his clothes, Alex smiles at him shyly. “You’re wearing it,” he says.

It’s almost as if he didn’t expect Henry to be wearing the little American flag Alex had given him,
but Henry has put it on a gold chain. “Of course I am,” says Henry. “I never take it off. And I see
that you’re still wearing my signet ring. I just wish we could wear them openly.”

“You and I know that we wear each other’s talisman,” says Alex. “No one else needs to. It’s like
we’ve marked each other as our own.”
“Christ,” says Henry, “just promise me you won’t mark me the way David marks his territory. In
my opinion, some bodily fluids are not meant to be shared.”

That evening, Henry keeps a promise he had made to himself the month before. After Queen Mary
had ordered them to come in through the back entrance to Buckingham Palace after they were
outed in The Daily Mail, Henry had told himself that one day he would give Alex the full Buck
House experience, and lead him up the Grand Staircase and into the State Apartments.

Alex may call the most famous house in the United States home, and he may sleep every night in a
bedroom once occupied by President Grant’s father-in-law, as well as by numerous other
Presidential offspring. But he is obviously bowled over by the gilded carving, the glittering
chandeliers, the antique furniture and the magnificent works of art which decorate the palace walls.
“Now I understand the true meaning of the word palatial,” he murmurs.

“Just remember what I told you while you were getting dressed—for the second time,” whispers
Henry, and Alex answers him with a grin.

After they awoke from their nap and enjoyed another passionate reunion (their first of course being
before they fell asleep), Alex said that he needed another shower. Then came the decision about
what to wear tonight, since Alex had not expected to dine with the Queen. One garment bag
seemed to be sacrosanct—it contained Alex’s outfit for tomorrow’s photo shoot—but soon the
entire contents of the rest of Alex’s luggage were strewn across Henry’s bed.

Alex’s choice was limited by the fact that he had brought only one coat and one pair of pants aside
from jeans, so whatever he chose had to go along with a tan jacket and brown cords. He finally
decided on a shirt and tie he said would have to do, and he got dressed. But then he said he was
thirsty. When Henry gave him a can of soda, Alex’s hands were shaking so badly that as soon as he
opened the can, carbonation made the soda explode and fizz out all over him. “Did you shake this
first?” demanded Alex accusingly, and Henry started laughing (though of course he hadn’t—he
hadn’t thought of it quickly enough).

Alex really got upset then, so upset that he was shaking again, even harder than before. Henry
grabbed him and held him still. “Listen to me,” said Henry. “Calm down. My grandmother is just a
grumpy old woman who hasn’t had an orgasm in fifty years—if indeed she ever did. If she looks
down her nose at you, remember that she’s just jealous of our happiness. And there’s one thing
about her you need to remember that you once accused me of.”

“What’s that?”
“Remember how you asked me last year if I had a stick up my arse, and I told you a royal stick is
properly called a sceptre? You must have figured out where she stores hers. That’s why her spine
doesn’t touch the throne at the State Opening of Parliament.”

Alex started giggling, and then Henry helped him choose another shirt. When Henry offered him a
tie and Alex complained that it was boring, Henry knew he must be feeling better.

When they enter the dining room, Catherine and Bea come rushing over to throw their arms around
Alex and tell him how happy they are to see him again, and to wish his mother well in next week’s
election. Philip extends a lordly hand and says, “Ah, Alexander—so here you are again,” which
Henry thinks is a rather self-evident fact. Even Martha offers her hand in greeting, though true to
form, she says nothing. Henry feels a pang of sympathy for her, since he knows what others see as
hauteur is actually near-paralyzing anxiety about putting a foot wrong.

Philip and Martha keep casting nervous glances at the door, and sure enough, as a distant clock
chimes the hour, Queen Mary glides in. She wears a pumpkin-coloured twinset decorated with a
topaz-and-diamond brooch. Henry thinks, I understand why you always wear such bright colours in
public, Gran—so people can spot you easily in a crowd—but when it’s just a private family dinner,
must you still look like you just stepped out of a Crayola box?

The Queen eyes her family narrowly, ensuring that each member bows or curtseys with the correct
degree of self-abasement. Then she turns her steely gaze on the intruder in their midst. “Ah,” she
says, “Alexander.” A pause for a cold stare; then she reluctantly extends her hand.

Alex bobs his head briefly, a gesture which can be taken either as a perfunctory bow or (more
likely) as a simple nod of greeting. “Your Majesty,” he says, shaking the proffered hand. “It’s such
a pleasure to see you. My mother asked me to convey her warmest greetings to you.”

“Thank you,” says Queen Mary icily. “Please give her my best wishes. Welcome back to my
kingdom. We had not hoped for the pleasure of your company again so soon, in what must be an
incredibly busy time for you and your family.”

“Indeed, Ma’am,” says Alex. “But Henry invited me, and whatever Henry asks for, I do my best to
give him.” He pauses. “If you’ll forgive me, Ma’am, I must venture what you may consider an
impertinent and highly personal remark. Every time I see you, I am amazed by the erectness of
your posture. In these days when the members of my generation do not seem to know how to stand
without slouching, it is so inspiring to see a lady with such a straight spine.”

Queen Mary seems not to know what to say. Is Alex actually being complimentary? She answers,
“Thank you, Alexander. In my day, young women were taught that a lady’s spine should never
touch the back of any chair in which she may find herself seated.”

“Indeed, Ma’am,” says Alex solemnly. “I’ve noticed that fact in particular when you sit on your
throne.” Henry thinks, I’ve said it before—Alex, you’re a demon.

“I understand you have only tomorrow morning before you have to head back to America, Alex,”
says Catherine. “What a shame you have so little time with us.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Alex. “I wish I could fit in a little sightseeing. I’ve never been to the Tower of
London, and I understand they have the most wonderful display of Tudor treasures. How amazing
that after five hundred years, such precious items should still be so well-preserved.”

“Indeed,” says Queen Mary. Philip looks a bit uncomfortable. “But you also must see the Crown
Jewels. Those are truly something to see—the crowns, the orb, the sceptres. The workmanship is
superb, and the value incalculable.”

“Henry has shown me his favorite Crown Jewels,” says Alex gravely, “and I was utterly amazed
by their size and beauty. They were simply breath-taking. But I didn’t think the scepter was on
display—I thought it was stored elsewhere.”

Don’t look at him. Just don’t look at him. And just wait until we get back to Kensington.

“Oh, it’s always available for inspection,” says Queen Mary. “But it’s only ever taken out for
special state occasions. And of course, for a Coronation, when a new monarch is crowned.”

“Which I pray will not be for many years,” says Alex. “As must be the prayer of everyone else in
this room. I know Henry often speaks of the affection and esteem he feels for you, Ma’am, and the
tremendous stability which the many decades of your reign have brought to your people.”

Queen Mary says, “Alexander, are you attempting to pull my leg?”

“Heaven forbid, Ma’am,” says Alex. Somehow, he restrains himself from theatrically laying his
hand across his heart. “I would never dream of being so forward.”
The Queen says, “I see that I shall have to keep an eye on you, young man. I am unsure whether
you are being impertinent, or if you are merely being playful.” Is she actually half-smiling? “Let’s
go to dinner,” she says. “Nothing is worse than tepid soup.”

“One might make an argument for nuclear war being less desirable, but in your own kingdom, I
yield the point,” says Alex. “May I be very forward and, as guest-of-honor—or at any rate, the only
guest—have the pleasure of escorting you into dinner, Ma’am?” He offers his arm.

Queen Mary looks startled. “Why, Alexander—how gallant,” she says, accenting the second
syllable in the French manner. Alex smiles and bobs his head once more. The Queen rests the
extreme tips of her fingers on Alex’s arm, and they enter the dining room.

The dining table is laden with silver gilt serving pieces as if for a banquet, and a dizzying array of
cutlery flanks the gilt-edged china at each place setting. A uniformed footman in satin knee
breeches and white hose stands behind each dining chair, and Henry thinks, Christ, Gran—service
à la russe? For seven people? Bea catches Henry’s gaze and rolls her eyes.

But if Gran had thought to intimidate Alex with royal pomp, she has misjudged him. This is, after
all, someone who is used to diplomatic dinners and formal etiquette. Looking at the table, Alex
murmurs, “Service à la russe. I’m honored, Ma’am.” This time, he really does bow.

“Of course,” says Gran. “I like to push the boat out, so to speak, for new members of the family.
We had service à la russe for Martha’s first Palace dinner. Perhaps you’ve heard what happened on
that unfortunate occasion.”

Martha’s face turns scarlet. She had been so intimidated by the ceremonial meal that she had
knocked over her wine glass, earning an icy rebuke from Queen Mary. “Oh, don’t worry, dear. The
napery is only over two hundred years old, dating back to the reign of my ancestor King George III
—his monogram is embroidered here by the Monarch’s place setting. I should have known better
than to tell the staff to use a tablecloth which is quite literally irreplaceable.”

Queen Mary recounts the story for Alex’s benefit, and much to Martha’s embarrassment.
Throughout its telling, Alex maintains an expression of grave sympathy. The Queen concludes by
saying, “Of course, the conservators tried their best to remove the stain, but you can still see its
outline, right here at your place setting, Alexander.” She gestures with her spoon.

“But Ma’am,” says Alex, “I think that the story adds interest to what would otherwise be just an
anonymous tablecloth.”
“How so?” says the Queen with a frown.

“As it was, Ma’am, it was just another tablecloth with a G III monogram. One of dozens, no doubt,
in the linen cupboards. For all anyone would know, it could be G III, G IV, G V, even G VI,” says
Alex. “Or maybe E VII or E VIII.” Henry thinks, Keep your eyes on your plate. The demon just
referred to Him Who Must Not Be Named—Gran’s uncle, The Abdicator.

“But now, I can just imagine it—a hundred years from now, Philip and Martha’s descendants will
be telling their kids, ‘See this stain? This is where your great-great-grandma tipped over her wine
glass the first time she met your great-great-granddad’s granny.’ And the kids will say, ‘You mean
Good Queen Martha? Nanny says she was the finest Queen Consort of the twenty-first century.’”
Alex smiles. “Oh, and look, Ma’am—when you were gesturing with your spoon to point out the
stain, you left behind a drop of soup. I hope the cleaners won’t be able to remove that either. It’ll
add another dimension to the story.”

Henry notices that Philip is watching his wife. Then he shoots Alex a look of intense gratitude.

“I am unaccustomed to being contradicted at my own table, Alexander,” says Queen Mary sternly.
“And I must say, you have a uniquely American perspective.”

“I meant no disrespect, Ma’am,” says Alex. “But my Grandma Claremont always used to say,
‘When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.’ She’d had a pretty hard life, being left a young
widow with a baby to raise, and having to support my mom by managing a bar in a small town in
Texas—some of the guys who came in were pretty rough customers. So she knew what she was
talking about with making the best of things. And though, as I say, hers was a difficult life, she was
still one of the most cheerful people you’d ever want to meet.”

“And as I said, Alexander,” says the Queen, “a distinctly American perspective. I believe you will
add a very different flavour to our family gatherings.”

It can only help, thinks Henry, recalling the tedium of most royal family dinners. Usually, no one
speaks until Queen Mary has introduced a topic, and it is generally something boring like the
weather. Henry has never understood the British penchant for discussing weather—if you’re
curious about it, open a window and look outside. But people can go on discussing it for hours.

“The flavor of Tex-Mex?” says Alex brightly. “Why, thank you, Ma’am.”
Dismissing him, Queen Mary turns to her granddaughter. “How are the preparations for your
concert proceeding, Beatrice?” she asks. Bea is kicking off the announcement of her new addiction
treatment foundation tomorrow night with a special benefit concert. She had been pressuring Henry
to make it a combined event to announce his LGBTQ rights foundation, and to help her with
organising the concert and to perform a piano solo.

But Henry has been too busy arranging the transfer of the homeless shelter with Pez—actually, the
shelters, since it turns out there are four, one in the UK and three overseas--and Pez had wanted to
unload them all. It turned out to be quite complicated, with different laws for such transfers in each
nation, and all sorts of forms to sign and applications to complete. Henry has also spent a good bit
of his time just daydreaming about Alex’s visit.

“Oh—about as you might expect,” says Bea. “A bit of help would have been nice—Henry.”

Shut up, Bea. Don’t say a word about my foundation, especially the shelter in Brooklyn. I want to
surprise Alex with that after the election.

Philip, seeing Henry’s face, comes to his rescue. “So how was your flight over, Alexander?” he
asks. “Are you all prepared for tomorrow?”

“The photo shoot?” says Alex. “Sure. I’m used to them. I’ve been on the cover of Teen Vogue
twice. Not to mention GQ at eighteen.” He turns to Henry. “H, you’ve been in a magazine article or
two, right?”

“Constantly, ever since he was a sweet little boy in short trousers and knee socks,” says Catherine
fondly.

“So since last week, huh?” says Alex wickedly. “I thought there were a couple before then.”

“I seem to recall that you’ve mentioned seeing a magazine picture of me you liked from when I
was twel—ow!” says Henry, as Alex kicks him under the table.

“The important point with royal photos,” says Queen Mary, calling them all back to order, “is the
background. They need to be in the proper setting. Usually a palace interior is perfect. Didn’t we
use the library here at Buckingham Palace for yours, Philip? It was quite proper and dignified.”
“Sounds a little—I don’t know, generic,” says Alex. “No, wrong word—a bit stuffy. I wonder what
the weather is supposed to be like tomorrow. Picture it, H—outside, autumn sunshine, golden
leaves as a backdrop. Maybe on a bench in Hyde Park or something.”

“Really, Alexander—it sounds like a setting for a common vagrant,” says Queen Mary.

“Shut up, Mum,” says Catherine. “If the boys want a park bench, it’ll be a park bench.”

“That’s enough from you, Catherine,” says the Queen. “I also want these two to restrain themselves
from overly familiar public touching. Usually when someone joins our family and they first
introduce themselves to the press as a couple, physical contact is limited to the future bride’s left
hand being held in the crook of the groom’s arm, the better to display the betrothal ring. But of
course, in this case, that wouldn’t work, since neither one of you is…”

“A woman?” says Philip. “And I don’t think they really want the general public to guess which one
usually—I mean, in private—I mean, you know—” Philip’s face is growing redder by the moment.

“Really, Philip,” says Alex, “are you referring to what I think you are? How exceedingly indelicate
of you. And in mixed company as well.”

“You rather stepped in it that time, Pip,” says Henry. Bea gives an unladylike snort.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re all implying,” says Queen Mary, “but any reference to Henry
and Alex’s private life would be highly improper. Although, after the appalling details in those…
letters, I don’t think there’s much left about which to speculate.”

“Courtship photos are ridiculous anyway,” says Catherine. “Remember when Cousin Charles
announced his engagement, and his fiancée was taller than he? They posed him one step above her
outside on the terrace stairs. Too stupid. I knew that marriage was falling apart once she stopped
wearing flats, and started wearing stilettos to make him look even shorter.”

“Don’t even think about it, buster,” says Alex warningly to Henry. Then Alex turns to the Queen.
“Not to worry, Ma’am,” he says. “We’ll try to restrain ourselves. I don’t think we were planning a
picture with our heads in each other’s laps.”
“Why ever would you put your heads there in the first place?” says Queen Mary. “Unless you were
planning on taking a nap. So unnecessarily intimate. Is that what they call a PDO?”

“A—oh, Gran, do you mean a PDA?” Bea.

“Perhaps Her Majesty does mean PDO—even P-DOB,” says Alex. “You know, public display of
offensive behavior instead of public display of affection.”

“Whatever the acronym, it is indeed offensive, as is this discussion,” says the Queen. “And of
course I know about the activity which you are all winking and smirking at each other about, with
your heads in laps and P-DOB’s. Young people always think they invented intercourse—though it
should be self-evident that their elders knew about it long before the children were born, which is
why the children are here in the first place.”

“You’re perfectly correct, Ma’am—as always,” says Philip soothingly.

Amazingly, Queen Mary replies, “Oh, stop being so toffee-nosed, Philip. And I know firsthand
about all the reasons for which one might put one’s head in one’s partner’s lap.” Catherine drops
her fork with a clatter, and her mother frowns at her. “Really, Catherine, grow up. How do you
think I kept your father interested before we were married without risking potential
consequences?”

Philip chokes on the sip of wine he had just taken. Giggling, Bea jumps up and pounds him on the
back, perhaps with a bit too much enthusiasm. One of the footmen, his eyes as wide as saucers,
draws a noisy intake of breath.

Queen Mary rounds on him. “You there,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Cyril, Ma’am,” he squeaks.

“Cyril—what a ridiculous name for a footman,” snorts Queen Mary. “What were your parents
thinking of? Permit me to remind you of the NDA you signed when you accepted royal
employment. And of the expertise of the royal solicitors.” She turns to the other footmen, huddling
in a group at the sideboard. “And the rest of you as well,” says Her Britannic Majesty.

“Gee,” says Alex, “Henry threatened me with the royal solicitors just a few weeks ago.” He turns
 to Henry. “Babe, I thought you said your family dinners are dull. Dining at the Presidential table is
nowhere near this entertaining—or informative.”

“Our family dinners usually aren’t either,” says Queen Mary. “It must be your presence,
Alexander, that is bringing out a hidden side in each of us.” Then, shockingly, she closes one eye,
in what is undeniably a droll and incredibly filthy wink. Philip drops his wineglass, adding another
stain to the tablecloth, though Henry thinks any future anecdotes about the origin of the various
stains will have to be edited for content suitable for children. All the same, Henry is going to
include this discussion of the pre-marital activities of Queen Mary III and her consort in the
memoirs he intends to write one day—for posthumous publication, of course.

Meanwhile, there is a certain reckoning to be exacted from one Alexander Claremont-Diaz. The
evening has been diverting, but also highly embarrassing. And for some reason, Henry feels
unexpectedly furious, and it’s all Alex’s fault. There will most certainly be payback—and
immediately upon their return to Kensington. Which Henry devoutly prays will be soon. He’s not
sure how many more revelations Philip’s blood pressure will tolerate.

Chapter End Notes

Okay: history lesson time.

The incident with Queen Mary returning from a tour and greeting her children so
coldly is based upon an actual newsreel of Elizabeth II returning from a
Commonwealth tour in 1954 (which does always show up in programs about the early
years of Elizabeth's reign). She did indeed give her mother a formal kiss on the cheek,
but then she patted the heads of five-year-old Charles and three-year-old Anne rather
less affectionately than she probably petted the corgis when she got back to Buck
House. Charles actually extended his arm as if expecting a handshake, and Anne
looked like she didn't really know who this woman was. Philip, by the way, didn't
bother to come out to greet the children.

I had to move the incident to 1965, because as many of you have no doubt noticed,
CMQ (perhaps to avoid a libel suit over her less-than-flattering portrayals of the Royal
Family) has changed the ages as well as the names of her fictional "Mountchristen-
Windsors" from the actual Mountbatten-Windsors. Queen Mary is "around eighty" in
2020, whereas the real QE II was 94; Catherine is sixty, and in 2020, Prince Charles
(QE II's heir, as Catherine is Mary's) was 72; Prince Harry was 36, while our Prince
Henry was 23. By the way, I do think it's REALLY neat that, just like our favorite
prince, Harry fell in love with a brown-skinned American! Queen Mary has been on
the throne for forty-seven years in 2020, but that year QE II had been on the throne for
68 years. (And Catherine would have had her work really cut out for her to get her
mother off the throne so close to what would be Queen Mary's Golden Jubilee three
years later!)

Queen Mary, by the way, would be Queen Mary III. Mary I was Mary Tudor,
daughter of Henry VIII, who ruled England from 1553 to 1558 and was married to
Philip II of Spain. Mary II was Mary Stuart, daughter of James II and wife of William
of Orange, who reigned in England as William III (William and Mary Collège is
named for them). She was Queen Regnant (not Queen Consort) from 1688 to 1694;
William survived her by eight years. They are unique in English history as the only
couple who reigned jointly, each legally sovereign in his/her own right. Therefore
Catherine's mother would be Mary III, presumably becoming Queen in 1973.

Whenever I add a personal trait to CMQ's royals, I try always to make sure that it lines
up with the actual personalities of the real Mountbatten-Windsors, so Queen Mary's
revelations about her sex life with Catherine's father actually reflect QE II's
relationship with her own real-life consort. Their pre-marital romantic relationship will
remain forever unknown to anyone but themselves, but by all accounts, Elizabeth quite
enjoyed sex with Philip. Gossips reported that Philip (then a horny young man in his
twenties) complained that Elizabeth quite wore him out on their honeymoon, and there
is a story about a request he made to her at the time of the Coronation in 1953. She had
asked that St. Edward's Crown be brought to her at Buckingham Palace before the
ceremony so that she could get used to its weight and thus avoid a headache during the
Coronation itself. (She is also said to have eaten mainly salted hardboiled eggs in the
days before the ceremony so as to avoid having to visit the loo too often.) She had the
crown for several days and wore it at her desk, while eating dinner, etc. Supposedly,
Philip asked her to wear it--and obviously nothing else--in the bathtub, and then later to
bed. It may be hard to imagine the grim-faced old woman we all know and love
engaging in such behavior, but remember, she was twenty-seven in 1953 and quite
beautiful, and Philip was a handsome (and randy) thirty-two-year-old. And Elizabeth
is far from the only British royal to enjoy sex--Queen Victoria, when advised by her
doctors to have no more children after the birth of her ninth in 1857, had only one
question: "Oh, Doctor, can I have no more fun in bed?"

QE II is said to have quite a droll sense of humor, and her deadpan delivery of jokes is
supposed to be wonderful. She also is credited with a Margaret Thatcher imitation
which had to be seen to be believed!
 Public Courtship, Part II
Chapter Summary

Henry and Alex return to the flat after dinner, and a terrific argument ensues which
leads Henry to a painful insight. The following day, their official courtship photos are
taken, and Bea lets a rather large cat out of the bag.

As soon as they enter Henry’s flat and close the door behind them, Henry rounds on Alex.
“Demon! Menace! I can’t take you anywhere in public ever again!”

“What?” asks Alex with an air of injured innocence. “Oh, are you talking about dinner tonight? I
thought it was fun, didn’t you?”

“Are you mad?” demands Henry. “I thought Philip and Mum would have heart attacks right there
at the dining table, and the next thing I knew I’d be the bloody heir to the bloody throne!”

“But they didn’t,” Alex points out reasonably. “Why are you so pissed off, babe?”

“I’m not angry,” says Henry furiously. “I just can’t believe that even you could be so vulgar—”

“Wait a minute,” says Alex, starting to grow angry in return. “Time out. It was just a little harmless
fun. What put such a huge bug up your ass?”

“You,” says Henry hotly. “You constantly embarrass me, starting with my brother’s wedding cake.
I can’t believe a year with me hasn’t rubbed off a few of your rougher edges.”

“Really,” says Alex flatly. “Me too. God knows you’ve rubbed enough on all my edges, though
you never complained they were rough.”

“That’s just what I mean,” rants Henry. “Is sex all you ever think about?”

The look Alex gives him is completely dumfounded—and more than a little hurt. “I could say,
‘Look who’s talking,’” says Alex quietly. “I never knew my sexual feelings revolted you. And I’m
sorry if I embarrassed you. But it’s not like I started a food fight or something.”

Illogically, Henry is just as sorry—sorry that he started this entire argument. Alex is completely
justified in wondering what put a bug up his arse. Really, he doesn’t know either. In a way, it had
been the most entertaining Buck House dinner since—

He puts his head in his hands. “Oh, Christ, Alex,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I just figured out why I
got so upset by what you did.”

“Really?” says Alex. He still sounds upset. “Don’t hold back. Enlighten me.”

“I was just thinking, there hasn’t been such a lively Buck House dinner since—well, since Dad
died,” says Henry. “Before, really. Since he first got sick.” He looks away, swamped by the painful
memories and feelings which threaten to overwhelm him. “There’s never a time when I don’t miss
him, at least on some level. But sometimes, I just get so angry that he’s gone.

“It’s just so unfair, which is a stupid thing to say—life’s under no obligation to adhere to our
notions of justice and fair play—but there it is. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the feeling just hits
me, and I’m too upset to realise that yes, I’m angry, but it’s not at you or the situation I’m in or
even David when he makes a mess on the rug. On a very deep level, I’m angry that Dad’s gone,
and I just lash out. I’m so sorry. And I feel sorry for you, being involved with such a madman.”

When Alex answers, his tone is surprisingly gentle, despite Henry's earlier outburst. “It’s okay,
babe—you’re only nutso sometimes. Most of the time, you’re so lovable and sweet and fucking
sexy, it makes the craziness almost irrelevant, like a minor detail they bury in the back of a book in
a footnote. The looney tunes shit is just one small part of Prince Henry of Wales, whom I happen to
love with all my heart.”

He shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like I’m perfect, though I do closely approximate it,” he says with a
small smile. “Sometimes I get going and I go too far, which if I embarrassed you, I must have done
tonight. I’m so sorry, babe. As for your father, I wish I had had the chance to meet him—I’m sure I
would have liked him very much. I’m told his son is just like him, and not just in looks.”

“I wish,” says Henry. “He was a much finer man than I’ll ever be. And I hope you realise Dad
would have loved you. I’d hate to be Gran if the two of you could go after her together—Mum
would probably succeed even sooner than she wants to.”
“I could make an argument for that,” says Alex. “It would be good not to have to deal anymore
with your grandmother’s bullshit. On the other hand, if your mom were queen, you’d move up the
pecking order and that might complicate things with our future marriage.” He adds diffidently,
“You still want to marry me, don’t you? Even if I constantly embarrass you?”

“I’m certainly embarrassed right now—embarrassed with myself, for getting so bloody upset and
starting such a stupid argument,” says Henry. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted out, instead of
spending the rest of your life with such a bloody stupid arsehole—”

“If I wanted out? Nice try,” says Alex warningly. “If this is a sneaky way for you to back out,
you’re not the only one with access to lawyers who can file a breach of promise suit. I could say
that by breaking our engagement, you’re endangering US/UK relations and call in the Attorney
General. Besides, maybe I embarrass you sometimes—but I also amuse you. Admit it—dinner
tonight was pretty funny. I can tell—you’re trying not to laugh.”

Indeed, Henry is dimpling, and he is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “Look at
you,” says Alex. “I bet if I started tickling you, you’d crack up.” To demonstrate his point, he does
just that, and Henry is soon laughing helplessly.

“Stop!” gasps Henry. “I’m going to wet myself!”

“Then who’d be marking his territory?” asks Alex, barely able to speak himself, since he’s
laughing almost as hard as Henry. “Bet you never knew your grandma knew what a blowjob was,
let alone how to give one.”

“She must not have been very good at it,” says Henry, struggling to regain some self-control.
“Granddad was always a real grump by the time I knew him.”

“Well, I’m sure she had nothing like her grandson’s skillful technique, but maybe by then she’d
quit anyway,” says Alex. “How long had they been married by the time you came along? Forty
years? She probably figured she had him hooked and didn’t need to do it anymore.”

Suddenly, Alex’s eyes sparkle wickedly. “I just had a thought,” he says, and he gives a suggestive
wink, in perfect imitation of Gran tonight at the dinner table. He says, “I wonder if she—” And
then Henry watches Alex’s Adam’s apple bob.

Henry’s eyes widen as Alex's meaning hits him, and he shudders, though he isn’t sure if it’s from
revulsion or from the hysterical giggles he must now try even harder to suppress. He says,
“Christ,” and then he gives Alex a horrified look. “Christ,” he repeats. “I’m never going to be able
to watch her swallow another sip of tea without wondering—”

“Pervert,” says Alex. “But if she’s anything like her grand—”

“Shut up,” laughs Henry. Alex has dropped his hands and stopped tickling, so Henry seizes his
chance to retaliate. Soon Alex has sunk to his knees, begging Henry for mercy. “Now I’m going to
pee my pants,” Alex laughs.

“Serve you right if you did,” laughs Henry. But all the same, he allows Alex to grab his wrists to
still him. “I also almost died when you made that comment about being amazed by the size and
beauty of the Crown Jewels I had shown you. You rogue.”

Alex says, “Would you have preferred I said I was disappointed?”

“That’s it,” says Henry. “Those are fighting words. I’ll give you Crown Jewels.”

Alex says, “That’s just what I’m counting on, baby,” with a smirk. Still kneeling, he grabs Henry’s
buttocks and pulls his hips in closer.

“Wait a minute,” says Henry. “I think we’d both better go make a little visit first, or we really will
be doing David imitations. Race you to the toilet!” He figures he has more than an even chance of
winning, since Alex is still kneeling. Just for good measure, as Alex starts to rise, Henry pushes
him back on his arse.

The next day’s photo shoot goes quite well, although it does indeed take them awhile to decide on
a location. They try the Buckingham Palace library—too reminiscent of Philip and Martha’s
pictures; the courtyard at Hampton Court Palace—Alex says, “This place had another royal named
Henry, and I think using it as a setting would be bad juju”; and Kensington Gardens—closer to
what they want, but still a bit too formal.

(Twenty years later, their teenage son Arthur will be arguing with them about taking his current
girlfriend out for “a little drive.” Henry and Alex adamantly refuse, partly because it is a school
night, but mainly because they were sixteen-year-old boys once too. They know why Arthur really
wants to go out, and they aren’t yet ready to become grandfathers.
With the air of one producing a trump card in a poker game, Arthur says, “Let me have the car,
and I’ll take you to a website I just came across with ‘never-before-seen pictures of Senator Alex
Claremont-Diaz and the Duke of York.’” They scoff—they can’t imagine what the pictures could
possibly be—but Arthur insists that they’re for real. “Some photographer just died, and they came
across some old pictures in a file marked ‘H & A Courtship.’ Seriously.”

In return for their conditional agreement, Arthur brings up the site, and sure enough, there they
are, two bright-eyed young men in their early twenties in outtakes from the courtship photo session.
There is a series of shots of them smiling in front of a Buckingham Palace bookcase, several next to
a fountain in Kensington Gardens, and another set where they’re standing by the heraldic beasts
lining the bridge over the moat at Hampton Court Palace. In one, a shadow which looks very much
like an axe blade falls ominously across Alex’s neck. Bad juju, indeed.

Looking at the pictures, they are soon holding hands and staring dreamily into each other’s eyes,
lost in the memories of a long-ago English autumn morning. Arthur, who possesses a full share of
Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor intelligence seasoned with Claremont-Diaz deviousness, chooses his
moment carefully to ask, “So can I have the car?”

Alex dangles the keys from his fingers without taking his eyes off Henry, but before Arthur,
smirking in triumph, can grab them, Alex clenches them in his fist. He says, “Don’t think you’re
putting anything over on us. You better have protection, and we want you home by ten o’clock.”
Thankfully, the only lasting result of the evening is a loving stroll down Memory Lane, and it will
be over a decade before Arthur does indeed make them grandfathers.)

That October morning, they are growing more and more frustrated trying to find the perfect site for
the type of picture they are imagining. But then Henry remembers Alex’s suggestion last night
about Hyde Park. There they find the perfect spot, one just as Alex had described—a park bench in
front of a golden-leafed aspen.

From somewhere, the crew has managed to scrounge up a small pile of books, but they have turned
the spines so that the titles won’t be seen in the photographs—no one needs to know that they
include Tab Hunter Confidential, The 60 Greatest Conspiracies of All Time, the Bible, and The
Illustrated Dictionary of Snark. After all, the books are supposed to symbolise Henry as an
intellectual and a lover of great literature, not a devourer of Hollywood tell-alls.

Catherine shows up to fuss over Henry—irritating, but also rather endearing—while Alex keeps
looking around and shaking his head. “If the Alex from this time last year could see this,” he says,
a small smile of bemusement playing over his lips.
Henry throws an arm around Alex’s shoulders and takes the hand Alex has placed affectionately on
Henry’s knee. He says sweetly, “He’d say, ‘Oh, I’m in love with Henry? That must be why I’m
such a berk to him all the time.’”

Alex says indignantly, “Hey!” Henry starts laughing at Alex’s reaction, and after a moment, Alex
joins in. The photographer keeps snapping away, and then finally calls it a day. Ken walks them
back to Kensington Palace, where they find Beatrice in harried preparation for her concert tonight,
insisting to a caterer that she has not and never would order twenty liters of cullen skink. (‘How
much is twenty liters?” whispers Alex, and when Henry tells him, “Between five and six gallons,”
Alex’s eyes grow wide. And he doesn’t even know what cullen skink is).

Once again, Bea voices her grievance about Henry not participating tonight. “It’s a shame Henry
here was too busy signing papers with Auntie Pezza to learn some sheet music or we could have
fired our pianist.”

“Papers?” says Alex.

Henry tries to prevent Bea from letting a rather large cat out of the bag by saying warningly,
“Bea,” but she ignores him.

She says, “For the youth shelters.”

Henry says, “Beatrice. It was going to be a surprise.”

Bea says, “Oh.” She smirks a bit. “Oops.” Henry can’t help but wonder if she had planned this
revelation all along.

Alex says, “What’s going on?”

Henry says, “Well. We were going to wait to announce it—and to tell you, obviously—until after
the election, so as not to step on your moment. But…” He tells Alex about the plans for his project,
and how Pez has signed over the Okonjo Foundation shelters for Henry to turn into refuges for
homeless LGBTQ youth.

Predictably, Alex is utterly delighted. He shouts, “Oh my God—you bastard! That’s amazing. I
stupid love you. Wow!” He throws his arms around Henry’s neck and hugs him tightly; heedless of
potential election consequences, he even presses a kiss into Henry’s hair.

And being Alex, he is immediately aware of the wider implications of Henry’s words. He says,
“Wait, oh my God, this means the one in Brooklyn too? Right?” When Henry tells him yes, Alex
says, “Don’t you think maybe direct supervision might be helpful while it gets off the ground?”

Henry has thought about this too—and reluctantly rejected the possibility. “Alex, “ he says, “I
can’t move to New York.”

Looking up from the checklist she has been muttering over, Bea says, “Why not?”

Henry has thought about this, over and over again. He gestures to the palace, the grounds, the
entirety of the trappings of royalty, and says helplessly, “Because I’m the prince of here!”

“So what?” says Bea, with an air of untroubled insouciance. The emotion must feel rather novel
after the hours of frenzied preparation for tonight which have almost entirely engulfed her of late.
“And? It doesn’t have to be permanent. You spent a month of your gap year talking to yaks in
Mongolia, H. It’s hardly unprecedented.”

Henry sets aside the memory of the windy, frigid, and toilet-free steppes of Upper Mongolia. He
turns to Alex and says, “Well, I’d still hardly see you, would I? If you’re in DC for work all the
time, beginning your meteoric rise to the political stratosphere?”

He hopes he doesn’t sound overly vehement, but he knows disappointment and frustration are
sharpening his tone. The idea of sharing a time zone with Alex, of awakening every morning and
seeing tousled black curls on the next pillow, is as enticing as an oasis in a hot and dusty desert.
But he has gone over it with himself a hundred times.

As soon as he finds a solution to one objection, a dozen more spring up in its place, as if he had just
sown the Earth with dragon’s teeth. By tradition—almost by definition—an English prince must
live in England, unless circumstances demand otherwise (the Duke of Windsor, endling his days in
Parisian exile with Wallis Simpson, being the most recent example).

Alex’s eyes take on a calculating expression, one Henry knows well. Alex’s febrile brain never
stops examining the various angles by which to approach a problem—well, good luck to him. If he
can find a way out of this morass, Henry is ready and eager to hear it.
Their discussion is interrupted by the approach of the starched and perfectly-groomed presence of
Henry and Bea’s elder brother. “Hello,” says Philip, but his smile of greeting is somewhat marred
by the frown he gives to the grass clippings on his highly-polished shoes. Henry glances at Bea in
her stout Wellies and catches her eyeing a garden hose in one of the flower beds, and he knows her
fingers are itching to turn it on Philip.

Two weeks before, Henry was midway through his damage control tour when Philip called him to
request his attendance at a meeting with Bea at Kensington Palace. Henry was only a couple of
hours from London at that point, so he could easily drive back that evening and rejoin the tour in
the morning. To maintain their newfound spirit of amicability, Henry agreed to be present; and as
he drove along, he figured that Philip was getting ready to mend fences with Bea. Since the
meeting with Henry had gone so well, Philip wanted him at this one for moral support.

The incident at York had made the two brothers open and vulnerable to each other that earlier
evening, and both had left their defensiveness at the door. But alas—there was no crisis at hand to
breach the walls of anger and resentment between Bea and Philip, and her emotional drawbridge
remained raised, the portcullis firmly lowered in place.

As soon as Philip began, “Bea, I just want to tell you how sorry I am for the way I’ve treated you
since Dad died,” Bea narrowed her eyes and concentrated her gaze on his moving mouth, as if she
were trying to read his lips.

When he was finished, she said, “Pip, I really should thank you for stopping by,” and escorted him
to the door with the most perfunctory of farewells.

Henry stared at her silently when she returned. She said, “I hope you don’t think I was being too
harsh with him, H.”

“That’s not for me to judge,” said Henry. “You feel the way you feel.”

Angrily, she said, “If you ask me, it’s all too little, too late. Personally, I can never forget how he
grabbed me by the arm and shoved me into the back of the car which was taking me to that
treatment centre—I had bruises for a week. And I can still see Gran watching him the whole time,
with a mouth like she’d just been sucking lemons. I suppose time will tell how sincere he’s being,
but I’ll never trust him an inch. I’m ashamed to share DNA with either of them.”

Still, Henry has to give Philip some credit—he tried. But Bea’s tone is as cool and guarded as ever
as she greets him. “Philip. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Just had a meeting at Buckingham,” says Philip. With their grandmother, obviously. Philip says
he has had a falling-out with the Queen, but habits of over twenty years’ duration are hard to break.
Philip told Henry just a few days ago, “If more than a couple of days go by without hearing from
the old girl, I find myself getting all in a stew.” Philip’s head may tell him that the relationship is
unhealthy, but all the same, deep down, his heart belongs to Granny.

Dismissing any discussion of the meeting, Philip says, “Wanted to come by to see if I could help
with anything.” Henry has a sudden mad desire to say, “Well, as a matter of fact, Pip, I think the
gardeners could use a bit of help raking the grass clippings,” just to watch his horrified reaction.

Philip eyes Bea’s stout footwear disdainfully and says to her, “You know, you don’t have to be out
here—we’ve got plenty of staff who can do the grunt work for you.”

A memory strikes Henry of a family dinner a few years back when Bea had said, “Pip, can you
please pass me the salt?”

Philip had summoned a footman over and ordered him, “Take this saltcellar to Her Royal
Highness, and look sharp about it!”

Admittedly, the three siblings were seated with Gran around a table made to hold at least twenty,
but Henry doesn’t recall Philip’s legs being broken. So Bea asked him, “Pip, when you say you’re
going to run track at the gymkhana, do you just have staff do that for you, too?”

Now, Bea looks Philip up and down and says dismissively, “I know. I want to do it.”

Taken aback by the sharpness of her tone, Philip fumbles, “Right. Of course. Well.” He adds, “Er,
is there anything I can help with?”

Bea says flatly, “Not really, Philip.”

Philip cannot quite conceal his relief at not being taken up on his pro forma offer of assistance. He
says, “All right,” and clears his throat. He turns to the guys and says, “Henry. Alex. Portraits go all
right?”
Alex shoots Henry a surprised look—Did he just call me Alex, instead of Alexander? It’s only
been lately that Philip has actually used Alex’s name—before, he had always called him you when
speaking to him directly, and he or him or our American friend when referring to him in the third
person. Once he finally began using Alex’s actual name, it has always been the more formal
“Alexander,” in deference to Gran’s preferred mode of address. Henry doesn’t know what Martha
calls Alex, since Henry can’t recall a single word she has ever spoken to him.

So Henry blinks, as startled as Alex by Philip’s question. He fumbles for a reply, especially when
it becomes plain that Alex is not going to say anything. Henry says, “Yeah.” He clears his throat.
“Er, yes. It was all right. A bit awkward, you know, just having to sit there for ages.”

Since they’ve all been the focus of endless photo shoots their entire lives, does Philip think the
comment is as stupid as it feels to Henry? If so, he gives no clue. “Oh, I remember,” he says, a bit
too heartily. “When Mazzy and I did our first ones, I had this horrible rash on my arse from some
idiotic poison-oak prank one of my uni friends had played on me that week, and it was all I could
do to hold still and not rip my trousers off in the middle of Buckingham, much less try to take a
nice photo. I thought she was going to murder me.”

Henry remembers the incident, particularly since the uni friend involved was none other than
Nigel, the seducer of the virginal teenage Prince Henry. The poison-oak prank had been something
of an inside job requiring the complicity of Philip’s valet, but Henry doubts that Nigel had had to
try very hard to get the valet’s cooperation—he remembers only too well Nigel’s devious skill in
gaining access to the royal underpants. He isn’t sure how much Martha knows about Nigel’s
history with their family, but he can’t blame her a bit for being furious about the incident—and
maybe even somewhat suspicious.

Philip continues, “Here’s hoping yours turn out better.” He chuckles a bit self-consciously. Henry
finds Philip’s awkward attempt to bond with them annoying—but also, he must admit, rather
sweet. At least, as with Beatrice, Philip is trying.

As Philip walks away—his discomfort made clear when he sticks his hands in his pockets,
something the starched and proper Philip would never normally do—Bea turns to them with a sigh.
She says, “D’you think I should have let him have a go at the cullen skink man for me?”

Henry smiles. He says, “Not yet. Give him another six months. He hasn’t earned it yet.”

Henry and Alex retreat upstairs to Henry’s bedroom to collect Alex’s luggage. After a lingering
farewell—almost as lengthy as the one in the stables in Connecticut—Alex comes downstairs to
find Cash waiting patiently by the limo which is set to take Alex to the airstrip. Alex places his
hand on Henry’s shoulder and says, “I’ll see you next week. Tuesday night, right?”
“Right,” says Henry.

“And be on time,” says Alex with a little squeeze. “It’ll be a fucking madhouse in Austin that
night. In fact, it’d be better if you could come on Monday.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Henry. But Shaan had relayed a message from Zahra spelling out the
situation. “My fiancée said to tell you not to arrive in the United States before Tuesday evening—
she does not want swing voters in the polling booths affected by thoughts of Mr. Claremont-Diaz’s
relationship with Your Royal Highness.” Henry imagines that Shaan has cleaned up Zahra’s actual
words rather extensively—she is normally rather more succinct, and quite a bit more profane. He
shrugs and says to Alex, “If Zahra changes her mind, let me know. I’ll be on the next plane.”

“You betcha,” says Alex. “I can’t wait for you to get there. I need my North Star to steady me.”
Then, heedless of any potential political consequences, Alex moves his hand to the back of Henry’s
head, places the other hand on the small of Henry’s back, and pulls him close, firmly planting a
kiss on Henry’s mouth.

Henry presses Alex’s chest to his with one arm while placing his opposite hand on Alex’s hip. The
hand starts to drift downward out of force of habit, but Henry catches himself in the nick of time.
With Alex’s stomach pressed against his own, Henry can feel Alex’s chuckle rather than hear it.
“You getting ready to rub against my rougher edges again, babe?” whispers Alex.

“Oh, please,” says Henry, stricken. “Don’t remind me. I’m still just so sorry for making that scene
the other night—”

“Shhh,” says Alex. “I shouldn’t have said anything. But please, feel free to rub against me, any
place, any time. Just the thought of you rubbing is enough to make me the one who has to start
whistling ‘God save the Queen.’”

Henry grins. “You’re incorrigible. But that’s why I love you so much.”

“Right back at you, sweetheart,” says Alex. They share another quick kiss, then Alex gets into the
limo, and a moment later is pulling out of the carpark.

As Henry waves him off, Shaan approaches from the palace doorway.
“Everything all set for Tuesday?” asks Henry, still watching the limo entering the stream of traffic
with Ken behind the wheel.

“Yes, Sir,” says Shaan. “My fiancée has selected what she considers the perfect time for us to
arrive. After polls close, but in plenty of time to watch the election results being tabulated.”

“Excellent,” says Henry. A thought occurs to him. “Shaan,” he says, “remember how we weren’t
going to tell Alex about my Foundation shelters until after the election? I’m afraid my sister let the
cat out of the bag with him this morning.”

“Her Royal Highness can sometimes be overly loquacious,” says Shaan.

“You mean Bea can’t keep her mouth shut? You’re perfectly correct,” says Henry. “But now that
Alex knows about my plans for Brooklyn, I had a thought.” He turns to look at Shaan. “Shaan, do
you think you could find me an estate agent in New York?”
 Change of Plans
Chapter Summary

Henry makes an offer on a brownstone in Brooklyn (SPOILER ALERT: he gets it),

and the Joint Chief Curator shows up with the repaired Anne Boleyn vase. Quick
thinking by PPO Ken leads to a potential future change of plans for Ken and Sondra.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The morning after Bea’s concert, Henry comes out to the office fairly late in the morning—in fact,
it’s almost afternoon. The star-studded gala had been a tremendous success; when Henry went to
bed at four a.m., the total raised had not yet been calculated, but already the word on the Internet
was that it was in the hundreds of thousands.

Lady Gaga had performed an amazing duet with Ariana Grande, and Harry Styles had done a set of
chart-topping favorites. Each of the stars, from Ed Sheeran to Dua Lipa, had urged their fans to
give generously, and Sir Elton and Sir Paul had both paid tribute to friends they had lost to various
addictions, leaving not a single dry eye in the house (or more accurately, since the concert was held
outdoors in the Kensington Palace grounds, in the garden).

It had been a wonderful evening, only marred for Henry by Alex’s inability to attend. Henry had
been looking forward to dancing with Alex in public, but Zahra would probably have ordered them
to refrain—again, the election was too close. Oh, well, next time.

Shaan looks up with a smile as Henry enters the office, and says, “Good morning, Sir.”

Smothering a yawn, Henry looks at the clock and says, “You’re right—technically, I suppose it is
still morning. Anything Earth-shaking going on?”

“Perhaps from your perspective, yes, Your Royal Highness,” says Shaan. “I heard from a New
York City estate agent. Or as they call them in America, a realtor.”

“So soon?” says Henry, surprised. He had just asked Shaan to look for one the day before.
“I asked my fiancée to assist me,” says Shaan. “She tried to refuse, but I sent her a photo of my
fingers bandaged from the paper cuts I received helping her with campaign mailings, and she
relented. She sent me a contact for a lady who handles high-end properties in New York, though
she did add, ‘People think I’m just sitting around buffing my nails—first my sister with her
daughter’s preschool, and now you with this realtor. Don’t people realise the future of Western
democracy is at stake over here?’ I am afraid she tends to indulge in hyperbole.”

“I think it’s an occupational hazard with politicians,” says Henry. “Alex sometimes exaggerates
situations and circumstances as well. What do you think, Ken?” Ken is just coming back from the
kitchenette with a tea tray in hand—he had gone to prepare it as soon as he heard Henry coming
down the hall.

“I cannot say that I know any political types well enough to comment,” says Ken with a smile.
“And with all due respect to Mr. Claremont-Diaz, I intend to keep it that way.”

“I’ve noticed something with you two,” says Henry. “Whenever you mention ‘Mr. Claremont-
Diaz,’ I have to think for a moment before I say, ‘Oh, yes! They mean Alex!’ Why do you refer to
him that way, Shaan? Zahra always calls him by his first name.”

“Americans tend to be more casual about such things than we are on this side of the Atlantic,” says
Shaan. “Moreover, my fiancée has known him since he was a small child. Naturally, the President
and the rest of the family permit her certain familiarities which would be thought quite improper in
Britain. I have had the honour of serving Your Royal Highness for nearly ten years, but I could
never address you by your Christian name. It would be most incorrect.”

“Ken, it’s not so long ago that you called me ‘Henry,’” he says.

“I thought you had just been shot, Sir,” says Ken. “The circumstances were extraordinary. But
normally, I would never dream of taking greater liberties with Your Royal Highness than does my
supervisor,” he adds, nodding towards Shaan.

“Not even just here among ourselves?” says Henry.

“A private relaxation of formality may sometimes lead to an embarrassing public faux pas,” says
Shaan implacably.

“We’ll see—one day I’ll get you two to loosen up,” says Henry. A year ago, he would have
expected their formality, but spending so much time with Alex has given Henry something of a
more relaxed and casual attitude. “In the meantime, what do we know about this estate agent—I’m
sorry, what did you say Americans call her?”

“A realtor, Sir,” says Shaan. “Her name is Deanna Dupont, though for some inexplicable reason
she rejoices in the nickname of Muffy. She says she met you a few summers ago at a pool party in
Long Island, though she does not expect that you will remember her. If it was the same occasion I
am thinking of, I believe Mr. Claremont-Diaz was in attendance as well.”

Oh. That party. As if it had been yesterday, he remembers noticing the handsome young American
he had met the year before at the Olympics, and when Alex felt Henry’s eyes on him, he had
sauntered over with a sneer. “Fancy meeting you here among the hoi polloi,” Alex had said nastily.
“I’m always amazed—they let anyone in the door at these things.”

“Alex,” Henry had said, cursing himself for becoming slightly flushed at the sight of a bare-
chested Alex in trunks and a beach jacket. “Congratulations on your mother’s victory.”

“That’s right,” Alex had replied. “I haven’t seen you since then. We seems to have a predilection
for running into each other by swimming pools, don’t we? One of these days, I may just shove you
in.” Henry’s eyes widened in surprise at Alex’s threat, and Alex said, “I’m kidding—can’t you take
a fucking joke? Now if it were the Thames, that’d be a different story. That seems like a good
place to push an English prince into.” Then he walked away, and Henry could swear he was
wiggling his bum just a little bit. At the time, Henry had thought it was in mockery, but now he
wonders if it was at least in part subconscious flirtatiousness.

Shaan says, “I have sent you the lady’s email along with her photograph, Sir.” Abandoning
memories of those early hostile interactions with the man who has become the love of his life,
Henry calls up the email, and sees a red haired woman in her early thirties. She does indeed look
vaguely familiar, though offhand, Henry doesn’t recall ever having met someone called Muffy. Her
email is a polite enquiry asking for more specifics about the type of property he is interested in
finding.

He emails that he is searching for something in Brooklyn, and includes the address of the youth
shelter as a guide to the general neighborhood he is hoping for. He adds that he is not looking to
spend more than about ten million, an amount he believes he can easily afford.

Though he’s not terribly good with money—and Philip’s lectures on the subject bore him—his
father had had a brilliant financial consultant, who along with Dad’s agent had negotiated some
very profitable marketing schemes for James Bond merchandise bearing Dad’s image. DVD’s,
streaming services, and the occasional bit of online memorabilia (a signed script, an original
costume or prop, and so on) generate a tidy income as well.
Henry isn’t sure what the franchise currently produces, but he does know that he has never
succeeded in spending all of his share in any given year. (And then there’s all the Royal money as
well, which he now plans to use for the shelters.) He only hopes that, as outrageous as brownstone
prices seem to be, he can afford more than the three-room flat he had seen on the one site he had
looked at when the scheme first occurred to him.

Surprisingly, he receives a response just a few minutes later—it’s barely seven a.m. in New York,
but evidently Muffy is already in the office. Her email reads:

Properties in the area you specified are fairly rare, but I have a couple of places currently for sale.
The first I am sending you is a Victorian gem with seven bedrooms and two formal parlors, and is
a real steal at 11.5 mil.

He notices that she is going above budget—fairly typical, from what Henry has been told—but he
doesn’t much care for the apartment itself. The Victorian woodwork is splendid, but Henry has
spent his entire life living in ornate grandeur, and he wants something simpler. And with seven
bedrooms, it sounds rather too grand for his needs. He emails in return:

It's lovely, but a bit large and formal for my taste. Any other suggestions?

After a moment, there is a reply:

This property just came on the market an hour ago, but you’ll have to move fast. Like, within the
next ten minutes. This place will NOT last long in this market!

At first, Henry is disappointed when he sees the photographs—is this the best one can get for ten
million pounds in Brooklyn? The place looks cramped and gloomy, and it obviously has not been
given a good spring-clean in decades. But looking at the floor plan Muffy has included, he sees
that the photos are deceptive: the rooms are actually decent-sized, with high ceilings and large
windows (which are currently shrouded by heavy dark draperies).

The further he reads, he realises that this is not a flat; it is an entire house, with three floors, a
basement (the plan helpfully suggests, “The basement may easily be converted into a rental unit”),
an enclosed back garden, and a roof deck overlooking the East River with a beautiful view of the
Manhattan skyline. There are four bedrooms, but the top floor is one large room, which could
easily be divided up into some sort of master suite. It could be perfect.
So, he writes, this looks wonderful. How much, and any room for negotiation?

After a few moments, she replies:

Five million. We might be able to get that reduced, but I would suggest a full-price offer to avoid
getting into a bidding war. BTW, the furniture is negotiable. Interested?

Henry immediately answers, NO! All the same—he thinks quickly; he hates being rushed into a
decision, but sometimes one must abandon caution and just go for it—offer full price. I’d like to
keep this quiet, but would it help to tell them HRH Prince Henry is interested?

Silence. Then after several agonizing minutes, one word, all caps, underlined, bold print, italicised:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sorry for “screaming,” but that’s
what my little boy did when he saw the face I made while reading your email! If they knew it was
you, two things would happen: (1) the price would immediately double, and (2) word that you’re
shopping around would be on the street within three seconds. If you want to open negotiations,
please sign the attached document authorizing me to act on your behalf ASAP. BTW, I will make
the offer contingent on inspection, and do you want me to try for closing costs? Is this a cash offer,
or will you need financing? And are you legally of age?

Henry affixes an e-signature to the contract and adds a short note:

Yes to inspection, yes to cash offer, no to financing. I am twenty-three years, seven months, and
nearly three weeks old, so I trust that’s of legal age in the US as well as in the UK. Congratulations
on the birth of your son!

Thx, answers Muffy. My fiancé and I just welcomed him three weeks ago. That’s why I’m working
from home.

Henry is very glad that he hadn’t typed in the next sentence which was right on the tip of his
fingers: A little one, and I didn’t even know you were married! He always assumes that people with
a child must be married, though he knows it is an old-fashioned expectation in these modern times.
(Christ, I sound just like Gran!) But Henry comes from a social class where couples make sure
they are married before the arrival of a potential son and heir—and with good reason.

Henry has a distant cousin, Algernon (known in the family as “Algy,” or more commonly, “Pond
Scum”), whose father had not been married to his mother. He was a schoolmate of Philip’s, and he
was also known at Eton as “Bessie,” an alteration of “Bassie” (for “bastard”). When his father
died, Algy had to stand by and watch his younger half-brother—whose mother was their father’s
legal wife—inherit everything. Unprepared for life outside his privileged upper class bubble, Algy
had sought comfort in drugs and alcohol, where he might still be had Beatrice not helped him onto
the road to sobriety a few years back. Henry saw him last night at the concert and he seems to be
doing well, though still finding every day a struggle.

Thinking these irrelevant thoughts, Henry is able to distract himself while waiting to hear again
from Muffy. After what seems like an eternity, he gets her answer:

Congratulations, Prince. Once the place passes inspection, you will be the proud owner of an
historic Brooklyn brownstone. The seller will cover closing costs and my commission, as well as
ensuring that all the junk is cleared out. If all goes well, we can schedule closing in two weeks. I
can’t WAIT to see their faces when YOU come strolling in! May I suggest you wear your prince’s
coronet, or does that feel like gloating to you?

Henry emails his thanks along with a few parting pleasantries, and then looks up to see Shaan and
Ken watching him. He blinks and says, “Yes, gentlemen?”

“An important online interaction, Sir?” asks Shaan.

“Rather,” says Henry with a shrug. “I think I actually just purchased a house—in Brooklyn!”

It is only then that Henry looks a little more closely at the contract he had just signed. (He can just
imagine what Philip would say if he knew Henry had signed a contract without royal lawyers and
accountants going over it closely, but no matter.) His eyes widen as he realises that all this time, he
had been thinking in pounds, while Muffy was negotiating on his behalf in dollars. He quickly
googles the current exchange rate, and discovers that by agreeing to five million dollars, he is
actually paying about three million, six-hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds.

Now he does feel like gloating.

***

Pez calls that evening, and Henry tells him about the brownstone. Pez immediately demands that
Henry forward the pictures Muffy had sent, and as soon as he receives them, he rings off with a
hurried, “I’ll talk to you later.” But Henry barely has time to start a cup of tea brewing before his
mobile rings. Of course, it’s Pez, and he is positively lyrical in his praise for the place, and
burbling over with plans for its transformation.
“I see it in purples and greens, with an occasional accent wall painted in shades of red ombre,” says
Pez. “And I think ultra-modern Swedish furniture, with Japanese tatamis in the main room, and a
low dining table in red and gold lacquer—”

“I am not sitting on the floor to eat dinner every night,” says Henry. “At the end of the day, I want
something soft to rest my arse on. Next you’ll be suggesting sleeping mats instead of beds.”

“H, you are an absolute mind-reader,” says Pez enthusiastically. “Unless you think it’d be too hard
on your knees—”

“No, Pez,” says Henry. “I want solid, comfortable stuff, something that’ll stand up to children one
day. As for the walls, I was thinking cream, the better to showcase the art I’ve been collecting.”

“H, you know you’re my BMF, and as Whitney used to say, that ‘I—uh I—uh I, will always love
you—oo—oo—oo—oo,’” sings Pez in his faultless falsetto. “But,” he says, his voice returning to
normal, “your taste can be absolute shite. Well, maybe not shite—but definitely stuffy.”

“I can live with that,” says Henry, “since I’m the one who will be living at the place. Well, Alex
too, one day, or at least I hope so. So he might also like a little input.”

“Let Alex choose anything, and you’ll end up with a houseful of posters and lacrosse trophies,”
says Pez warningly. “At least take a look at my ideas. I’ll send you something.”

“I’ll look,” says Henry noncommittally.

“Speaking of searches, how’s the Great Necktie Quest progressing?” asks Pez.

“Not well,” says Henry. “I know what I want, but I can’t find it anywhere. I hear that there’s a state
song called ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas,’ and I hoped that wearing a tie patterned in yellow roses
might be, you know, good luck. But I can’t find one.”

“H, I’m crushed,” says Pez. “You know I’m an absolute genius at choosing your ties. Permit me to
remind you—who found the one you wore on New Year’s Eve? And look what that led to.”
“Well, I found the one I wore to Berlin, and that night was even better,” says Henry. He smiles,
remembering the lascivious use to which Alex had put the tie later in the evening. “Besides, the last
one you chose, someone threw a bag of fake blood at me.”

“True,” says Pez, “but that was a one-off. I hope so, at any rate. So let me check round. By the
way, I got you a replacement for the one you wore to York—it’s still a fabulous tie, despite
assassination attempts.”

Two days later, Pez shows up at the flat. Henry is gloomily cruising the web in a desperate final
quest for the tie he is imagining when Bea knocks on his door. “Auntie Pezza is here,” she says
with a smile. “And this time, he’s holding two boxes. Both for you, I might add. How come he
never gets me anything? Doesn’t he think I’m as cute?”

“He adores you, sister dear,” says Henry. “But he likes your taste in clothes. It’s just me he
considers hopeless.”

Pez presents the boxes with a flourish. As expected, the first contains a tie in variegated shades of
blue silk, and once again, thin gold threads sparkle in the light from the chandelier. It’s just as
breath-taking as Henry remembers the last. But the second is even better: in soft gold silk, it is
patterned in tiny yellow roses—the exact tie Henry had imagined, but which he had been unable to
find.

“Pez, as always, you’re a marvel,” says Henry. “I’d love to know your sources.”

“Me too,” says Bea.

“I’ll never tell,” says Pez. “They’re part of my mystique.”

Ken comes into the music room, where the three friends have retreated for Pez’s visit. “Sorry to
interrupt,” he says, “but the Joint Chief Curator is here to see you, Ma’am.”

“Lucy?” says Bea. “I wonder why. I wasn’t expecting her.”

“She has a small package in her hands, if that gives you any clue,” says Ken.
“OMG,” says Bea. “She said the vase Philip broke had been restored, and asked if I’d like to see it,
but I thought she meant she wanted me to come to her office. Please, Ken, show her in.”

Lucy enters. A small, perky blonde with a bright smile and intelligent eyes, Lucy bobs a small
curtsey to Bea and Henry, saying, “Your Royal Highnesses—brilliant concert last night. Though I
was disappointed, Sir, that we didn’t get a chance to hear you play as well.”

“Tell me about it,” says Bea, with heavy emphasis.

“How are you these days, Pez? I haven’t seen you in months,” says Lucy.

“Oh, you know how it is—no rest for the wicked,” says Pez, smirking.

“Don’t I, though? Speaking of the wicked,” says Lucy with a glint in her eye, “how is Prince Philip
these days?” Everyone laughs but Ken, who merely dimples as he looks at the floor.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” says Lucy, “but I promised to show you this after I picked it up. I stopped
by because I knew you’d want to see it too, Sir, and I was hoping you’d be in.”

She removes the Boleyn vase from the bag she’s been carrying and opens its protective bubble
wrapping. The perfect restoration of the piece magnificently testifies to the conservators’ skill.

“Wonderful, Lucy,” says Bea. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing it by. I’ll sleep better tonight,
I hope without those recurring nightmares I’ve been having of watching it fall off that table.”

“What do you think, Ken?” asks Henry.

“I’m stunned, Sir,” Ken says. “You’d hardly know it had ever been broken.”

“Hardly?” says Lucy.

“Well, there is that little crack by the diamond near the rim, but most people will never notice,”
says Ken. With a slight frown, Lucy peers more closely at the vase.

“My God,” she says, “your eyes are sharp. I never even saw that—sorry, what was your name?”

“Ken Lewis,” he says. “As for my sharp eyes, I learned to scan things minutely in Afghanistan.
One never knew if a sniper might be lurking by a window, so it paid to look closely. Nowadays,
though, with a baby just starting to crawl, it helps with seeing what he could get into and hurt
himself.”

“I’m sure,” says Lucy. “I may point it out to the conservators at the next staff meeting, and stun
them all with my powers of observation.” She laughs. “Well, I just wanted to show this to you. I’d
better get it back, though, before something else happens to it.”

Just at that moment, there is a knock on the door, and Ken goes to answer it. “Ah, Lewis,” they
hear Philip say stiffly. “Are Their Royal Highnesses in?”

“Certainly, Sir,” says Ken. “Right this way.”

“No need,” says Philip crushingly. “I believe I can find my way round without your help.” He
comes striding in, Ken close on his heels.

“Sir, Ma’am,” begins Ken, “I’m afraid—”

“It’s fine, Ken,” says Bea. “We’re used to my brother’s behaviour. Pip, to what do we owe this
visit? I’d like to know, so I can avoid doing it in future.”

“Ha, ha, Bea,” says Philip. He looks at the assembled company and nods coolly at Pez, saying,
“Okonjo.” Then he looks uneasily at the Chief Curator and says, “Lucy. Good to see you. Is that
the vase? All safe and sound and no permanent damage?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” says Lucy sternly. “Mr. Lewis here just noticed a crack that was never
there before. Strange to think that the vase has been unscathed since Cromwell first gave it to
Queen Anne as a New Year’s gift in 1536, but in just one moment of carelessness, it lay in pieces
on the parquet.”
“Oh, Lewis’s eyes are not infallible,” says Philip. “I’m sure it’s fine. Here, let me see.”

He goes to grab the vase out of Lucy’s hands, and then it happens. Time seems to go into slow
motion as Henry watches the vase fall out of Philip’s grasp. He winces and closes his eyes,
knowing that just hearing the crash will be bad enough, without having to see it again.

But the crash does not come. He opens one eye, and the most extraordinary sight greets him: both
Ken and Philip are on the floor, Ken on his stomach, Philip flat on his back. Lucy is straightening
up from a crouch. Bea looks white with shock, and, true to form, Pez is grinning.

“What happened?” says Henry. “Where’s the vase?”

“Right here,” says Lucy shakily. “I think it’s fine, thanks to Mr. Lewis.”

“When Philip knocked it out of Lucy’s hand, Ken hit the deck faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,”
says Pez admiringly. “The vase hit his shoulder and rolled over to Lucy, like a puppy returning to
its mummy. It was quite sweet, actually.”

“And he managed to knock me on my arse in the process,” says Philip. “He’s lucky I didn’t get
hurt. Though for such lèse-majesté, I think you should sack him.”

“No one cares what you think, Pip,” says Bea angrily. “I think you should leave before you do any
more damage. Or else Lucy might murder you, and I’d help her.”

“That’ll teach me to just drop in to see my family and to offer congratulations on last night’s
concert,” says Philip angrily. “I wonder if Gran would like some company this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you go see?” asks Bea. “And in future, please ring before you stop by.”

“No need to demonstrate customary good manners and see me to the door,” says Philip with heavy
sarcasm.
“No one was going to offer to,” says Bea. “Though I would be grateful, Ken, if you could make
sure my brother leaves before he breaks anything else.”

Ken has risen nimbly to his feet, and with a nod, he turns to follow Philip.

“Who’s for tea?” asks Pez. “I know I could use a cup.”

“Of course,” says Henry. “Lucy, I’m so sorry—we’ve left you just standing here, and I’m sure you
would like to sit down with a nice cup of tea.”

“I could actually use something stronger, but I suppose tea will do,” says Lucy.

When Henry returns with the tray, Ken has returned from ushering Philip out. Bea is saying, “Ken,
you’re as bad as Shaan. Tall people like you make me nervous, looming over me like that. Please
sit down.”

Once everyone is seated and drinking their tea, Lucy says, “Mr. Lewis, I can’t thank you enough.
Did you gain those lightning-quick reflexes in Afghanistan, or are they merely the result of chasing
after a baby?”

“Davy hasn’t reached the stage of getting into things yet, Chief Curator, though I’m not sure how
much longer our luck is going to hold,” says Ken.

“Well, the nation owes you a debt of gratitude for saving such an invaluable national treasure,”
says Lucy.

“It would have been a shame to damage such perfect Tudor craftsmanship, Ma’am, though I’m not
sure Queen Anne would agree that it’s invaluable. If it came from Cromwell, I mean, since he
would engineer her downfall in just a few months’ time. And the palaces were full of such bibelots.
After it was first presented, I wonder if Anne Boleyn ever even saw it again.”

“Probably not,” agrees Lucy. “But someone must have valued it enough to preserve it. And
catalogue it, of course.” She adds, “And don’t call me Ma’am. I’m not Queen yet. Call me Lucy.”
“Very well, Ma—er, Lucy,” says Ken. “Possibly Her Majesty’s grandmother may have catalogued
it. I’ve read that she catalogued most of the Royal art collection, and I’m sure that that included
objets d’art. I hear you still come across pieces with labels on the back in her handwriting,
identifying a certain item and its provenance.”

“My word,” says Lucy. “You seem to know quite a bit about the Royal Collection.”

Ken colours slightly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I do rather run on about things that interest me.”

“Ken is always a fount of information,” says Henry. “Just the other day, I showed him a miniature
which was supposed to be Queen Caroline of Anspach, and he barely glanced at it before he said,
‘I believe, Sir, that that is actually Sophia of Hanover. It’s a common misidentification—one
heavyset eighteenth-century lady is easily mistaken for another.’ Sure enough, he was right.”

Lucy is staring at Ken with a keenly assessing eye, and with a look Henry has seen before on the
faces of art connoisseurs—I’d like to add you to my collection. She says, “You’re quite
knowledgeable about art, Ken. Is it just a side interest, or did you study it at university?”

Ken’s face turns beet-red; Henry knows that he dislikes having to admit to his lack of formal
education. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to attend university, Ma—Lucy,” he says. “But I’ve always
loved history, especially of the eighteenth century.”

“You should see the bookshelves in his parlour,” says Henry. “I don’t think the library at my
College was nearly as extensive.”

“Hmmpf—Oxford,” says Lucy. She herself had attended Cambridge. “I think being self-taught is
even more admirable than slogging through school—we were only doing the reading to pass an
exam and get a degree, but you’ve done it out of a desire for personal growth. As I say, very
commendable.” She pauses. “Have you ever given any thought to further education, or are you
strictly committed to the Royal Protection Service?”

“Well,” says Ken, growing even more embarrassed, “with a baby to think of—”

“They are rather demanding—or so I’ve heard,” says Lucy. “I only ask because there’s going to be
an opening in Royal Collections in the New Year, but you need a degree. Though of course, if you
were in the midst of studying for one, we could make adjustments to the job description.”
“Here, now, Lucy,” says Bea. “I don’t expect you to come over and try to poach one of our most
valued staff members. We’ve just managed to get him back from Philip—we don’t want to lose
him all over again.”

“I don’t think we should be talking about Ken in the third person as if he wasn’t even here,” says
Pez. “Besides, Bea, maybe Ken would be thrilled to get out from under your and your brother’s
collective thumb. I know I would be.”

“Not at all, Mr. Okonjo,” says Ken with a small smile. “Their Royal Highnesses have been very
good to me. As for uni, well—”

“I hope you’re not about to say you can’t afford it,” says Pez. “I don’t allow any pleas of poverty in
my presence when there’s all that Okonjo Foundation money just sitting and waiting to be spent.
No—it’s completely impermissible. I adore being able to wave my magic wand and make people’s
dreams come true, especially when it’s someone as worthy as you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” says Ken haltingly. “This is all rather overwhelming, especially when
it’s all because of a simple dive to the floor—”

“Hardly just that,” says Henry. “It’s because you’re a man of intelligence and resourcefulness, and
would be an incredibly valuable asset to any group lucky enough to have you on the team. But I
agree that you need to think about all this. And, I don’t know, but having met her, I think Sondra
just might want a bit of input into such an important decision as well.”

Ken smiles, but Henry can tell by his eyes that the smile is simply a polite, automatic response. His
face wears the look of someone who can see all his dreams coming true, but who can’t quite
believe it. Henry has seen the same look on the faces of people who have unexpectedly won a
sweepstakes prize.

“You think about it and let me know, Ken,” says Lucy. “And now I had better get this little thing
back to storage, before it suffers any more misadventures,” she adds, patting the box containing
Anne Boleyn’s vase.

After she leaves, Henry says, “Well, Ken, you’ve got a lot to consider and discuss with Sondra
tonight. By the way, I’m not sure how much it matters, but you know I won’t be spending much
time here in England after the holidays. I hope to be living in America with Alex.”
 “Speaking of which, H, I have a few sketches I want to show you,” says Pez, patting the portfolio
he had brought along with the ties.

“Well, I’ll still be here,” says Bea. “Although,” she says after thinking a moment, “I may not be
around much either. I expect I’ll have a bit of fundraising and organising to take care of.”

“This has all been so much, so fast,” says Ken. “My head is swimming.”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and go home?” says Henry. “Maybe you and Sondra
could put Davy in his pram and take him for a walk, and have a little talk while you stroll along.”

As they watch Ken leave, Henry says, “You know, in a strange sort of way, all this good stuff is
thanks to Philip. His blunders do have a way of turning out for the best.”

“Even if he does back into them arse first,” says Bea. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“Yes,” says Pez. “In fact, if he hadn’t asked Martha to marry him in the first place and ordered that
bloody cake, none of this would have happened. Henry and Alex would still politely loathe each
other, LGBTQ people wouldn’t know that they have a royal insider—so to speak—and Bea’s
problems would still be mere gossip and no Foundation in the works. I’m so glad you and Alex fell
into that cake, H—I just wish that instead of landing on your backs, it had been a face-plant. Now,
that would have been a sight to see.”

“We could always give them a shove at their wedding,” says Bea helpfully.

“Don’t do us any favours,” says Henry with a laugh. “Once was quite enough, thank you very
much.”

Still, he thinks, the twists and turns his life has gone through since last year are quite amazing.
He’s almost afraid to find out what fate has in mind for his visit to the States next week. He just
knows that, whatever is in store, the trip will not be uneventful.

Chapter End Notes

An English estate agent differs from an American realtor in that instead of two
separate realtors negotiating on behalf of the buyer and the seller separately, an estate
agent works for both at the same time, so there's not really much bargaining. One does
not normally purchase a property outright, but rather one buys a tenancy (and the seller
retains legal ownership). It can be either for a stated time period--ninety-nine years is a
popular number--or it can be a life tenancy, meaning that if Granny's heirs want what
they think of as the family homestead, they have to repurchase the tenancy when she
dies. The most common complication is that buyers may want to break the lease by
moving out before the tenancy has expired, but they are still responsible for payment
until they find someone to purchase the leasehold. The actual owner may also always
refuse to allow the new buyer to purchase it.

Henry gets a rather better deal on the exchange rate for his brownstone purchase than
he would in 2022. I used the conversion rate for January 2021 pounds to dollars, but
today it would cost him several thousand pounds more.

Kind George VI (father to our current Queen) had a sister whose son grew up to
become the Earl of Harewood. The Earl married as a young man, but then fell out of
love with his wife and had an affair with another lady. His first son by his mistress was
born before they could marry, and, just like poor Algy, the boy was ineligible to
inherit any of his father's estate. The title and most of the money went to the son of the
first wife, although, after the divorce did go through, the Earl married his mistress and
had two more sons--both of whom were able to inherit portions of the Earl's estate. No
wonder there are calls to make the British laws of inheritance less cruel and restrictive.

The mother of King George VI, Queen Mary, was indeed quite interested in the Royal
Collection. She not only catalogued most of it (and there really are labels in her
handwriting on the backs of many pieces, with the names of the artists and the
provenance); she was also responsible for rearranging it. For example, portraits of the
various mistresses of Charles II used to be scattered throughout various palaces, but
Queen Mary gathered them together in one grand state room, where they are now
known as "The Hampton Court Beauties". If your taste runs to frowning middle-aged
ladies with double chins, they are indeed lovely. (No one smiled in portraits, partly
because smiling at one's social inferiors--who might one day see the portrait!--was
thought terribly lower-class, but mostly because everyone's teeth were so bad. This
was the origin of the custom of ladies holding up a fan when they smiled, and men
covering their mouths with their hands.) Queen Mary did such rearranging for all the
royal palaces--literally hundreds and hundreds of rooms. She was also something of a
kleptomaniac who would slip an ornament from your side table into her handbag if she
coveted it for the Royal Collection. If the piece was too large to sneak out, she would
make broad hints that she would graciously deign to accept it if you cared to offer it,
and if you didn't take the hint, she'd take root on your drawing room sofa (for hours
and hours and hours, until midnight or later) until you finally made the offer.
Hostesses who didn't want to lose their best pieces would discreetly hide things before
the Queen arrived for tea.
 Election Pilgrimage, Part I
Chapter Summary

Time to head back to the States for Election Night! Of course, Henry's going to have
weather trouble preventing his timely arrival, but there is another major misadventure
he will encounter along the way. By the way, CMQ was going to include a similar
incident to the one here, but deleted it because "there was already enough going on in
this chapter." Thankfully, we have no such constraints, so I hope my version does
justice to her original idea!

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Tuesday, 3 November, 2020. It’s chilly and rainy—a typical London autumn morning. Because
they have such a long day ahead—a twelve-hour flight (including a refueling stop in Ottawa) and
staying up until God-knows-when waiting for the election results to come in—Henry had told both
Shaan and Ken not to come in until noon. But Shaan is constitutionally incapable of staying alone
in bed once he is awake, and Ken arrives at his usual time, his face puffy from lack of sleep. He
has also nicked himself a couple of times shaving this morning, if the bits of loo paper stuck to his
face are any indication.

“Davy still not sleeping through the night?” asks Henry sympathetically.

“It’s uncanny,” says Ken. “Even from his room down the hall, he seems to have an inner sense that
Sondra and I are just dropping off, and he takes that as his cue to start screaming. And as for--”
Ken is too much of a gentleman to complete the sentence he has inadvertently begun, but a look of
intense frustration flits across his face.

“I won’t say that I can imagine what it’s like, because I can’t—thank God,” says Henry.

“Just wait,” says Ken darkly. “Your turn will come, Sir, I’m sure.”

“How about you, Shaan?” asks Henry. “How do you think you and Zahra will cope with your little
ones when the time comes?”

“My fiancée and I neither anticipate nor desire children,” says Shaan. “We are both the oldest in
our respective families, and we feel that we have already put in our share of child-rearing taking
care of younger siblings. Moreover, Zahra says that going to work for President Claremont while
her employer’s children were small ruined any vestigial maternal feelings she might otherwise have
cherished. She says, ‘June was a sweet little girl, but Alex—’ and then she invariably breaks off
with a shiver. Evidently, he was a bit of a handful.”

“I can’t imagine that being the case,” deadpans Henry. Despite his exhaustion, even Ken smiles.

“Well, since you’re both here, I suggest breakfast and then a quiet morning. Has either of you eaten
already?”

“I had toast and juice before I left home, but a cup of tea would be most welcome,” says Shaan.

“I’d better not eat anything,” says Ken. “I might fall asleep standing up if my stomach’s full.”

“So that’s a full English breakfast for the two of us and just a cup of tea for Shaan,” says Henry.
“Ken, I can’t think of anything that would do you more good than a nap, and the couches in the
music room are very comfortable. We’ve all stretched out there more than once.”

Sure enough, within half an hour Ken is snoring softly on the couch. Bea creeps in, smiles, and
returns a moment later with a soft cover to throw over him. He stirs, but does not awaken.

It’s half past eleven when Henry enters and gives his shoulder a small shake. Ken mutters, “It’s
okay, little man, Daddy’s here,” but then comes to full wakefulness.

He is greeted by Henry’s smiling face. “Time to leave for the airport soon—Daddy,” he says.

“Sorry, Sir,” says Ken sheepishly. “I knew I was tired, but I didn’t realise—” He notices the throw
which is covering him for the first time. “What’s this?”

“You looked so sweet all stretched out there,” says a smiling Bea from across the room. “Now that
you’re awake, I can straighten the pictures that were disarranged by your resonating snores.”

“Sorry, Ma’am,” says Ken, blushing.

“My sister is teasing you,” says Henry. “I was surprised by how quietly you slept, given how
exhausted you were. Feeling better?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Sir,” says Ken. “Another ten- or twelve-hour nap and I should be fine.”

“You’ll have time on the plane,” says Henry. “It’s a long flight and nothing much to do.”

Once again, Pez has loaned Henry the use of his private jet for the trip to the States. He had
previously allowed Henry to use it in exchange for an invitation to the White House for New
Year’s Eve; this time, he exacts a promise of attendance at the upcoming closing on Henry’s
brownstone. “I want to be the first to pop a cork in your new home,” he says. “And I want to see it,
so I know what I’ll be dealing with.” He is still planning to take charge of its interior decoration,
though Henry has remained steadfastly noncommittal.

They leave around one p.m.—seven a.m. Austin time—and while away the first hour or two
reading and playing cards (not surprisingly for an Army veteran, Ken is a card shark who wins
every hand). After a light lunch, everyone’s eyes start to droop, and Henry and Shaan insist that
Ken stretch out on the bed in the back cabin while they doze in their recliners. By the time they
awaken, they are almost at their refueling stop in Ottawa.

In the airport, they find a nice little wine bar, where they discover a couple of pilots enjoying a few
glasses of wine and discussing their imminent flights, which is a bit disconcerting. They nibble
some fancy cheeses and meats with crackers, and grab some takeout sandwiches for later. To
stretch their legs, they take a walk around the airport—passing a fountain with a prehistoric-
looking plinth, a cross between Stonehenge and a pile of toddlers’ blocks—and then head back to
the plane.

A few hours from Austin, it’s time to start freshening up before landing. Henry tells the other two
to take their turns in the bathroom first, so one after the other, Shaan and then Ken showers and
shaves. Henry finds that they have thoughtfully left enough hot water for him, but he still rushes
through his own preparations. They are getting closer and closer, and Henry can feel his
excitement mounting. In an hour-and-a-half, they should be landing at the Austin airport, and soon
thereafter he will be rushing into the Convention Center—and into Alex’s arms. It's just shy of six-
thirty local time, which would be half-past midnight back in London.

He's knotting his tie when there is a knock on the cabin door. He calls, “Enter,” and Shaan comes
in, Ken close behind him. “I am afraid the pilot has some bad news, Sir,” says Shaan.
“Oh?” says Henry. “What’s going on?”

“It seems that there are visibility issues in Austin,” says Shaan. “The pilot says it is too foggy there
to land safely. He suggests rerouting the plane to another airport.”

“Bollocks,” says Henry. “That’ll teach me—I was just gloating to myself that I would soon be
seeing Alex, and now evidently not. The pilot really thinks it’s that dangerous?”

Ken says, “He says if this were a larger, commercial aircraft, it would probably be fine, but it’s
against FAA regulations for planes of this size to risk it.”

“Pez has been complaining this jet is too small,” says Henry. “I hate having to tell him he’s right
—again. In the meantime, I’d better let Alex know I’m going to be late.”

Henry texts Alex, noting that the local time is six-thirty-seven p.m.:

Pilot says we’re having visibility problems. We may have to reroute and land elsewhere.

There’s no response. He’s sure Alex is busy stressing out over election results. He turns to Shaan.
“Any word about an alternative landing site?”

“I’ll go check,” says Ken. When he returns, he says, “The pilot says the closest he can get us is
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. We can be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Henry emails Alex again:

Landing in Dallas? Is that far?? I’ve no bloody clue about American geography.

Shaan has been consulting Google. “There are several different ways from Dallas to Austin. Of
course, the shortest is by air, but that is the problem, is it not? There is a bus which takes five-and-
a-half hours, or a train which would be just over six hours.” Shaan rechecks Google. “Oh, never
mind. Neither one runs at this time of night. I believe the best bet would be to drive. It would take
about three-and-a-half hours, and with luck, we would arrive around ten-thirty.”
Henry emails Alex once more:

Shaan has informed me that this is, in fact, far. Landing soon. Will try to take off again once
weather clears.

Henry decides to go forward to consult with the pilots. Though Henry has been in private jets
which only need one pilot, the Okonjo jet is large enough to require two. As he moves forward
through the cabin, Henry smiles; he can’t imagine what sort of larger private plane Pez is
envisioning—maybe a reconditioned Concorde.

He gets to the cockpit, where the co-pilot swivels his head in shock at the sound of an intruder.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” says Henry. “It’s just me. Any chance of being able to fly into Austin?”

“Not tonight, Your Royal Highness,” says the pilot, never taking his eyes off the controls. “It’ll
take sunlight tomorrow to burn off the fog in Austin. And I wouldn’t want to have to face Her
Majesty if I tried to land in fog and made an error in judgement, and my mistake killed her
grandson—though in that case, of course, I’d probably be dead in the crash as well.”

“And even if you did survive, she might rectify that state of being shortly thereafter,” says Henry.
“Crossing my grandmother is never advisable. And I quite understand—safety first.”

“Exactly, Sir,” says the co-pilot. “At least Dallas is clear. We can probably fly you into Austin by
nine a.m., but that’s about the soonest. I hope you’ll explain to Mr. Okonjo we did our best.”

“Certainly,” says Henry, “though it is a bit disappointing. All the same, thank you for your care for
all our safety.”

The pilot says, “Thank you for understanding, Sir.”

Henry briefly considers phoning Alex, but stress would probably make Alex argumentative, and he
doesn’t want to get into a pointless fight. The evening is shaping up miserably enough already.
Instead, he sends another email:
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. How are things on your end?

Alex’s reply is succinct and to the point:

things are shit

please get your ass here asap

i’m stressing tf out

Thankfully, Shaan is able to arrange the rental of a large, comfortable car to get them to Austin.
There are no drivers available, but Ken has driven in the United States before—is it really barely
two months since he drove Henry to the airstrip from the lake house?—and he is quite confident in
his ability to get them to Austin safely. Of course, the car comes equipped with a navigation
system, and even if that fails, they have their mobiles. They sail right through Customs—Henry on
his diplomatic passport, Shaan and Ken in his airstream—and they are on the road at just past
seven. Perhaps, indeed, they might make it by ten-thirty.

To pass the hours of monotonous driving, they get into a discussion of the election. Henry loyally
predicts a win, but Shaan is less optimistic. “My fiancée’s last text is not sanguine,” he says. “The
President is currently down in the Electoral College—”

“What exactly is the Electoral College?” says Ken. “I never understood how it could be possible
for a candidate to win the popular vote, and still lose.”

“It is something to do with individual states being assigned a certain number of electors based on
population,” says Shaan. “As my fiancée has explained it, a candidate may win a small state with
five electoral votes by a million votes, while their opponent may win a larger state with twenty
electoral votes by one hundred thousand votes. In simple numbers, the first is ahead by nine
hundred thousand votes, but in the Electoral College, behind by fifteen votes.”

“But that’s not fair,” says Ken. “Clearly, more people want the first candidate.”

“Alex would agree with you,” says Henry. “But he says the Republicans disagree, because despite
having only won the popular vote once in the last thirty years, they have managed to take the
White House three times.”

“And they say the monarchy is undemocratic,” says Shaan.

“Of course, our system has its flaws as well,” says Ken. “With all due respect, Sir, when your
ancestor King George of Hanover”—Ken uses the German pronunciation, Gay-org—“was in line
for the throne, he was a divorced murderer who was living in sin with a woman said to be his half-
sister. There were literally over fifty people with a better claim to the throne than he by right of
primogeniture. But they were Catholics, and Parliament had decreed that Catholics were barred
from the throne. So he became King George I despite his rather unsavoury private life,” he
finishes, this time using the English pronunciation of the king’s name.

“And up until just a few years ago, if I married Alex, I would have had to renounce my place in the
Succession, simply because he is a Roman Catholic,” says Henry. “As it is now, I get to keep my
place, but I have still have to get my grandmother’s permission to marry him. It was hard enough to
get her to agree just to royal courtship, much less marriage. If we decide we want to marry, we
may have to wait until my mother is on the throne.”

As the discussion meanders from one topic to another, Henry feels his eyes growing heavy. “I
might just grab forty winks,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll be up late once we finally get to Austin.”

“Certainly, Sir,” says Shaan. “We will wake you when we are almost there.”

He drifts off; but then he is awakened abruptly by a violent swerving of the car. “Ken!” cries Shaan
in alarm. “Are you feeling entirely well?”

“Didn’t you see that animal?” says Ken. “I have no desire to damage the car, much less kill an
innocent creature whose territory we’re invading.” Ken’s tone is uncharacteristically sharp.

“I believe you have been speeding,” says Shaan. “I know we would like to make up some time, but
there is no need for recklessness.” Even Shaan sounds angry.

“You want to drive?” snaps Ken. He stops and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Fretting and
fatigue are making me short-tempered. And I know I’ve been speeding, but I don’t think this is
going to take as long as Google indicated. We might even make it before ten if we step on it. Or as
civilised people understand it actually to be, four a.m.”
“An hour sooner? How many miles per hour over the speed limit have you been driving?”

“No more than ten.” At Shaan’s sceptical look, Ken says, “Okay, maybe fifteen. And again, I’m
sorry for biting your head off.”

“Do not be concerned,” says Shaan kindly. “We are none of us at our best. It has been a very long
day, and this drive is just making it longer.” He suddenly looks at the fascia. “Did you notice the
instrument panel? The navigation system seems to have gone out.”

Ken looks down. He says, “Damn. Better get out the mobile and see where we are.”

Shaan pulls his mobile from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and consults it. When he looks up,
his face is grim. “We seem to be without cellular service,” he says.

“I wonder if it’s the weather,” says Ken. “I noticed it’s getting foggier as we get closer to Austin—
at least, I hope we’re getting closer. I haven’t seen a road sign in miles.” He pauses a moment, then
says seriously, “Shaan, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but despite having been in the military, I
very rarely swear.”

“Yes, I have indeed noticed—and have been most appreciative,” says Shaan.

“Davy will be talking before we know it, and I don’t want him picking up bad language from me.”
Ken stares straight ahead, his mouth a grim line. “But there are situations when saying ‘Oh,
bother!’ simply will not do.” He looks at Shaan. “We’re in a strange country, in the middle of
nowhere. The weather’s getting bad and we have no mobile service and no navigation system, and
we have an heir to the throne sleeping in the back seat.” He takes a breath. “Shaan, I hate to say
this but—bugger it. I think we’re fucked.”

“Well put,” says Henry from the back seat. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Both Ken and Shaan would have jumped had they not been wearing seatbelts. “Sir,” says Shaan,
“you startled us. I apologise if our conversation awakened you.”

“And I beg pardon for my language, Sir,” says Ken.

“Don’t be silly,” says Henry. “I thought you summarised the situation perfectly.” He pauses, then
clears his throat. “Well, gentlemen, I’m open to suggestions.”

“I suppose we might as well just stay on this road,” says Ken. “We’re bound to pass a road sign
sooner or later, so at least we’ll know where we are.”

“I noticed at the last comfort station, a sign said, ‘Next rest stop one hundred miles.’ That was an
hour ago, so we should see a turnoff in—oh, maybe thirty minutes?” says Henry.

“Oh, dear,” says Shaan. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It is with some embarrassment that I
must admit—I am not sure I will last that long.”

“I couldn’t half-do with a pee myself,” says Ken. “I bought something called a ‘Big Gulp’ at that
little convenience store we stopped at, and I got Mountain Dew for the caffeine. Well, ‘Big Gulp’
was no exaggeration. I’ll bet the cup contained at least a gallon of beverage plus ice—why must
Americans add ice to everything? And the Dew has gone straight to my bladder.”

“Well, my friends, I fear that we are all in the same boat,” says Henry. “I think my own need for a
rest stop is what woke me up. I suppose we could just pull over somewhere along the road here.”

“I should be most grateful, Sir,” says Shaan. His tone is becoming mildly desperate.

Ken slows the car to a crawl and puts on the hazard lights. “Just let me find a good spot…”

Henry notices the smile Ken is barely concealing. He says severely, “Ken, stop teasing Shaan.”

“Before I pull over, Mr. Supervisor,” says Ken conversationally—and now he is not even trying to
smother his grin. “I thought we might have a discussion about my next pay rise…”

“First, you must survive long enough to collect it,” says Shaan through gritted teeth. “If you do not
pull over in the next sixty seconds, I may drown you.”
Ken begins to snicker as he stops the car. Shaan bolts out immediately.

“Ken, says Henry, “that was cruel.” He pauses a beat. “Cruel, but amusing.” Henry grins as well.

Modestly turned from each other, they attend to their needs. They have barely put themselves back
in their trousers and zipped up when, all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, the road is filled with
lights. It looks like a dozen or more motorcycles, and they are riding rings around the Cadillac,
zipping and zooming and squealing tires. The air is suddenly thick with the odours of petrol fumes
and burnt rubber. Then they pull in around the car, hemming it into its space.

One rider, evidently the Leader of the Pack, dismounts. He is massive—he would make Alex’s
Secret Service Agent Cash look scrawny by comparison. Large, pendulous breasts rest atop a huge
belly, which bulges out over his low-slung jeans. His massive arms are covered in tattoos of skulls
with snakes emerging from the eye sockets and hearts pierced by bloody daggers. His collar is
turned up against the cold, and he does not remove his helmet. He opens a mouth which seems to
be missing most of its teeth, and releases a stream of dark brown spittle, which lands with a splat!
at their feet.

Shaan turns to Henry. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” he says. “Were it not for me, we would not have
stopped, and these gentlemen would just have passed us. I fear that Ken’s earlier assessment of the
situation is correct.” He pauses, then says, “We are well and truly fucked.”

“You bet your ass you are,” says the man in a hoarse growl. For such a large man, his voice is
strangely high-pitched. And his hands--even with their dirty, broken fingernails--are surprisingly
small and delicate.

He peers more closely at Shaan. “You some sort of foreigner? You don’t sound like you’re from
around these parts.”

“Yes, Sir, I am indeed,” says Shaan. “We need assistance, because I fear we may be lost—”

The man rudely interrupts him. “If there’s one thing that bugs the livin’ shit out of me, it’s a
foreigner. We real Americans pay big bucks in taxes to maintain our roads, and you guys come
here and piss on them. That’s why Senator Richards needs to win—he’s gonna build a wall on the
southern border to keep you people out.” He spits again.

“We meant no disrespect, Sir,” says Shaan. “As I say, we are lost. If you can give us a few
directions, we will be on our way and we will trouble you no longer.”

“Maybe I like a little trouble now and again,” he says. “Especially with strangers—and even more
when one of them is as cute as Pretty Boy here,” he adds, gesturing to Henry. “Hey, Pretty Boy,
you ever see Deliverance?” He balls a fist and punches it threateningly into his opposite palm. Are
those rings he is wearing, or brass knuckles?

Henry gulps. “Excuse me?” he says with a squeak.

Now the man peers at him as well. “Well, I’ll be mother -fucked,” he says. “I know you. Ain’t you
that English queer who’s fucking our First Son? You might not mind what I have in store for you.
You might even like it.”

Ken steps forward. He says, “Now, wait a minute, Sir—”

“Stop calling me Sir, assholes!” he roars. He doffs his helmet, and they see that, despite a buzzcut
and the tattoos, they have actually been talking to a woman for the last few minutes. Suddenly, she
pitches forward and begins to gasp asthmatically, while the other riders—who are also removing
their helmets and who are also all female—burst into laughter.

“I hope one of you got a picture of their faces when they saw us,” the leader wheezes. Evidently,
her breathless gasps are actually signs of amusement.

“Oh, I got ‘em,” says a woman who steps forward and holds up her phone to show her friend. “I
also got one when you threatened to reenact Deliverance. That was mean, Ruby, but it was funny
as shit. I was just waiting to see how you were gonna get it up.”

“Improvise,” says Ruby. “I think I have my strap-on somewhere.”

“Don’t mind her,” says the sidekick. “She’s just joshin’ you. Ruby likes to bullshit people.”

“Oh, that was funny,” says Ruby, wiping away a few tears. “So, Pretty Boy. You really Alex’s
boytoy? You’re even cuter in real life. You remind me of my son.”
“You have the honour of addressing His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales, grandson of Her
Majesty Queen Mary III and third in line to the throne of Great Britain,” says Shaan stiffly.

In response, Ruby burps loudly, then shoots out another stream of tobacco juice. “No shit? So what
you doin’ in these parts, Prince?”

“We were on our way to Austin for tonight’s vote tabulation when our plane got grounded in
Dallas,” says Henry. “So now we have to drive there, but we aren’t sure—we may be lost.”

“You ain’t yet, but you would be soon,” says Ruby. “Another five-ten minutes you would have
started to see the signs for the turnoff, but in this fog they’d be easy to miss. You’re maybe a half-
hour, forty-five minutes away.” She eyes Henry again, shaking her head. “Prince Henry,” she says.
“I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Well, Madam,” says Ken. “Perhaps we should be on our way—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ Madam me, you stupid Brit asshole,” says Ruby. “It’s Ruby.”

“And I’m Suzie Q,” says the sidekick. “That’s not for Q-Anon, by the way. Them assholes are
crazy. It’s for them little Hostess desserts. You ever have one? The creme filling is sick.” Her eyes
grow momentarily dreamy at the thought of her favourite snack. Then she grins and says to Henry,
“Me and Rube here were in DC last month for the Dykes on Bikes Rally when you and Alex got
outed. We helped chase those so-called Christians down the street when they were protesting
against you guys. My, that was fun.”

“Well, Mad—Ruby,” says Ken. “As I say, we should be going—”

“Just one minute,” says Ruby. “Prince, get your royal British ass over here. Sooz, gimme your
phone.” Henry comes to stand next to her, and she throws a beefy arm around his shoulders.

“Wait,” says Suzie Q. “I want in the picture too.”

“Well, move your ass.” Suzie rushes over, and they smile at the camera as Ruby holds out her arm
stiffly. Then Ruby asks shyly, “Prince, can I have your autograph? I hope you know I was just
bullshittin’ about a Richards win. We’re for Claremont. Women have to stick together.”
“His Royal Highness does not give autographs,” says Shaan.

“Nonsense, Shaan,” says Henry. “I’d be honoured. Would anyone else like a picture too?” Soon all
the other ladies—Henry is pretty certain they would disavow the title, but that’s what he was
brought up to call adult females until their behaviour proves the term unmerited—are lining up in
turn. He also signs autographs lavishly, on all sorts of surfaces—scraps of paper, cigarette packs
turned inside out, T-shirts. One woman even drops her jeans and giggles, “Sign my ass!” Henry
gingerly writes his signature on her hip, and she squeals, “Someone take my picture quick and
show me! I’m never washin’ my ass again!”

“I didn’t think you did anyways,” says Ruby. The other woman laughs and says good-naturedly,
“Fuck you, bitch.”

“How old is your son?” Henry asks Ruby. “Would you like an autograph for him?”

“He was born just a week after you were, so he’d be twenty-three now,” says Ruby. “But he died
when he was sixteen.”

“I’m so sorry, Mad—Ruby,” Henry quickly amends as she scowls. “Please accept my deepest
condolences.”

“Drugs,” says Ruby briefly. “I took care of the asshole who sold him that shit. He won’t be killin’
anyone else’s boy ever again.” She shrugs, “But at least I have my grandkids.”

“Grandkids?” says Henry. Plural? Hadn’t Ruby just said he died at sixteen?

“Yeah, he started chasin’ tail before he was even thirteen,” says Ruby. “I have six grandkids by
four different baby mamas. At least that’s all I know of. There could have been more.”

After a final round of farewells—and kisses for all the ladies who request one—they roar off in
another cloud of petrol fumes. The three men look at each other, but there’s really nothing much
anyone can think of to say. Finally, Henry says, “Well, gentlemen, shall we go?”

They pull into the lot at the Austin City Center a little over half an hour later. Exhaustion has
suddenly hit Ken hard and Shaan has never driven in the United States, so Henry has taken the
wheel. As soon as the attendant sees who is driving, he waves them through.

They enter the hall, and a moment later, June and Nora are running over, Cash close on their heels.
As they hug him, they chorus, “Henry! We were getting so worried! Are you okay?”

“Fine,” says Henry. “Pez’s plane got grounded due to fog, and we had to stop in Dallas. We drove
from there.” He looks around. “Where’s Alex?”

“Somewhere,” says June vaguely. “Pacing. Chewing his nails. You know how he is.”

“I do indeed,” says Henry.

Cash says, “Good to see you again, Sir, and all safe and sound.” Then he turns to Ken, who is
standing behind Henry. “We reserved a room for you at the hotel attached to the Convention
Center. One of the aides can take you there. We’ll take over from here with Prince Henry.”

Ken has been through this before, but he still seems reluctant to surrender his charge. “Sir, if you’d
like me to stay,” he begins, but Henry interrupts him.

“Don’t be silly,” says Henry. “It’s been quite a day, and you look like you’re falling asleep on your
feet. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”

Ken shoots a dubious look at Henry. “Only if you’re sure, Sir—”

“I am,” says Henry. “That’s a direct order. Go to bed.”

“Very well.” Ken turns to June. “Best of luck to your mother tonight, Ms. Claremont-Diaz.”

“Thanks, Ken,” says June. Just then, the crowd roars and the band strikes up something patriotic.
Henry looks to the stage and grins. Alex may be stressed out, but his walk up to the microphone is
confident, almost cocky. He gives an easy grin and calls, “Hey, y’all! I’m Alex. Your First Son.”
As if anyone doesn’t know who he is.
 “Rallying the troops,” says Nora. “He’s really good at this sort of thing.”

June says, “So how was the drive from Dallas? That’s quite a long ride.”

“Oh—you know,” says Henry. He doesn’t want to go into all that now, not when he can watch
Alex making his speech. His words are playing the crowd as if he were Sir Elton at the piano.

“You’d better come with us,” says Nora. “We’ll take you backstage. He’ll want to see you when he
gets off. Of all the shit he’s been stressing over tonight, worrying about your whereabouts was the
worst.”

Henry takes one more look. Of course, Alex can’t see him in the glare of the spotlights, but Alex
pauses and stares out at the crowd, as if he senses Henry’s presence all the same. Then Henry turns
to June and Nora. He says, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go wait for him.” The man I love. I can wait
for him forever.

Chapter End Notes

A few notes:

The Electoral College was supposedly created so that voters in larger states wouldn't
swamp the ballots of those in the smaller states. But there are those who harbored dark
suspicions (then and now) that the real reason was to add a layer of protection
preventing the Great Unwashed from outvoting the self-declared elites. The
Republicans really have only won the popular vote once since 1985, but took the
White House for more than half of those nearly forty years. The other scary thing is
that six of the current nine Supreme Court Justices were appointed by Republican
Presidents, and if you think the Justices are really apolitical, take a look at the
activities of Mrs. Clarence Thomas and check her husband's voting record and written
judicial opinions.

King Georg of Hanover (George I of England, r. 1714-1727) arrived in England

speaking no English (they had to write out the Coronation Oath phonetically for him to
recite) and, as Ken says, supposedly was a divorced murderer. His wife had taken a
lover, who subsequently disappeared--not under the floorboards of the Queen's
bedroom, as rumor insisted, but probably strangled and thrown into a canal. She was
then divorced, banished, and imprisoned for the rest of her life. Georg arrived in
England with two remarkably ugly mistresses--one was tall and thin, and nicknamed
"The Maypole"; the other was short and round, and nicknamed "The Elephant." The
latter was also believed to be Georg's half-sister. There is a persistent rumor that a
famous pub called "The Elephant and Castle" was named for them, though in fact it
predated their arrival in England by nearly seventy-five years. The pub has since been
torn down and replaced by a church, though there is a stop on the Underground still
bearing the name. Both mistresses cost the English taxpayers outrageous sums, and
"The Maypole" was once stopped by an angry mob in her carriage. In her broken
English (hey, unlike her royal lover, at least she tried to learn some!), she said, "Pray,
good people, be civil--we have only come for all your goods!" "Yes, damn you,"
someone shouted back, "and for all our chattels too!"

After the brothers of George III married women the King considered unworthy of
membership in the royal family, he got Parliament to pass a law requiring all
descendants of George II to get the sovereign's permission to marry. Parliament also
has to sign off on it, although this is usually just a rubber stamp (but not always--see
Princess Margaret's situation below). This law was not changed until 2013--now, only
the first six currently in line for the throne need such permission. When Harry married
Meghan, he could have needed his grandmother's permission, since he's Number Six,
except that there is an exception to this rule--once they're past the age of twenty-five,
they can marry without the sovereign's and Parliament's permission. But they will
probably lose their royal status and any Crown money they currently receive--this was
what held Princess Margaret back from marrying Peter Townsend in 1955, since he
was a divorced commoner and the Prime Minister would not sign off on it (although
the PM was himself divorced!). It was also in 2013 that the law was changed so that
heirs to the Crown no longer lost their succession rights for marrying a Roman
Catholic.

English beverages usually arrive without ice, but if you ask for it, you'll probably get
it, especially once they hear your American accent.

I listened to the audiobook of RWRB long before I read the printed version, and when
I first heard the words "Dykes on Bikes," I was shocked by what I just thought was
just a nasty homophobic slur. I was therefore quite surprised to discover that they
really are a national organization of female motorcyclists.

Back in November 2019, CMQ participated in a charity auction, and the author of the
blog "Pages and Pugs" won the Grand Prize. She got Casey to write an annotation of
the RWRB, and then (with Casey's permission, of course) posted it as a serial on her
blog. This is where I read Casey's original plan to have Henry rescued by a motorcycle
gang. If you google "RWRB Annotations," you'll probably find it. It's WONDERFUL,
and we RWRB fans can never thank the author of the blog enough for sharing it with
us!
 Election Pilgrimage, Part II
Chapter Summary

After a trip from the Dallas airport that was a nightmare from Hell, Henry has finally
arrived at the Austin Convention Center. CMQ mapped out the events in this chapter
(and wrote most of the dialogue, of course)--I've only added some thoughts from
Henry's side. So it's a chance to relive one of the last chapters from our favorite book!
Enjoy!

Chapter Notes

By the way, I'm an MSNBC groupie rather than CNN, so I'm a lot more familiar with
their anchors and Election Night format. I think it shows! All due apologies to
Anderson, Wolf, and the rest of the CNN staff!

A speaker stands in the glare of spotlights, a beautiful speaker. He is saying, “Now, I’m standing
here, and I’m thinking about it… a reliable, hardworking, honest, Southern Democrat versus
corruption, and maliciousness, and hate. And one big state full of honest people, sick as hell of
being lied to.” A breath. “Well, it all sounds a little familiar to me, is all. So, what do you think,
Texas? Se repetira la historia? Are we gonna make history repeat itself tonight?” The crowd roars;
the speaker joins them and then strides off the stage. Henry finds himself cheering along with
everyone else.

As Henry approaches Alex, those beautiful dark eyes are fastened on the floor. Henry knows that
Alex is already engaged in a ruthless self-critique of the speech that June had told Henry on their
way backstage was entirely impromptu. Should I have skipped that part? Did I stress that point
enough? Did they really respond well, or is it just my wishful thinking? So many doubts, while the
roars of approval are still ringing through the Convention Center. But that’s Alex.

At first he doesn’t seem to notice Henry, but then he lifts his head and sniffs the air. (Henry colours
a bit, remembering Alex saying Henry has a personal aroma. He’s not sure why he’s uncomfortable
—God knows he enjoys Essence of Alex—but there’s something inherently embarrassing about
being told one has a smell!) Alex’s gaze shifts, and then their eyes meet, as Alex’s face lights up
and his mouth stretches into a grin.

“That was brilliant,” says Henry. Alex’s eyes fasten on Henry’s throat, and his grin is replaced by
a soft smile of singular sweetness, a look Henry often sees on Alex’s face when Henry awakens to
find Alex watching him. Alex says wonderingly, “Your tie—”
Henry says, “Oh, yes. Yellow rose of Texas, is it? I read that was a thing. Thought it might be good
luck.” He is never going to tell Pez that Alex’s first words to Henry after that hellish trip had been
a comment on the necktie Pez had selected.

With a laugh, Alex takes Henry’s tie in his hand and uses it to pull him close. One of these days,
Henry is going to twit Alex about the phallic symbolism of neckties and Alex’s eagerness to grab
Henry’s as soon as he sees it. They wrap their arms around each other and kiss as if they never
want to stop.

Which, of course, Henry doesn’t. And he doesn’t think Alex wants to either.

Henry can feel the day sliding off of him … the long trip, the fog, the heart-stopping moment of
the motorcycles zipping and zooming around them and the stink of petrol and burnt rubber, Ruby,
Suzie Q, the woman who had told Henry to put his signature on her bare bum…. But everything
fades away in the joy of Alex’s kiss. Henry feels like he has come home. In a very real way, he has.

Alex pulls back, still laughing, but then his eyes narrow. He says, “You’re late, Your Highness.”

Henry laughs as well. He says, “Actually, I’m just in time for the upswing, it would seem.” He
nods at the TV monitors, where Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer are analysing election returns.
While Alex has been speaking, several states have come in, and President Claremont is now, if not
in the lead, at least very close to it.

Once the votes come in from California at ten-thirty, the tide really starts to turn. By midnight,
they are in the lead. People are laughing, drinks are flowing, music is blaring. It feels to Henry
very much like the New Year’s Eve party, now almost a year ago—a bunch of people whom he
does not know busily engaged in a celebration he is not part of. But unlike that night, he feels
neither lost nor alone. He smiles as he watches the crowd exchanging jokes and campaign stories—
and, by the number of slips of paper being furtively passed from hand to hand, a slew of telephone
numbers for setting up a late-night rendezvous once the election is called.

All the same, Henry feels a disconcerting sense of unease. Oddly, for someone who has grown up
in the public eye, Henry can feel someone watching him, and it’s making him nervous. He scans
the room, and his eyes soon meet those of a tall, broad-shouldered blond man, who is staring at
him searchingly. There is no hostility in his eyes—more a sort of keen assessment. His eyes crinkle
into the beginnings of what is probably a smile, when Alex, who has been muttering at his mobile
as he strides along, walks straight into him.
The man’s drink spills, and he and Alex almost lose their balance. Henry notices another large,
expensive cake on the table next to where the man is standing, and Henry wonders for a moment if
history is about to repeat itself. But this floor is not as polished and slippery as the floors in
Buckingham Palace, and the man manages to keep Alex on his feet. The man says something to
Alex, and they both laugh.

“There you are,” says June, and Henry turns and looks into her dancing brown eyes. She wears a
simple white lace dress and has wound a narrow white ribbon through her curly black hair. She has
put her hair into a braid, but it’s coming loose—it’s been a long night for her, too. “What do you
think of your first American election? Better say you like them, because I think you’re going to be
experiencing a lot more of these nights in the years to come.”

Henry smiles. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever attended before,” he says honestly.

“I’ll bet that ain’t the half of it,” says June. All of a sudden, she looks down, and she seems to
notice the undone braid for the first time. “Damn,” she says expressively. “My hair’s too wiry to
hold this sort of style. I can’t quite—”

“Here,” says Henry, “let me help.” He gathers some straying tresses and helps her tuck them back
into place. “I used to help Bea all the time with her hair when we were children. Her hair won’t
stay in place either, but not because it’s curly—she says it’s too thick.”

“Like her brother’s,” says June. She releases her braid and says, “There—I think that’s as good as
it gets tonight. What are you doing, standing all by yourself? I’m sorry we’re neglecting you.”

“Not at all,” says Henry. “I’m just people-watching. It’s fascinating.”

“Anyone in particular—besides Alex, of course?” As she mentions him, her eyes scan the crowd
for her brother. She spots him still talking to the blond man and says, “Oh. That’s interesting.”

“What is?” asks Henry.

“The guy he’s talking to,” says June. “That’s his old friend Liam. I don’t know if Alex has ever
mentioned him to you, but they used to be very close.”

From what Alex has told him about late nights climbing the trellis to Liam’s bedroom, close seems
like something of an understatement. “Oh,” he says in turn. “Yes, he’s spoken of him.”

“It’s good they’re mending fences,” says June. “Once we moved to Washington, they lost touch.
But when we were young, Liam just about saved Alex’s life and sanity, and more than once. Mom
and Dad’s divorce hit Alex pretty hard, and he used to get drunk and go joy-riding on the freeway
at a hundred miles an hour. Liam was the only one who could talk him down.”

Feeling their eyes on him, Liam smiles at June and gives her a wink. Then he nods at Henry, a bit
uncertainly—not sure if Henry knows who he is, or how Henry will react when he finds out.

Henry nods back, perhaps a bit distantly.

June says, “It’s okay. You don’t have anything to worry about.” She is watching Henry shrewdly.

“What do you mean?” says Henry. “Why would I be worried?”

“I think you know exactly why,” says June. “Just remember: Alex let Liam go. He chased all the
way across the Atlantic after you.”

His natural impulse is to say I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. But he can’t deceive her.
Instead, he says simply, “Thanks, sis.”

“That’s what big sisters are for.” She smiles. “Yours isn’t here, but I think Alex is okay with
loaning you his every once in a while.” Then she says, “Oh, look, Alex sees us. Smile.”

Henry looks over, and he sees that Alex is indeed watching them, and he is suddenly reminded
once more of New Year’s Eve, and how often he would see Alex scanning the room. Alex has told
him that he couldn’t help himself—he wanted to know where Henry was, all the time. “It was the
tug of gravity,” Alex said. “I needed my North Star to guide me, even if I didn’t know it yet.”

Henry meets Alex’s eyes and smiles, and it’s genuine. That same tug is pulling them together once
more. But then Alex looks down at his phone and turns hurriedly, saying something over his
shoulder to Liam as he rushes away. Liam catches Henry’s eye and shakes his head,
simultaneously smiling and rolling his eyes.
“Well,” says June, “I’d better go see what’s going on. I wonder if there’s any of that pizza left that
the polling people got. I’ll see you in a bit.” Henry waves her off, and watches her fondly as she
walks away. Suddenly, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around. It’s Liam.

“Howdy,” Liam says, in a whiskey-warm Texas drawl, smooth and sweet as Kentucky bourbon.
“Prince Henry, right? You probably saw me lookin’ at you. I’m—”

“Liam,” says Henry, finishing his sentence. “Alex has told me all about you. I’m Henry Wales.”

“All about me?” says Liam. “Don’t believe the half of it. Alex sometimes shades things a little,
especially when he’s tellin' stories about old friends.” He scratches the bristly stubble on the
underside of his jaw. “I thought I should introduce myself, seein’ as how we have so much in
common. You’re in love with the guy I used to be in love with, back in the day.” The slight
emphasis seems directed to the dark-eyed man at his side. The man is good-looking, a bit on the
short side, and has curly black hair. He even has a hint of a chin dimple. It’s amazing, thinks
Henry, how first loves can mark our hearts. He thinks of his lovers after Rio, and realises that
almost every one of them had dark hair, brown eyes, and a deep tan.

Following Henry’s glance, Liam says, “Oh, I’m sorry—this is my boyfriend, Spencer.”

“It’s good to meet you, Your Royal Highness.” Spencer is one of the rare Americans who actually
seems to know Henry’s correct title. Henry extends his hand with a smile.

“It’s good to meet you both,” he says, as they shake hands with him in turn. “Please, call me
Henry. After all, Liam, you’re right—we do have a lot in common.”

“Probably mostly Alex,” says Liam. “But you’ve gone a lot farther with him than I ever did. Must
be because his feelings for you are so much deeper than they were for me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Henry. “You still hold a very special place in his heart.”

“Yeah,” says Liam, “the kind of place reserved for old friends you see once in a while and then
don’t think about for a year. That’s what Alex and I have become to each other.”

Henry has a strong suspicion that Liam is trying to be reassuring, both to him and to Spencer. But it
also seems genuine. Whatever Liam’s feelings for Alex may once have been, they were obviously
nothing compared to what he now feels for Spencer. Liam reaches over and gives Spencer’s hand a
little squeeze, and Spencer smiles and squeezes back.

“I’m sure Alex was thrilled to see you here tonight,” says Henry. “And I’m so glad finally to be
able to put a face with a name.” He finds himself liking Liam. Actually, he likes him very much.
And Spencer seems like a real sweetheart. Henry imagines his affection must be rather restful after
the frenetic uncertainty it sounds like Alex put Liam through.

They fall into easy conversation, and Liam says something vague about getting together over the
weekend. “Alex said we should hang out Saturday or Sunday. I hope you’ll still be in town, Prince
—I mean, Henry,” he corrects himself.

“That would be nice,” says Henry. “I really would like that. I want to hear all the stories about
Alex as a child that June is too loyal to tell.”

“Oh, I can tell you stories that’ll have Alex beggin’ for mercy,” says Liam. “He’ll be turnin' fifty
shades of beet-red.” Henry grins.

“As long as Her Majesty can spare her favorite grandson that long,” says Spencer.

“Oh, my brother is always on call,” says Henry, and the two Texans laugh.

“You’re lucky,” says Liam. “I never had a brother—just a big sister. That’s part of what drew me
and Alex together—that feelin’ of shared sufferin’.”

Henry hears a throat clearing behind him, and turns round to see Shaan. “The President would like
a word with Your Royal Highness,” says Shaan.

“Of course,” Henry says. “It was good to meet you both,” he says to Liam and Spencer. “I hope
we’ll be seeing each other this weekend.”

“Likewise,” says Liam, raising the beer bottle he has just taken from a passing waiter’s tray.

When Henry gets to the roped-off VIP area, Ellen greets him with a kiss on the cheek, but her eyes
never leave the monitor where CNN is posting returns. Zahra, seemingly only half-aware of
Shaan’s presence beside her, is watching another screen. Steve Kornacki of MSNBC is analyzing
polling projections, while Rachel Maddow and Brian Williams discuss voting trends with Nicolle
Wallace and Joy Reid.

“This has been a night of surprises, Brian,” says Nicolle. “Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania were
all predicted to go blue, but Ohio is solidly in the Republican column, and Michigan looks like it
may be there in a few minutes too.”

“But here’s something weird,” says Joy. “For the first time in decades, Florida looks like it might
actually be in play. I used to live in Florida and I know they can be unpredictable down there, but I
don’t think anyone saw this coming.”

“A night of surprises indeed,” says Brian. “But if there’s one thing the American voter has taught
us, it’s that they always have more to teach us.”

“How’s it looking on the Big Board, Steve?” asks Rachel.

“We’re still waiting for some of these rural counties to report in,” he says.

Zahra has been following every word intently. There is a barely-contained energy emanating from
her, like a spring tightened almost to the breaking point. “Come on, you backyard shooting-range
motherfuckers,” she mutters.

Henry whispers to Alex, who has just come over to join them, “Did she just say backyard shooting-
range? Is that a real thing a person can have?”

Oscar must have very sharp ears, because he smiles at Henry’s question, though not unkindly.
“You really have a lot to learn about America, mijo,” he says.

A map of Florida fills the monitor, and there is a groan as the state turns red.

“Nora, what’s the math?” asks June. “I majored in nouns.”

Nora starts a detailed explanation of potential Electoral College combinations. June snaps, “I am
familiar with how the Electoral College works!” Henry wonders if Nora’s analysis had been at
least partly for his benefit, but she is distracted by another matter. She says to June, “You’re kinda
hot when you get all indignant,” shooting her a sultry look.

Alex says impatiently, “Can we focus?”

“Okay,” says Nora. “So, right now we can get over 270 with Texas or Nevada and Alaska
combined. Richards has to get all three of those. So nobody is out of the game yet.”

“So we have to get Texas now?” asks June bleakly. As Alex had pointed out in his speech earlier
tonight, it’s been over forty years since Texas went blue. There’s a possibility, but it’s an outside
chance.

“Not unless they call Nevada,” says Nora, “which never happens this early.”

In his peripheral vision, Henry notices the image on the CNN monitor changing. Anderson
Cooper’s smoothly handsome face framed by its signature white hair fills the screen, and the
chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screen is proclaiming, BREAKING NEWS. Anderson is
replaced by a map of Nevada, currently coloured grey. But even as Henry watches, the state turns
bright red, and the screen proclaims, NEVADA: RICHARDS.

Henry swivels his eyes to the MSNBC monitor, and sees the three female anchors staring at the
returns, stunned disbelief on their faces. Rachel Maddow, who sometimes struggles with her
emotions onscreen, looks like she’s about to cry. In his blue shirt and rumpled khakis, Steve
Kornacki says, “We really thought Claremont had a chance to take Nevada, but when the results
from those rural, conservative counties started coming in—”

Alex speaks for all of them when he yells, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Henry wants to make sure that he perfectly understands the situation. After all, he’s a foreigner—
what does he know about the Electoral College? He asks carefully, “So, now it’s essentially—”

“Whoever wins Texas,” says Alex grimly, “wins the presidency.”

They all look at each other. Though the mood of the room had lightened considerably when
Claremont pulled ahead half-an-hour ago, it now feels like all the lights have suddenly dimmed. A
low rumble whispers across the room, and Henry hears a single word, over and over again: Texas…
Texas… Texas… Henry thinks back over the past thirteen months since Philip’s wedding, and
wonders how it has all led to this moment.

June stands abruptly and announces, “I’m gonna go stress-eat the cold pizza the polling people
have. Sound good? Cool.” She walks away, a bit too fast for someone who only wants to get
something to eat—more like someone who is afraid of breaking down publicly.

By twelve-thirty, they’re huddled in a tight little circle, as if there were a clock ticking away behind
them attached to a bomb which will explode once its countdown is completed. Alex is slumped
against Henry, not speaking, not moving except for his chest as he breathes. His hand tightly
clutching Henry’s almost hurts, but Henry does not disengage from it. Instead, he puts his opposite
arm around Alex’s waist to draw him in closer, despite the stifling heat blanketing the hall. Henry
can feel sweat beading on his forehead, and his shirt collar is damp against his neck. But Alex only
nestles in closer. He shuts his eyes and releases one shuddering breath.

Suddenly, there is a commotion from the end of the hall. Alex opens his eyes, sitting up. President
Claremont has been pacing around the perimeter of their little circle, but now she strides into their
midst as June runs up, pulling a woman in a poll volunteer’s T-shirt along.

June’s voice is shaky. “Y’all—Molly just—she just came from—fuck, just tell them!”

Molly says to President Claremont, “We think you’ve got the votes.”

The President grabs Molly’s arm and demands, “You think or you know?” Her eyes are blazing.

Molly says, “I mean, we’re pretty sure—”

“How sure?” interrupts the President. It’s the voice that makes dictators cower.

Molly says, “Well, they just counted another ten thousand ballots from Harris County—”

“Oh, my God,” breaks in Alex.

Pointing to the monitor, Henry says, “Wait, look—”

Anderson Cooper can’t quite contain his smile as he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re getting
ready to call Texas. Just a word of reminder: whoever wins Texas wins the White House.”

“Shut up, asshole,” yells a preppy-looking guy with a heavy New England accent. Though he looks
nothing like him, there’s something about the man that reminds Henry of Philip. “Just announce it,
for Christ’s sake.” Several people shush him—they need to hear.

A grey Texas fills the screen. Then five seconds later, the colour changes—to blue. Henry hears a
voice which is unmistakably Shaan’s with its distinctive Indian accent. He quotes Ruby from
earlier in the evening: “Well, I will be mother-fucked!”

That’s twice in one night he’s heard Shaan swear. It has to be a record—one he will never let
Shaan live down. In the meantime, Zahra pulls Shaan to her and starts kissing him feverishly, and
the two of them sink down behind a pile of CLAREMONT/HOLLERAN 2020 yard signs.

Henry looks down at Alex, who just seems stunned. Then he watches Alex’s face transfigure right
before his eyes—awestruck wonder, then delirious, almost idiotic joy. (He will not see Alex’s face
similarly transformed until the first time Alex holds their newborn son in his arms.)

Tears are welling in Alex’s eyes, and a couple are starting to slip down his cheeks. Henry can feel
tears in his own eyes as well. He takes Alex’s face into his hands and kisses him, slowly and gently
at first, but with gradually mounting passion. Their tongues touch. He can taste the beer Alex has
been nursing for the last half-hour, and he’s pretty sure Alex can taste the pizza June had brought
him when she heard his empty stomach rumble.

Then Henry gives a sudden, piercing whoop!, and shoves Alex into his family’s arms. Alex
disappears into a sea of arms and sobbing faces, giving Henry a chance to look out over the crowd
once he has wiped his own eyes.

He sees Liam and Spencer smile and raise their beer bottles in a silent toast, Rafael Luna throwing
campaign pamphlets into the air, Alex’s Secret Service Agent Amy waving her mobile around so
the person on the other end can witness the excitement. Cash, Alex’s other Secret Service Agent, is
actually dancing on a chair, and Henry thinks of Pez and June dancing on the table at the karaoke
bar in LA. He wishes Pez were here to see this, and he wishes Ken were at his side as well—with
his love of history, Ken would revel in all this. He might even be joining Cash for a quick two-step.
Happy pandemonium reigns over the crowd, and a net attached to the ceiling releases, dropping an
avalanche of balloons and confetti.
Suddenly Alex is fetching up against him, propelled by the dancing crowd. Alex is laughing and
sobbing at the same time, and he throws his arms around Henry, the one stable anchor in the
mounting chaos. Henry takes a breath and says, “I need to tell you something.”

Alex looks at him expectantly.

“I bought a brownstone,” he says. “In Brooklyn.”

Alex stares at him blankly for a second, and then, he begins to cry harder—if that could even be
possible. He throws himself against Henry’s chest and sobs, his tears staining Henry’s new tie.
Henry doesn’t care—tears are running down his own face as well. Alex manages to choke out,
“You didn’t.”

Henry says, “I did.” They hold each other and kiss deeply once more, their hands running up and
down each other’s bodies. As they break apart, Alex glances down, grins, and whistles the opening
bars of God Save the Queen. They both start laughing.

Suddenly, they hear Zahra’s voice, crisp and authoritative despite her streaming mascara and the
lipstick smeared across her chin. Henry sees Shaan standing behind her and his jaw drops. Shaan’s
impeccably-styled hair has been twisted into messy clumps and is falling in his eyes, and lipstick is
smeared across his open collar. Dear God, is his fly half-open?

“Okay people,” announces Zahra. “Victory speech in fifteen. Places. Let’s go!”

Henry pushes Alex towards his family again, into the little corral they have made behind the
curtain. June and Leo and Oscar are there, Nora with her parents and grandparents, and square in
the center, President Claremont. Even as Henry watches from the wings, he sees the newly
reelected President straighten her shoulders, ready to bear the burden of the Presidency for another
four years. Henry can feel his heart swelling, bursting, with pride and joy and love.

Then he sees Alex and June waving him over, to come join them. Alex yells, “Come on!” Nora
yells, “Get your ass over here, Wales, or I’ll come kick it!” She would, too.

Then President Claremont looks at him and smiles, and she nods too. “Come join us, Henry,” she
calls. “You’re family now.”
He looks down at himself. He pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his sweaty forehead and
streaming eyes, blots his soaked tie as best he can, and buttons his jacket. Then he sticks out his
jaw and strides out to join them.

He only half-listens to President Claremont’s victory speech; mostly, he is just aware of the hot,
messy, sweaty, and abso-fucking-lutely sexy body pressed against his. He steals one look into those
chocolate-brown eyes with their thick black fringe, and sees that they are still wet, but they are also
shining with love. Alex whispers one word: “Brooklyn.” He leans his head against Henry’s
shoulder.

Henry suddenly remembers meeting Alex in Rio, and falling truly, madly, deeply, and irrevocably
in love at the sight of those beautiful eyes, all in a single moment. He thinks of the dazzling smile
Alex had given him when he recognised Henry, and as Alex stood sneering at him at Philip’s
wedding, Henry remembers thinking of that smile and saying to himself, Probably the last one of
those I’ll ever see. Christ, he loves being wrong.

Once the speech is over, the crowd gives one last, rousing cheer, then settles down to the serious
business of eating, getting drunk, and finding a partner to get laid tonight. Even the TV crews are
working on the next morning’s hangover before they start packing up their equipment. Only the
reporters from the various news networks are staying sober, looking for someone to interview who
might let slip some indiscreet comment—a likelihood which becomes increasingly more likely
with every alcoholic beverage consumed.

When Henry comes back from a trip to the men’s room, he finds Alex deep in conversation with
Liam and Spencer. “Okay, a six-pack and we’ll get them back to you in the morning. You got a
way home?”

“That’s why God created Uber,” says Liam. “After all the beer I’ve had, that’s probably a good
idea anyway.” He pulls out his mobile.

Alex turns to Henry and says, “Hey, babe. You up for a little exercise?”
 An Ending, a Beginning
Chapter Summary

Alex takes Henry to the house in Austin after Ellen's triumphant win. But what
happened once they got inside?

Chapter Notes

This series was originally going to end with this chapter, but I've already written one
epilogue, and a second is in the works. In fact, I have so many ideas for those early
days of their life together, I may just have to write a "Volume II"! Stay tuned!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It takes twenty minutes to reach Pemberton Heights, and Alex leads the Prince of England up onto
the high curb of a neighborhood in Old West Austin and shows him where to throw his bike in the
yard, spokes still spinning little shadow lines across the grass. The sounds of expensive leather
soles on the cracked front steps of the old house on Westover don’t sound any stranger than his
own boots. Like coming home.

He steps back and watches Henry take it all in—the butter-yellow siding, the big bay window, the
handprints in the sidewalk. Alex hasn’t been inside this house since he was twenty. They pay a
family friend to look after it, wrap the pipes, run the water. They can’t bear to let it go. Nothing’s
changed inside, just been boxed up…

Alex reaches down into the front of his dress shirt and finds the chain with his fingers, pulls it out
carefully. The ring, the key.

Under winter clouds, victorious, he unlocks the door.

The night is split by a shrieking alarm, and strobe lights begin to flash.

“Shit,” says Alex. “Fuck.”

The burglar alarm! He had forgotten about the fucking burglar alarm! He rushes into the dining
room to silence it, but his mind suddenly blanks. What the fuck is the goddam code?

He clearly remembers when his mother had the alarm installed—just after her first election to
Congress, when she knew she would be gone far more often than she ever was as a State
Representative. June was just starting middle school, and Leo was staying behind in Austin to
supervise them, only occasionally expecting to go to DC (little did he know).

Ellen had tried to think of a number she might use that no one would be likely to guess, but which
her children could easily memorize. (Yeah, remember, Alex? You’re supposed to know this. Mom
said, “Do you think you’ll be able to remember it, sugar?” and you said, “What do you think I
am, stupid? Of course I can remember!” Well, Alex, I guess the jury’s still out on just how stupid
you really are.)

Okay, think. It was her and Dad’s… anniversary? She said, “Now that I’m engaged to Leo, who
would think I’d use the anniversary of the day Oscar and I got engaged?” The memory of that
conversation immediately triggers the memory of the number. Feverishly, he programs in
12141988. As quickly as it had begun, the shrilling alarm stops, and the lights shut off.

Alex turns back to Henry, deeply embarrassed. “I’m sorry, babe,” he says. “I forgot the code, but
only for a second.”

When Alex had shrieked into the phone at the sound of Cornbread gobbling, almost a year ago,
Henry made a joke about being struck deaf. Alex wonders if this time it has actually happened.
Henry’s eyes are almost screwed shut—he started squinting as soon as the lights started flashing.
But now he opens them fully and slowly looks around, taking everything in.

And once again, Alex is so embarrassed he wants to sink through the floor. He had just thought,
out on the porch, Nothing’s changed inside, just been boxed up…

Truer words have never been thought or spoken. In the faint glow from the streetlights, they see
them: boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes. A veritable Mount Rushmore of boxes. In the dining
room. In the living room. In the kitchen. Alex can barely see the window seat where he used to curl
up to write, then tuck the pages under the cushion. The cushion is gone now, and even more boxes
are piled on the window seat itself.

Way to go, Alex, he thinks. You brought Henry all the way out here to this mess, just so we can turn
around and ride straight back. I guess Liam and Spencer will get their bikes back sooner than they
were expecting. Wait, that’s right: Liam and Spencer were calling an uber to get back home. Alex
and Henry are supposed to return the bikes (along with a six-pack) tomorrow.

“God, Henry,” says Alex. “I am so sorry. And embarrassed.”

“What?” says Henry, as if he’s still not sure if he can hear correctly. “Whatever for?”

Alex spreads his hands wide in a helpless gesture, indicating the mess, the boxes, the dark, the
complete chaos all around them. “This!” he nearly shouts. “All motherfucking this! I drag you
halfway across town, act like we’re going to visit a holy shrine or something, and I can’t even
invite you to have a seat! There’s no goddam place to sit!”

“What are you talking about?” says Henry. “I think it’s lovely.”

“Stop being nice to me,” says Alex. “I fucked up.” He is perilously close to tears. He almost never
cries, but all the emotion earlier in the evening seems to have opened a floodgate.

“Alex, listen to me,” says Henry. “Remember how I spent a month of my gap year communing
with yaks in Mongolia? I slept in a goatskin tent, and when I asked where the toilet was, they
handed me a little garden trowel and told me to dig a hole and not to forget to cover when I was
done, like I was Mr. Wobbles in the litter box. And when I asked about loo paper, they told me just
to use a handful of grass. This place has running water, doesn’t it?” Alex nods. “Then right there,
it’s a palace. And I know for a fact that there’s electricity. My ears are still ringing.”

Alex reluctantly laughs.

“A few months from now,” says Henry, “we’ll be moving into the brownstone. I expect we’ll be
up to our clavicles in boxes when we first move in. Right now, I want to see your old bedroom.”

“It’s upstairs,” says Alex, “but I’m sure everything is packed up—”

“I want to see it,” repeats Henry. “You’ve stood at my bedroom window and looked out at the
world that for years has been the first thing I’ve seen in the morning. I want to look out your
bedroom window, and see the world that greeted your eyes while you were growing up. I want to
lie on my back and stare at the ceiling and feel like I’m lying on that bed with young Alex,
listening to him dreaming his big dreams and planning his future… And then I want to make love
to you on your old mattress. Never thought you’d be having sex with royalty on it, did you?”

“Pervert,” says Alex with a smile. It may be a little weak and wavering, but it’s still a smile.

“Speaking of activities on your mattress,” says Henry, “I meant to tell you. I like Liam. And after
meeting him, I can see that it’s no great surprise you find me devilishly attractive; I seem to be
your type. Don’t you think I have a look of him? Blond, broad-shouldered, good-looking—tall? He
looks like what I might have looked like if I’d been born in Texas instead of London.”

Alex wants to say, What do you mean, my type? I don’t have a type—you’re the first guy I ever fell
for. But honesty compels him to admit that Henry is right. Alex had thought much the same thing
in the convention hall that evening. He wishes with all his heart that he could tease Henry in return
about himself obviously being Henry’s type, but to his knowledge, he’s never met one of Henry’s
exes. And he certainly hasn’t come across many Mexicans in aristocratic circles.

They run up the stairs in the dark, and Alex gestures at a door, saying, “This is my bedroom.” He
switches on the ceiling fan, and the dome light in the center flashes on as well. Alex hurriedly pulls
the chain to shut the light off, but Henry couldn’t have missed it. The mattress leans uncovered
against the wall, its stains and splotches mute evidence of Alex’s puberty.

“Let’s pull the mattress down onto the floor,” says Henry. “Every minute, this is getting more like
how I imagine our first few days in the brownstone will be. It’s quite exciting.”

“Henry, I’m sorry about the matt—” says Alex, but Henry stops him.

“Hush,” says Henry. “I was an adolescent boy too, remember? And I’ll bet that at least your
parents bought your mattress new. I had an old horsehair-stuffed monstrosity that had originally
been purchased for one of Queen Victoria’s sons back in the 1850’s.”

“Are you kidding me?” asks Alex.

“I swear to God,” says Henry. “I told you Gran is cheap. I only managed to get it replaced when I
came into my money from Dad and could buy a new one for myself. I made them burn the old one
in front of me. I was afraid they’d palm it off on some innocent servant.”

They pull the mattress down onto the bare space in the center of the room, and Henry stretches out
on it. “There, you see?” he says. “Luxury fit for a King. Or for a prince, in this case.”

Alex swallows what feels suspiciously like a lump in his throat and says, “I… totally love you.”

“And I totally love you, too,” says Henry. “But why in particular do you love me tonight? I’m
always up for a recital of my many attractions.”

“You’re amazing,” says Alex. “I bring you to this, and you act like we’re in a five-star hotel.”

“This is better,” says Henry. “I’ve just had one of the most brilliant nights of my entire life, and
I’m here in the boyhood home of the man I love, in the bed I’m going to insist you used to
fantasize about me in, whether you did or not. And I can think of a better way to spend this time
than discussing the level of accommodation. It suits me just fine.” He pulls Alex down for a kiss,
but Alex suddenly breaks away.

“Wait one minute,” he says, jumping up and running down the hall. He returns a moment later with
two pillows and a blanket.

“I just remembered,” says Alex. “When Mom would strip the guest room bed after company had
left, she always stuck the pillows and blankets into the dresser drawers until the sheets were
washed and we remade the bed. I thought they might be there, and I was right!”

“I told you,” said Henry. “Better than the George Cinq. Now, get your arse down here.”

***

When Alex opens his eyes, Henry is watching him from the next pillow, a gentle smile on his face.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says.

“Good morning,” says Alex. He sits up and yawns. His old mattress on the floor really hadn’t been
half bad, and he and Henry had explored its possibilities vigorously. They had just fallen asleep a
few hours ago, but the sunlight peeking through the shades has awakened them. He turns to Henry
and repeats what he had said the night before. “Hey,” he says. “We won.”

“Yeah,” says Henry, a proud, soft smile on his face. “We won. And so did your mum.”

Alex is so shocked by his forgetfulness that he literally smacks his forehead. “Oh, my God,” he
says. “My mother! She’s probably wondering where we are. And I’ll bet Cash is having a cow.”
He fumbles in his pants pocket and finds his phone, and sure enough there’s a text from his
mother: CALL ME NOW. That is a direct order from your newly-reminted President, a.k.a your
MOTHER. I gave you life. Don’t make me take it back.
“We’re in deep shit,” says Alex.

“The more time I spend with you, the more I grow accustomed to the location,” says Henry. “And
to think I used to say my life was boring and predictable.” He nods towards a box. “Speaking of
shit, what do you suppose is in there?” On the front of the box, printed in Alex’s anonymous block
capitals, it reads: TROPHIES, POSTERS, AND MISC. SHIT. “I wonder what President Obama
would say, knowing that his poster is classified in that category.”

Alex laughs and shrugs. “You’ll see him at the inauguration,” he says. “You can ask him.”

“I wonder if the Prime Minister will let me come,” says Henry. “The Royal Family is supposed to
be apolitical.”

“Hey, you came to the vote tally last night, and you were rooting for our side. Not exactly
apolitical,” says Alex. “Besides, I don’t think that’s really possible when you’re ‘in courtship’ with
the President’s son. By the way, what does ‘in courtship’ mean, exactly? I never heard the phrase
until I got involved with a Royal.”

“It’s kind of an invented category, and it can mean pretty much anything we want it to,” says
Henry. “I think, basically, you might say it means we’re ‘pre-engaged.’ I’m not allowed to get
officially betrothed without the Queen’s permission until I’m twenty-five, and though in theory
Gran decides, the Prime Minister has to sign off on it too. This one is a Conservative, so it may not
be as easy as we hoped unless we’re prepared to wait a couple of years.”

Alex wonders if Henry can see the nervousness in his eyes. Probably—Henry knows him too well
to miss it. Alex knows what he wants for their future, and he hopes Henry wants the same thing,
but... But he was once a frightened adolescent boy sneaking Helados from his father’s freezer.
Inside, some part of him is still that same boy, the one who thought love must always last forever
but who had found out from his parents that sometimes it doesn’t. He doesn’t want to push Henry
into anything, anything, unless they are both one thousand percent sure about it.

“I know the one time the words future husband slipped out, but I don’t want to hold you to
anything we might both have said merely in the stress of the moment—after all, I thought you had
just nearly been killed,” says Alex. “But unless you’re one hundred percent sure… Do you … do
you really, really want to marry me one day?” says Alex.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Henry. “I thought that maybe in a couple of years, when I’m twenty-five,
if we have a free day and nothing much to do, a trip to a Registry Office might be a way to while
away an afternoon.” He smiles, squeezing Alex’s hand. “Of course I want to marry you, you idiot.
I fell in love with you the moment you turned around and turned those eyes on me in Rio. I literally
went weak in the knees. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my balance and fall into the pool.” Alex giggles.
“Why?” says Henry. “Are you having doubts?”

“Fuck, no,” says Alex. “Shit. I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve. I…” He blushes.

“Alex,” says Henry, “let me be crystal clear about something. I’m not one hundred percent sure
about marrying you—it’s a thousand percent. And the term with which you won me was not future
husband, it was futurehusbandfuturehusbandfurutrehusband, and it was part of the filthiest and
most furious proposal in history. I said at the time I couldn’t possibly say no to that. I still feel the
same, and I hope you do too.”

Alex closes his eyes in relief. “Of course I do. Will marrying me affect your royal status?”

“I suppose it could, but now that Philip’s talking about children, I’m going to move down the
pecking order, so the PM may not bother to put up a fuss. And after people staged protests outside
the Daily Mail when they outed us, I don’t know if she’d want the political consequences. Then of
course, since your mum’s the President, telling us no could affect US/UK relations.”

“Will your Gran say no?” asks Alex.

“Not unless she wants Mum to make good on her threat to force her to abdicate,” says Henry.

Alex stretches and prepares to stand up. “Okay. Give me a kiss and let’s get moving.”

“Sorry,” says Henry. “If we’re going to be living together, there’s something you need to know
about me. I have one inflexible rule about physical intimacy: I refuse to kiss anyone before we’ve
both brushed our teeth. Of all the non-lethal conditions to which this mortal flesh is heir, I consider
morning mouth the most toxic.”

“Worse than boogers?” asks Alex.

“Let’s not get into grossness comparisons,” says Henry. “Suffice it to say, no kissing without
brushing. That’s it.”
Alex thinks for a moment. “How about blowjobs?” he asks. “We don’t have to kiss each other on
the mouth for that.”

Henry laughs and says, “Christ, you should become a lawyer. That brain never stops working, does
it? And your arguments turn hair-splitting into a fine art. I will only say this in reply: no blowjobs
until I have a chance to use the toilet.”

“Come to think of it, me too,” says Alex. “Race you to the bathroom!”

“Since I don’t know where it is, I bet you’ll win,” says Henry.

“Man, it sucks being you, doesn’t it?” Alex runs down the hall.

After Alex flushes and Henry starts using the facilities, Alex briefly disappears, then returns
holding something aloft. He announces, “Ta-da!” In his hand is a small, travel-sized bottle of
mouthwash. “It was in Mom and Leo’s medicine cabinet. It’s not a toothbrush, but will this do?”

Henry grins. “I suppose, just this once. And as I said last night, better than the George Cinq.”

“By the way,” says Alex, “since it’s named after your ancestor, do you get a discount?”

“The next time we go to Paris, we’ll have to stay there and find out.” They both rinse, gargle, and
spit, then Henry turns to Alex and pulls him close, in a pose like the cover picture of a Regency
romance. He says, “Kiss me, you fool!” As they kiss, Henry suddenly breaks away and asks, “Do I
hear sirens?”

They go back to the bedroom, and sure enough, there is a patrol car with flashing lights pulled up
outside. The officer has left his vehicle and is cautiously circling the bikes on the lawn.

Alex stares, then opens the window and calls, “Mike?”

The policeman looks up and grins. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “I should have known. I heard you were
in town. How the fuck are you, man? Congrats on your mom’s victory, by the way.”

“Thanks,” says Alex. “Wow. Who’d have thought? The shit you used to pull back in high school,
and here you are a cop. Doesn’t the Academy do background checks?”

“Fortunately, juvie records are sealed,” says the young man. He pauses, then says shyly, “Where’s
the Prince? I saw him onstage with you last night. Is he still in town?”

“He’s right here,” says Alex happily. “Henry, get your ass over here. This is Mike Rodriguez, the
biggest troublemaker in the history of the Austin City School System. As you probably figured out,
we grew up together.”

Henry hesitantly approaches the window—hesitantly, because he and Alex are both nude, and the
window is barely waist-high. “How do you do, Officer,” says Henry. “Please forgive my state of
undress. I’m normally more formally clothed when I meet people.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” says Alex. “I’ve seen Mike naked lots of times. We used to shower
together after gym class. Speaking of school, how’s Julie? You still seeing her?”

“No,” says Mike. “She went to Fort Worth for college and we kind of lost touch.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, man,” says Alex. “How about now? You seeing anyone I know?”

“As a matter of fact,” says Mike. “Um—remember Steve Kramer? We’re kind of an item now.”

Alex’s eyes grow wide. “Really?” he says. “You and Steve?” He turns to Henry. “Henry, these two
were the biggest jocks in the senior class—lettermen and everything.”

“Did you say they were jockeys?” says Henry, bewildered. “Usually, they’re smaller—”

“No, it means—never mind, I’ll tell you later,” says Alex. He turns back to the window. “You and
Steve,” he says to Mike. “Shit.”
“I thought for sure you figured it out that I was bi,” says Mike. “You used to look at me funny in
the locker room sometimes, and I thought you’d felt me checking you out.”

“More likely the other way around,” says Alex. “I probably was afraid you’d seen me looking.”

“If only we’d known,” laughs Mike. “Maybe we could have gotten together.”

“Speaking of which,” says Alex, “Henry and I are meeting Liam and his boyfriend this weekend.
Maybe instead of a foursome, you could join us for a—Henry, what do you call it when it’s six
guys, not four?”

“A sextet, but in this case, just calling it an orgy should do,” says Henry solemnly.

Mike’s face turns scarlet. “Uh, thanks,” he says, “but Steve and I aren’t really into…” Then
something in Alex’s eyes prompts a grin. “You shit,” says Mike. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Gotcha!” laughs Alex. “You should have seen your face.”

“Your Highness,” says Mike to Henry, “you seem like a nice guy. Do you really want to spend
your life with someone like Stinky here?”

“It’s a filthy, beastly job,” says Henry, “but I consider it my duty to humanity to do it. Noblesse
oblige.” Then he asks, “Stinky?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Mike. “That’s what we called him back in elementary school. There was this field
trip to a museum when we were in fourth grade. I was sick that day and missed it, but I heard the
next day that on the bus ride home, Alex—"

“For the love of Christ,” says Alex, “and for the last motherfucking time, that was Adam
Villanueva, not me. Jesus.”

“Hey, I know what I heard,” says Mike.

“Don’t you have a bank robbery to go solve or something?” asks Alex.

Mike laughs. “You’re right, I do have to go. Alex, it was great seeing you. Please tell your mother
how happy I am about her win. I voted for her. My parents and Steve, too.”

“Really?” says Alex. Mike’s father had been the chairman of the local Republican party.

“Yeah,” says Mike. “We thought what Richards did to you guys was shit. It ain’t right to mess with
a Texas boy like that. Or anyone else, for that matter,” he adds, nodding to Henry.

“Thank you, Mike,” says Henry.

“It was great to meet you, Your Highness,” says Mike. “And remember what I said. If you decide
to dump this guy, everyone at Austin High will totally understand.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Henry. “And please, call me Henry. That’s what my friends do.”

“Henry,” says Mike. “The Prince of England just told me to call him by his first name, and he
knows mine. All because of Stinky. Jesus.”

“His personal hygiene has greatly improved,” says Henry. “He always smells great now.”

“Good to know,” says Mike. “Maybe I’ll rethink Alex’s proposition.” He grins, then turns back to
Alex. “Call your mother,” he says. “She’s gonna make the Secret Service do a citywide manhunt if
she doesn’t hear from you pretty soon. The security company reported a break-in last night, but
when the alarm shut off, they figured it was just a malfunction. But then when one of your
neighbors reported the bikes, we had to check it out.”

“Thanks, Mike,” says Alex. “Will do. Tell Steve I said hi.”

As Mike drives away, Alex turns to Henry, who is looking at him with a sly smile. Henry says,
“Stinky?”
“Call me that again,” says Alex, “and the royal family is going to be short one spare heir. That
nickname was the nightmare of my life for those last few weeks of fourth grade before summer
vacation.”

“Sorry,” says Henry. “I couldn’t resist that once, but I’ll never call you that again. Besides, it’s not
accurate—as I told Mike, you always smell great. I love that musky, masculine fragrance.”

“What fragrance?” says Alex. “I don’t wear cologne.”

“I know,” says Henry with a wink and a leer. “I think of it as ‘Essence of Alex.’”

“Shut up, you jerkoff,” says Alex affectionately. Henry says nothing, merely looks down at the
mattress on the floor. “Shut up,” repeats Alex, blushing. He playfully jabs Henry’s midsection.

Henry laughs and says, “You just wanted to watch me tighten my sixpack.” Then he grows serious
and says, “Okay, enough lascivious flirtation. Time to face the music. I should check my phone
too.” He scrolls through his accumulated messages, and says, “Uh-oh. There’s a bunch of stuff
from—let’s see…” He shakes his head. “Nineteen missed calls from Bea, eight from Philip, eleven
from my mother, two from Ken, and one from my grandmother. I didn’t know she even knew how
to text. Let me check that one first.” He reads it and says, “Oh, Christ.”

“Is she angry?” asks Alex.

“Let’s put it this way,” says Henry. “I’m glad she no longer can order me to the Tower or impose
the death penalty. And that I’ll always have Dad’s money to fall back on. Christ.” For the first
time, Henry actually looks a bit uneasy.

“What does Ken say?” asks Alex.

Henry reads it aloud: “’I should have known I’d be a fool to leave you in the hands of the Secret
Service, since they may not realise just how devious you and Alex can be when you get together.
Since he’s missing too, I assume the two of you are off on some adventure, but everyone here is
FRANTIC about what has happened to you. Please reply IMMEDIATELY on receipt of this text.’”
Henry scans the next and says, “More of the same. I’d better answer.”

He types, Not to worry. We’re fine. Hope you slept well after all of yesterday’s excitement. Yours,
Telemachus. The reply arrives within seconds. Tell Alex to call the President ASAP. As for you,
wherever you are, stay put. Cash and I will be right there as soon as we get the go-ahead from
President Claremont. Kenneth Lewis. Now Henry really looks worried. “He didn’t sign as Mentor,
and I think this is the first time he’s ever referred to himself as Kenneth. He must be furious.”
Henry adds gloomily, “Deep shit indeed. You’d better call your mother.”

Alex says as he calls up his mother’s private number and hits the phone symbol, “I just hope she
doesn’t have me waterboarded.” There is an ominous silence when his mother picks up. Obviously,
Caller ID tells her it’s him, but the silence stretches, seemingly without end. Finally, she says
tonelessly, “Alexander.” Her lack of emotion is somehow even more frightening.

“Gee, Mom,” says Alex. “You sound just like Queen Mary. That’s what she calls me.”

“Speaking of whom,” says Ellen, “I presume Henry is there with you? I just finished speaking with
the Royal Family.” Henry swallows audibly. “Henry, your mother wants you to call her.”

“Mom—” Alex begins, but she interrupts him.

“Shut up, Alexander,” she says. “Listen to me. After some FBI and Secret Service grilling and
water-boarding” (Alex mouths “Told you” to Henry), “Liam and Spencer confessed to letting you
borrow their bikes. I asked myself where you could possibly be going on a bike, and then I knew:
you’re at the house. I don’t know how you could have taken Henry into that chaos, or how you
could add to your mother’s stress level on what was probably the most stressful night of her entire
life, with the possible exception of every single goddam night since you were born and started
driving me crazy every chance you got.” Lack of emotion in her voice is no longer an issue; it’s
building by the second. “Then when the security service called to say there was an alarm
notification at the house, I knew I was right.”

She pauses for a moment. “Don’t think for a moment that having Henry here will save you—I have
no compunction about punishing you in front of him. You’re grounded. For two weeks, or until
you’re old and grey, whichever comes second. Did you two even think twice about what might
have happened, sneaking off like that without protection? Some of those Richards people are
insane. They’d hurt you, even shoot and kill you, without losing a moment’s sleep.” Alex and
Henry turn pale. She’s right.

“Cash and Henry’s PPO are super pissed off with you,” continues Ellen. “Especially Cash. If
anything had happened, it would have been his ass, and he knows it. In fact, he should be fired
right now for not watching you more closely. But I haven’t decided—it’s not his fault you two are
dumbasses. For right now, I’m suspending him without pay. Until further notice.”
“Madam President—” says Henry, but Ellen cuts him off.

“You shut up too, Henry,” says Ellen calmly. “I know you’re not my son, but I spoke with Princess
Catherine this morning, and she told me to say that if you give me any lip. Shut up.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Henry miserably.

“She says to tell you you’re grounded too. Also for two weeks, just like Alex. She’s having Shaan
rearrange all your appointments until December, and I think Zahra wants a few words with you
about all the extra work you’re causing her fiancé. Oh, and before I forget, your brother says to tell
you he’s looking forward to having a ‘stern discussion’ with you about royal duty.”

“Wait a minute,” says Alex. He’s been thinking feverishly, trying to come up with a way to get
them out of this mess. “We’re adults. You guys can’t ground us.”

“We can, and we are,” says Ellen severely. “Need I remind you, Alexander, that you live under the
roof I have just been awarded authority over for another four years? Every stitch on your back,
every bite of food you put in your mouth, is provided by the President of the United States through
the generosity of the American people. As for you, Henry,” she continues, “Catherine says to tell
you that she consulted with the Queen, who said, and I quote, ‘He’s your son. Do whatever you
want with him, and I’ll back you up. If it were up to me, I’d send him to one of the dungeons in the
Tower to cool off while he considers his behaviour, but the government would resent the additional
security costs.’”

“That sounds about right,” mutters Henry. “Gran at her most loving.”

“So,” says Ellen. “Any questions?”

“No,” they say together.

“Really?” says Ellen. “I thought at least you would ask where you’re grounded to.”

“I assumed—“says Alex.
“I’m not having you at the White House enjoying all the victory parties,” says Ellen. “I thought
about confining you to the second floor on bread and water and making you watch the fun from the
top of the stairs, like a sad-faced little Victorian orphan, but I don’t want you spreading doom and
gloom wherever you go. Besides, June would probably sneak you leftover party food from the
kitchen.” A smile creeps into her voice. “I’m sending you to one of the resort islands on the Gulf
Coast. We found a little beachfront cottage, practically inaccessible except by boat, so Secret
Service will be able to guard you. And believe it or not, it has Wi-Fi. Cash and Henry’s PPO will
be by soon with two weeks’ worth of T-shirts, jeans, flip-flops, and swim trunks. I don’t think
you’ll need anything else.”

“Cash?” says Alex. “I thought he was suspended without pay.”

“Really, Alex, keep up,” says Ellen briskly. “I said until further notice. This is the further notice,
and as for pay, he’s salaried. Can you think of anything else you might need, Henry?”

“Me?” says Henry. “I thought—”

“I see what drew you together,” says Ellen. “You’re both as dumb as rocks. You’re going with
Alex. After these last couple of months, Catherine and I figured you both needed to decompress
from all the strain you’ve been under, what with being outed and the closing weeks of the
campaign for Alex, and that fence-mending tour you had to make, Henry. Catherine said you had
to kiss a lot of ass. Well, she said it in an English way, but that was the idea.”

They look at each other. In effect, what their mothers have given them is a two-week getaway
filled with sun, sand, and unlimited sex, despite their thoughtlessness the night before. They had
fantasized about such a trip, but with their schedules, they thought it would be next summer at the
earliest.

“Mom—” begins Alex, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t say anything, Alex. I can still change my mind.” The smile is definitely there. “Catherine
and I agreed that if it hadn’t been for the stress you went through with the Richards episode,
neither of you would ever have done anything so irresponsible. You both need some time away.
Oh, but Henry, before I forget, your mother says you got a message about picking up keys for a
brownstone in Brooklyn the week after next. She says you can go, and that your sister and your
friend Mr. Okonjo want to meet you there. Evidently he thinks he has to supervise the house’s
decorating because you have such bad taste, but he wants to see the place first so he can plan
renovations. I think June and Nora are planning to come camp out too.”
 Alex’s face falls at the idea of being left out of the fun “The Super Six”—or in this case, he should
probably say “The Fabulous Five”—will be enjoying. Ellen says, “I know you’re pouting, Alex,
but stop it. I said grounded, and I mean grounded.” She pauses, then relents. “Okay, you can go to
New York with Henry for the closing, but you’re to stay at the brownstone, not traipse all over
Manhattan going to restaurants and Broadway shows. If you’re really well-behaved, I’ll let you
both come to the White House for Thanksgiving. But cross me, and I’ll put the turkeys in your
room again, Alex—and this time, without cages.” Henry grins.

“Madam President,” he begins, “I don’t know what to say—”

“You don’t have to be so formal, Henry,” says Ellen. “My friends call me Ellen.” A beat, then she
adds, “Alex’s friends call me Ms. Claremont.”

“Yes, Ms. Claremont,” says Henry meekly. A horn sounds outside.

“That’ll be Cash and Henry’s PPO,” says Ellen. “Get some clothes on, you two, and make sure you
apologize. And no, I can’t see you, but I know you’re both buck naked. I was young once too.”

Exultant, they throw on last night’s clothes and run down the stairs. They’re about to fly out the
door when Alex stops. “Wait,” he says, “I have to set the burglar alarm.”

“Twelve-fourteen-nineteen-eighty-eight,” says Henry. In response to the look on Alex’s face, he

shrugs and says off-handedly, “I remember numbers. It’s a gift.” As the alarm announces in its
robotic voice, “Armed. Away. Exit now,” and starts its shrill blaring, they run outside. Alex pauses
only long enough to lock the door with the key on his necklace chain. Then, feeling as victorious as
they had the night before, they run into the next chapter of their lives.

Chapter End Notes

A few closing notes:

I'm not the first to note this, but there is no official category of "royal courtship."
Royals are either married, betrothed, or "His Royal Highness and the lady (or in this
case, gentleman) in question are merely very good friends." I think CMQ invented the
category partly because speculations about an engagement with someone with whom
one had been mortal enemies less than a year before would be considered premature,
to put it mildly, and partly because, my young friends inform me, Alex and Henry
belong to a generation that is even more commitment-shy than we Baby Boomers
were!
12-14-1988 is a small tribute to Bobbie, since just like Oscar and Ellen, it was the
night she and I became engaged. Fortunately, our marriage has proven to be longer-
lasting than theirs! By the way, I thought for sure that the first time she read this she
would be deeply touched by the detail, but she didn't even notice it! And one other
thing: 12-14 would be an easy sequence for Henry to remember, since it was on that
day in 1861 that Prince Albert died, and it became a day of Sacred Remembrance
within the family thereafter. When the future George VI (father of Elizabeth II)
happened to be born on that day in 1895, they were actually afraid to break the news to
Queen Victoria, because they knew she would be furious at the baby for horning in on
one of her (many) official Days of Grief.

Both Bobbie and my editor had the same objection to the notion of Ellen and
Catherine "grounding" the guys: "But they're not teenagers! They're too old to be
grounded!" Maybe so, but both are still officially living in the family home and being
supported by family resources, so I don't think either parent would have any problem
with laying down the law for their sons' thoughtlessness. Because no matter how you
look at it, it is as Ellen says, a very irresponsible thing to do, heading off without
protection and on bicycles into the dark. If you think Ellen and Catherine are upset,
wait until you read Cash and Ken's reaction!

Finally, I have always ended these notes by thanking my editor gaytriforce, and above
all, my wonderful wife, for all their encouragement and support. That stands as true as
it ever was. But I also have to thank each and every one of you who have read this
work and cheered me on as I was creating it. Knowing how much you were enjoying it
meant more to me than I have words to express! And above all, I must thank Casey
McQuiston, for creating and sharing these wonderful characters with us, and Venessa
Kelley, whose beautiful artwork helped me to SEE these two in ways that made them
very REAL to me, and helped me to get into Henry's head, at least to the extent that I
could! God bless you all!
 Epilogue: Gulf Coast Interlude
Chapter Summary

Henry and Alex emerge from the house in Pemberton Heights after the Election Night
victory, to find Cash and Ken waiting for them--and, understandably, furious. After a
severe dressing-down from their friends, Henry and Alex apologize--and then, later,
Ken and Cash exact their revenge. With peace restored and friendships repaired,
everyone enjoys a two-week vacation on the Gulf Coast.

Chapter Notes

Originally, this was where this was all going to end; but my brain kept on coming up
with additional episodes for their new life together in the brownstone, with all of the
joys (and stresses) of living with a lover (and, later, spouse) in those delicate and
sometimes difficult experiences of negotiation and compromise. What will it be like
for Henry without hot-and-cold-running servants on tap, and learning to live a middle-
class lifestyle, without the insulation of automatic royal deference and with all the
demands of celebrity? What will it be like for Alex, with the demands of law school,
passing the bar, and dealing with someone who (as Sarah Ferguson said of Prince
Andrew when they were first married) "has never even been to a grocery store"? The
new series, "A New Life, A New Land, A New Hope" will premiere this week, if I can
figure out how to make a linked series on AO3. Stay tuned!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The morning after the election, Henry and Alex run happily down the porch stairs of Alex’s old
home in Pemberton Heights. But their buoyant mood only lasts for about as long as it takes them to
settle into the back seat of the anonymous black van they find parked in the driveway. Cash is
behind the steering wheel, and Ken, Henry’s PPO, is seated beside him.

“Hey guys,” says Alex breezily, “sorry for scaring you by running off last night….” Cash gives
them a look in the rearview mirror, then silently puts the van into reverse and backs out of the
drive. Ken also says nothing—he merely stares straight ahead in stony silence.

“Good morning, Kenneth!” says Henry cheerily, using the formal name by which Ken signed his
text earlier this morning. If Alex can brazen this out, he can too.

“Your Royal Highness,” says Ken stiffly. He still hasn’t looked at them. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz.”
“Hey, Ken!” says Alex. “I thought Henry told you to call me Alex.”

Still looking straight ahead, Ken says, “If you so order it, Sir.” Henry looks at Ken’s reflection and
sees the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes and the tired droop of his shoulders. Even his hair
looks flat and dull. Henry would have expected a good night’s sleep to be more restorative, but he
knows that one often doesn’t sleep well in a strange bed.

“Ken, didn’t you like the bed in your room?” asks Henry.

“It was fine, Your Royal Highness,” he says. “At least for the brief time I was in it.”

Alex says, “You didn’t sleep in your own bed? You dog. I thought you were a married—” He
breaks off at the look of sheer fury Ken throws at him.

“I was not engaging in some vulgar, clandestine assignation,” says Ken. Both young men shrink at
the tone of Ken’s voice. “I would never behave so disrespectfully to the woman I love. No, I had
been asleep about two hours when the FBI and Secret Service came pounding on my door with Ms.
Bankston to see if you two were with me. Of course, you weren’t. Then I was up the rest of the
night with Cash and Amy, trying to think of every possibility for your location.”

“No one thought of Mom’s house?” asked Alex.

“Almost the first thing,” says Ken. “But Ms. Bankston pointed out that the house is halfway across
town, and the President said, ‘Not even my son would be such a dumbass as to travel that far,
especially through a crowd of angry Richards supporters. Besides, they don’t have any way to get
there.’”

“Oh, yeah,” says Alex. “I guess no one thought we would borrow bikes from my friend Liam.”

“Not until about four a.m.,” says Cash. “Then we found out what you’d done, but only after we
pounded on their door and woke them up. They’re pissed with you too for this whole incident.
Your friend Liam said, ‘Shit, my landlord has been looking for a way to evict the queers. Having
the FBI show up at four o’clock in the morning may just give him an excuse.’”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” says Alex in a small voice. He is obviously appalled at this potential

fallout from their behavior. In fairness, thinks Henry in desperate self-justification, Liam and
Spencer didn’t think of what might happen, either.

"Don't let me forget," says Cash to Ken. "We promised we'd get those bikes back to Liam and his
boyfriend."

“I take it you’re angry too,” says Henry miserably, as he shifts his gaze back to Ken.

“As always, Your Royal Highness, you are an exemplar of perception,” says Ken.

“Stop saying ‘Your Royal Highness’ as if it’s French for ‘you fucking arsehole!’” shouts Henry.
“Friends say what they really think, even if the truth does hurt.”

“Are we friends, Your Royal Highness?” asks Ken. “Friends wouldn’t treat each other in such a
cavalier manner. When I first came back into your service, one of the Palace old guard warned me.
He said, ‘You may think that you and HRH are friends now, but don’t fool yourself. Royals may
be friendly, but they’re never friends with the likes of us. They don’t think of us as human beings.’
And when I found out you were missing… and then some FBI blokes started saying you may have
been kidnapped by some insane Richards supporter, and why was I snoring away in my room when
I should have been watching out for you…” He swallows.

Alex says, “Don’t be mad at Henry. It was my idea.”

“Oh, we figured that,” says Cash. “Zahra said, ‘Alex is such an obtuse fucking asshole, he thinks
he’s invulnerable.’ And Ken, don’t listen to that FBI shit. They always blame other agents.”

Any other time, Henry might have smiled at Zahra’s coincidental use of the epithet Alex
sometimes still teasingly applies to Henry himself. But not now. He can feel Ken’s eyes on him,
finally, but he can’t meet them. The realisation of the enormity of the fear that Ken, and Bea, and
his mother, and even his grandmother and Philip, must have felt when he turned up missing washes
over him. He feels like absolute shit. He blinks, and two tears roll down his face.

“Stop that,” orders Ken harshly. He might be talking to a raw recruit he had commanded in
Afghanistan, crying because he misses his mum.

“Cash?” says Alex miserably. “Do you have anything you want to add?”
“I think Ken pretty well summed it all up,” says Cash. “I thought we were friends, but I guess you
were just being friendly. Friends wouldn’t treat each other that way.”

Henry and Alex exchange a look. They hadn’t given a thought to how their behaviour might affect
others. Whatever further punishment their mothers may have in store, it can’t be nearly as bad as
knowing that they have caused pain to the people who love them, not least of whom are the two
men in the front seat of the van. The younger men know that they have inadvertently hurt these
friends—and say what they like, Henry and Alex do think of them as friends, not employees—and
they know that they have upset them badly. The guys burn with shame.

“What about a bonus?” asks Alex desperately. “Henry gave Ken a big bonus to get him back, after
he quit because Henry can be an insensitive jerk.”

Henry’s mouth drops open as his head swivels to face Alex. Then Cash voices Henry’s thought. “I
don’t think you have much room to talk,” says Cash to Alex.

“Oh, Henry knows what I mean,” says Alex defensively. “I’m not pointing fingers. But how about
it? What if Henry just gives you guys some money?”

Ken says sternly, “Keep your money. Forgiveness can’t be bought—and nor can friendship.” His
tone carries all the finality of God Himself, pronouncing sentence on Judgement Day. Henry
realises that he may have destroyed his burgeoning friendship with Ken all over again, and this
time, beyond repair. Alex is right—he is an obtuse fucking asshole.

“Hey,” says Cash, “speak for yourself. You already got a bonus—I just got a Presidential ass-
kicking. And a threat of termination.”

Henry says haltingly, “You’re absolutely right, Ken.” He swallows, and wills away the tears of
shame which threaten to spill over and earn him another rebuke. “We were bloody thoughtless and
stupid, and you have every right to be furious.” He stops for a moment, and swallows again.
“Royals aren’t brought up to know how to apologise, except to the Monarch herself, so I’m not
very good at this. But I’m very sorry. Please accept my apology.”

“Yeah,” says Alex. “What he said. And you too, Cash.”

Now Ken swallows, and blinks rapidly as he stares out the car window. But he says nothing, and
his silence stretches, seemingly into infinity.

“I think we should go back to the subject of some sort of bonus,” says Cash.

“Alex and I will have to tuck something nice into your Christmas stocking, Cash, and Amy’s too,”
says Henry, making himself a mental note. “But for right now, how about this: I can pay for
Sondra to fly out to—I don’t know, wherever it is we’re going. And Cash, do you have a significant
other you’d like to have join us as well?”

“Nah,” says Cash. “We broke up right after I started the Presidential gig, since I was never at home
anymore. But my twin sister would love to meet you two. God knows why.”

“You have a twin sister?” says Henry. He suddenly thinks of Ruby and the Dykes on Bikes.

“Yeah,” says Cash. “Her name’s Opie.”

“Opie?” says Alex. “Were your parents Andy Griffith groupies?”

“Hardly,” says Cash. “It was a little white-bread for them and their friends in the NAACP. It’s
short for Cassiopeia.”

“Cassius and Cassiopeia?” asks Henry wonderingly.

“Yeah,” says Cash. “Make any jokes, and we’ll kick your royal blue-blooded ass.”

“And I’ll help them,” says Ken.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, especially since Ken’s amended job description specifies ‘arse-kicking as
needed,’” says Henry. “But text her, and we’ll get her and Sondra on the next planes. Where
exactly are we going to, anyway?”

“Right now, just as far as Houston,” says Cash. “As Ken says, we were up all night. And the
President said, ‘I doubt those two got much sleep either. They’re both as randy as rabbits.’”
Alex flushes a deep red. There’s something uniquely humiliating about hearing oneself thus
described by one’s mother—especially when it’s perfectly true.

The trip to Houston takes just over three hours, including a rest stop and the purchase of something
to drink. True to form, Alex buys coffee—making the guy behind the counter blush with his
patented First Son grin-and-wink—but Henry joins Ken for something cold. He smiles when Ken
buys a Mountain Dew Big Gulp, and Ken starts smiling back before he remembers that he is angry
with them. He switches his expression to sternness, but he can’t stop himself from dimpling at the
memory of Shaan’s desperate request for a rest stop on the road from Dallas to Austin the night
before.

They get to the hotel in Houston and head up to their respective rooms for a nap. Before they go,
they ask the front desk to arrange for an airport shuttle to pick up Sondra and Opie, who are both
scheduled to arrive in the late afternoon. Secret Service is paying for Cash’s room, but Henry gets
Opie a room next door to her brother’s, and for Ken and Sondra, he gets the Bridal Suite, complete
with a honeymoon package called “Moonlight and Roses.”

It’s just past six when they hear a knock. Each pulls on a pair of sleep shorts, and they pad
cautiously over to the door. Surely the tabs could not have tracked them down already?

“Yes?” says Henry, in the voice Gran uses for overeager footmen.

“It’s just us, Sir,” says Sondra. Henry opens the door to find four people—Sondra, Ken, Cash, and
a slender, dark-eyed brunette, who bears a faint resemblance to Cash. But Henry certainly would
not have picked her face in a photo array where he had been told to identify the Secret Service
Agent’s relative. She carries a Wal-Mart shopping bag, obviously containing something hard and
cylindrical.

“Yes,” she says, “before you say anything, I’m Bear’s twin sister. And elder sister, I might add.”

“By five lousy minutes,” says Cash.

“I’ve been telling you for thirty-five years—nobody likes a whiny-ass,” she says dismissively.

“And thank you for the trip out here, Your Royal Highness,” says Sondra. “It’s my first time in the
States. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get through all the Security checkpoints since the trip’s so
last-minute, but Shaan’s fiancée pulled some strings for me. She’s as amazing as he is.”

“Don’t tell her,” says Alex. “Her head’s swollen enough already, especially after last night's
victory.” He glances at Henry. “If you guys were thinking of dinner, it sounds great, but Henry and
I were sleeping and we should grab a quick shower. How about, say, half-an-hour?”

“It’s just as well you haven’t showered yet,” says Ken, almost conversationally. “You’d need to
again anyway.” There is a glint in his eye, and his face wears a shit-eating grin.

“What do you mean?” asks Henry. He suddenly feels a bit nervous.

“I don’t know if you ever heard this, Sir,” says Ken, “but it’s a funny thing about forgiveness. Just
because you’re ready to let bygones be bygones doesn’t mean the person you’ve offended is. There
often has to be something to even the score. Ladies?”

Opie opens the Wal-Mart bag, and solemnly passes a spray can to both Cash and Ken. In bold pink
lettering, they are labelled, “Silly String.”

Sondra raises her mobile. “What are you doing?” asks Alex.

“Oh, this occasion is being recorded for posterity,” she says. “I’m sure Ken will want to relive this
moment, again and again and again.”

“Wait—” says Henry, but the two agents shake and raise the cans, aim, and release twin jets of
sticky white string all over them. Within seconds, both Henry and Alex are coated.

“You fucker!” shouts Henry.

“Not lately,” says Sondra, “but maybe he’ll get lucky tonight.” She turns to Ken. “Darling,” she
says, “you’re not the only one with a score to settle. The Silly String—give it to me.”

With more high spirits than common sense, Ken laughs and says, “With pleasure, dearest,” and
squirts her. Cash, evidently thinking Ken has had a great idea, turns his Silly String on his sister.
As one, the two women rush over and wrest the cans from husband and brother. They spray them
both liberally by way of payback, and soon everyone has collapsed on the floor in gusts of helpless
laughter.

Wiping strings of goop from his face, Alex says with a grin, “Guess we’ll all need a shower now.
This should all come right off the bedspread and walls, but we better leave Housekeeping a really
nice tip anyway.”

An hour or so later, they are enjoying dinner together, but in keeping with parental insistence that
Henry and Alex are grounded, they can venture no further in Houston than the hotel dining room.
Suddenly, Sondra’s mobile rings. She glances at the screen and says, “Sorry—I have to take this.
It’s Mum, and it might be something about Davy.” She reads the text and says, “Shite.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Ken, alarmed that there may be something amiss with his son.

“I sent the video of you spraying the boys to Mum. She posted it to Auntie Vera, but she always
forgets to change the checkmark to make her Facebook posts private. It’s going viral.”

Just at that moment, Henry and Alex’s phones begin to vibrate. Around the dining room, mobiles
begin ringing, and muffled laughter slowly sweeps the room. People look over at their table and
begin whispering. Some don’t even bother to cover their grins as they frankly stare.

Henry and Alex glance down to see that they have both received a joint text from June, Nora, and
Pez. There is a long string of the letters LOLOLOL, as well as dozens of laughing emojis with
bright blue tears squirting from their little bunched-up eyes.

Then Henry sees a post from The Daily Mail, which shows the two of them with long strings of
white Silly String hanging from their faces and upraised arms. The editors have also included the
famous photo of them in the pile of wedding cake from Philip and Martha’s reception last year. The
reporter writing the accompanying story questions parenthetically, “Are HRH and the First Son
planning to make getting covered in sticky white gunge an annual event, like the Queen’s Birthday
Parade?”

Peering over Henry’s shoulder—Alex does not receive notifications from The Daily Mail—Alex
says, “Another international scandal. Oh, well. At least the election is in the bag.”
“I’m so sorry, Sir,” says Ken. “I never dreamed Sondra’s mum would forward the video, but of
course, this is all my fault. I apologise for any public humiliation you may suffer.” Somehow, he
sounds slightly less than sincere.

“So you should,” says Henry sternly. “I’m sure my grandmother and brother will tell me to sack
you immediately. They will say that such forwardness and presumption cannot be tolerated—
especially from a servant.”

Ken winces as if Henry has slapped him. Some small, mean part of Henry is enjoying this, but he
can’t leave Ken—and Sondra, who looks utterly stricken for her part in the situation—on
tenterhooks. So he smiles. “But since when have I ever listened to them? Besides, behaviour that
might be thought inappropriate by an employee becomes something else entirely when it’s a friend.
Then it just becomes a prank. And a pretty good one. You got us, well and truly.”

“Thank you for being so kind and understanding, Sir,” says Ken. His relief is palpable.

“Excuse me,” says Henry. “What did you call me?”

Ken smiles and raises his hands, palms outward. “I surrender,” he says. “Thank you—Henry. And
Alex.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Alex with a grin. “But pull something like that again, and remember—
what goes around, comes around. And payback can be a bitch.”

After dinner, Henry and Alex are too tired to do much more than just head straight back to their
room. Emerging from the bathroom where he has been brushing his teeth, Alex sees Henry
grinning at his cell. “What’s so funny?” asks Alex. “More pictures from the video?”

“No,” says Henry. “It’s a text from Pez. He says, ‘I hope you got another degree after the Silly
String the way you did last time.’”

“Huh?” says Alex.

“Oxford has a tradition for the last day of examinations. Your first year, you get a white carnation
before your final exams. You get pink carnations in succeeding years, and in your final year you
get a red one. Then you walk past these barricades, and your family and your friends from among
the undergraduates are waiting for you.” He takes a breath. “Then they spray you with shaving
foam and Silly String, and throw bags of confetti to make you look as messy and ridiculous as
possible. It’s called trashing.”

“What?” says Alex in disbelief.

“I’ll bet you thought Oxford was all about dreaming spires and punting on the Cherwell,” says
Henry. “But life there has a definite rowdiness. Year before last, a few people threw custard pies
too, and so last year, when Pez and I graduated, the chancellors had received a bunch of complaints
about the mess the groundskeepers had to clean up. The broken pie crusts attracted rats, and since
it happened to be sunny weather that year, the stink of curdled custard lingered for days. The
chancellors tried to shut it down completely, but there was an outcry, and so a compromise was
reached. We only got sprayed with Silly String. I was picking the stuff out of my ears all night.”

“I’ll be damned,” laughs Alex. “Who’d’a thunk it?” A thought suddenly strikes him. “You said
family come. Did any of your family show up?”

“Of course not,” says Henry. “Slapstick pranks aren’t exactly Gran’s style, and Philip hates
messes. Bea would have come, but she had some charity event Gran made her attend.” He pauses.
“If Dad had still been alive, he would have been in the front row—he was in a few knockabout
comedies before he became James Bond, so he probably would have said I was just following in
his footsteps—and of course Mum would have come then too. But not without him.” He
remembers his pain at being the only senior with no family present. “Pez’s parents were there, of
course, and they squirted me a few good hits, but it wasn’t the same.”

He shakes off his sadness, and continues with a determined smile. “Most people don’t know about
the practice outside of the university,” he says. “The Silly String bit only lasted a year; this year,
they went back to shaving foam and confetti as usual. Ken is going to start Oxford next year, and
when he graduates, I’ll prove I’m not just being friendly—I’ll prove I’m truly his mate, just like
one of his future Oxford friends. Whatever I may be doing, wherever I may be, when the time
comes I’ll travel from the very ends of the Earth to lie in wait with a can of shaving foam, ready to
get him.” Henry grins evilly.

“Shame on you,” says Alex. “You can’t do that. Unless, of course, you take me along. After all,
not all of the shit that covered me just came from Cash’s can. How ’bout I bring the confetti?”

“It’s a date,” says Henry. They bump fists together.

“But you know,” says Alex, changing the subject as he stretches out on the bed, “that article from
The Daily Mail about the two of us getting covered in sticky white goo every year isn’t such a bad
idea. I just think it should be a lot more than once a year, though.” He is grinning slyly.

Henry pauses in the act of removing his second sock. He looks back at Alex where he is reclining
behind him and says, “Please tell me you’re not making the pun I think you’re making. That’s a
new depth of tacky, even for you.”

Alex winks, and wiggles his eyebrows like Groucho Marks. Henry laughs.

“Diaz, sometimes you manage to outdo even yourself,” says Henry. “It’s a good thing for you that I
love you so much.”

“Good thing for us both,” says Alex, as he pulls Henry over on top of him.

The next morning, they run into Ken in line at the breakfast buffet.

“Good morning, Sir—Henry,” says Ken. “Alex.”

“Sir Henry?” says Henry. “Am I a knight now, or a baronet?”

“Sorry—Henry,” says Ken sheepishly. “It may take a while for me to change over.”

“Ken, you seem like a new man,” says Alex. “Something happen last night to rejuvenate you?”

“Never you mind,” says Ken, grinning. “I’d bet my last penny we were all up to pretty much the
same thing last night.”

“Poor Cash and Opie,” says Henry. “The four of us will be smiling lazily in our post-coital
afterglow all the way to the coast, and they’ll only have memories of a lonely night.”

“Don’t be so sure about Opie,” says Ken. “She was surrounded by quite a crowd of blokes at the
bar after you went upstairs, though it would take a brave man indeed to face down her brother,
glaring in the background like a thundercloud.”
Their presence is duly noted in the dining room, but there is no laughter this morning, merely nods
and a few good-natured smiles. Henry and Alex’s moment as the world’s number-one video clip
has been brief indeed, for a leaked video of Senator Jeffrey Richards’ concession speech has hit the
Internet. There is Richards, sad-eyed yet firm-jawed, bravely looking into the camera as his wife
wipes away a few telegenic tears. In a shaking voice, he is thanking “all my wonderful supporters”
for their “incredible dedication and sacrifice over the past nine months. And I promise to
personally look into these troubling rumors of voter fraud and fake ballots.”

So far, so good—pretty much a standard post-election appearance. But there was an open mic
which caught Richards in a foul-mouthed tirade the moment he left the stage, promising to find
“every shitty-assed motherfucker who dropped the ball on this campaign. And I will personally
kick Luna’s skinny Mexican ass all the way back to fucking Guadalajara.”

“You bet your ass you will,” says his wife, in a harsh voice completely unlike the dulcet tones she
normally coos into microphones. “But what can you expect, with that cheating bitch getting a hand
from all the queers and the—” Then she uses the one racial slur which even the worst bigots in the
country generally try to avoid, at least in public. Her husband answers in kind. Henry and Alex
covered in Silly String is tame stuff indeed compared to this online dynamite.

Early in the afternoon, they get to the Coast. For some reason, when Ellen spoke of a vacation
cabin on a remote island, Alex had pictured a miniature version of the lake house, with an outhouse
and an open-air shower. He had even fantasized about taking a hot shower (in both senses of the
term) with Henry under the stars.

But this is a luxury resort. Several rustic-looking huts nestle among palm trees, quaint and grass-
thatched outside, swanky and chic within. It looks like Donald Trump’s concept of island
primitive, just a lot less tacky and with no gilded toilets.

Henry is as slack-jawed as Alex at the sight of this opulence. Alex says, “What’s up, H? Aren’t
you used to this sort of thing?”

“Sorry to disillusion you, but wait until you see Balmoral,” says Henry. “The bedrooms are tiny,
and the main rooms are carpeted in the ugliest tartan rugs you’ve ever seen. I can say that with
confidence, since most people have never seen a single one. Nor can you possibly imagine how the
violently-coloured chintzes on the sofas and chairs all clash. One courtier summed it up by saying
he always thought the drawing room at Osborne was the ugliest room on Earth, but then he saw the
one at Balmoral.”

Henry continues, “Windsor’s a tomb, especially when Gran drags us to Frogmore every fourteenth
of December for a Service of Remembrance for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. And bagpipers
marching round the breakfast table making those godawful squawks can’t hold a candle to smiling
cabana boys.” He nods toward the verandah, where a line of handsome men in white Bermuda
shorts and colourful tropical shirts stand waiting to take their drink orders.

And so begins two weeks of sun and sand, swimming and scuba-diving. Alex breaks the news to
Henry about his plans for law school, and Henry is thrilled; they spend a good bit of time
fantasizing about the life they will share in the brownstone. For those rare moments when they
aren’t day-dreaming or making love, Opie, who turns out to be excellent at snorkeling, leads them
all on expeditions in the clear blue waters of the Gulf. She often shows up for breakfast in a tight
bikini, earning a glare from her brother. “Go put some clothes on,” he grumbles. “Look at Sondra.
She knows how to dress like a lady.” He nods at Sondra in her flame-colored one-piece suit with a
thin, wraparound crepe skirt in shades of red-and-gold ombre.

“I’ll bet Opie doesn’t have a stomach all covered in stretch marks from pushing out a baby,” says
Sondra. “I’d give anything to still look good in a two-piece.”

“Nonsense, my love,” says Ken. “You look beautiful no matter what.” Sondra rolls her eyes.

“Actually,” says Opie, “I’ve pushed out three. But our grandmother made a special skin cream that
makes stretchmarks disappear. Give me your address and I’ll send you some, though it’s best if
you apply it as your pregnancy progresses.”

“May that day be long-deferred,” says Sondra. “Especially with Ken starting school next fall.”

“Amen to that,” says Ken. The vacation is agreeing with him, and he looks rested and refreshed.
Most of the waiters can’t keep their eyes off him, with his heavily-muscled physique and well-
fitted swim trunks, topped by a bright yellow beach jacket. His aviator sunglasses add a touch of
dash, and all that mars his masculine perfection is the simple fact that despite the sunscreen his
wife liberally slathers all over him, he is pink with sunburn, and the tip of his nose is peeling.

Henry himself has a new crop of freckles dusting his nose and cheekbones, but Alex quite unfairly
looks handsomer than ever. His golden skin has darkened to bronze, and when they get back to the
hut and Alex drops his swim trunks, his lighter-coloured buttocks drive Henry mad. Henry sternly
orders himself to stop thinking about it, lest he get a stiffy right there at the breakfast table.

“So what’s on today’s agenda?” asks Sondra.

“I was thinking a swim this morning, then lunch and a siesta,” says Alex. “And since it’s our last
night on the Coast, I thought we might hit up one of the night spots. I hear there’s a great karaoke
bar downtown, and you haven’t lived till you’ve seen Henry belt out ‘Supersonic Man’.”

“No fear of that,” says Henry. “We’re supposed to be staying low-key, remember? I thought we
might go to a club. Alex is quite the dancer.”

“Nice try,” says Cash. “But no soap. I almost lost my job once this month, and I’m not risking it
again by letting you two disobey a specific Presidential order. If she says you’re grounded—you’re
grounded. What do you think, Ken?”

“I think you’re exactly right,” says Ken. “I personally have no desire to explore the dungeons at the
Tower. The answer is no, and that’s that.” He looks over at Alex and says, “Stop pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” says Alex, his lower lip protruding.

“Yes, you are,” says Ken. “If you were my son, I’d turn you over my knee, except that I have a
feeling you’d enjoy it.” He glances at the waiter who brought them breakfast earlier, and the man
shoots him a come-hitherish smile. “Maybe Manuel would volunteer.”

“Not if I’m around,” says Henry. “If Alex needs discipline, I’ll be the one to provide it.”

Alex’s pout disappears as he smirks. “Promises, promises,” he says.

“I can’t believe the turn this conversation has taken,” says Sondra. “If my Auntie Vera could hear
us, she’d have an attack of the vapours. As it was, she almost had heart failure when she saw those
pictures in The Daily Mail. She said, ‘What would dear Queen Victoria say?’”

“The old girl was a lot more worldly than most people credit,” says Henry. “She turned a blind eye
to the shenanigans her grandson Clarence got up to at the male brothels, and another grandson,
Ernest the Grand Duke of Hesse, got divorced by his first wife Ducky because she wanted a
husband who was more interested in her than in the stableboys.”

“Well, I hope she eventually found someone,” says Opie.

“She did remarry, this time to a first cousin of the Czar,” says Henry. “It was a bit awkward,
though, because the Czarina was her former sister-in-law. Ducky stayed married to her Russian
husband for the rest of her days, but a decade before she died, she found out what he was up to
when her back was turned, and never spoke to him again. Supposedly she found out he was
keeping a mistress, but I don’t know—Ducky was too sophisticated not to expect a pretty ballerina
or two to flit through his life. I’ve always wondered exactly what it was she found out, but when he
came to her on her deathbed pleading for forgiveness, she turned her head away and refused to
speak to him. Even then.”

“Poor lady,” says Sondra. “How sad.”

“Well, all I can say is, there better never be a pretty ballerina or a handsome stableboy flitting
through your life,” warns Alex. “The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared to that of a
cheated-on First Son.”

“Are you mad?” says Henry. “Half the time I can barely deal with you. What would I do with
having to juggle a bit on the side as well?” He smiles and blows Alex a kiss.

“Hey,” says Alex, “at least I keep your life interesting.”

The next morning is consumed with all the hustle and bustle of clearing up from a two-week stay
and preparing for their flight to New York, since the closing on the brownstone is tomorrow.
Henry has chartered a private plane to fly them to LaGuardia, and so there is no limit on the
number of bags they can take, but their mothers’ embargo on sightseeing has severely limited the
souvenirs they might otherwise have purchased. Sondra and Opie picked up a few keepsakes and
T-shirts for them on their various expeditions, but otherwise they pretty much have just the stuff
they arrived with.

The women are both going home by commercial air, though of course Henry has bought them First
Class tickets. He was going to send Ken home with his wife, but Ken refuses. “I have learned from
bitter experience, Henry,” he says. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I deliver you safe and
sound into the hands of the President of the United States herself. Once bitten, twice shy, and your
disappearance in Austin took a chomp out of my arse I’ll always bear the scar from.”

“Mum and the President say we have to stay at the brownstone while we’re in town—no hotels or
nightlife,” warns Henry. “You’ll have to doss down on the floor.”

“That won’t be a problem,” says Ken. “I’ve slept in worse places. Dearest,” he says, turning to
Sondra, “do you think you could overnight me one of the sleeping bags? That and a flush toilet,
and I’ll be in Heaven.”

“No problem,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I know where they are in the garret.”

“There,” says Ken, “you see? Made in the shade.” He breaks off, stricken. “Oh, my God,” he says,
“I’m picking up more and more Americanisms. If I don’t deliver you to the White House and get
back home soon, I shall be thoroughly corrupted.”

There are hugs and kisses all round at the gates, as the ladies separate for their planes and Henry,
Alex, Cash, and Ken head over to the private aircraft area. Henry feels a bit misty-eyed, watching
the women depart.

“You okay, baby?” asks Alex, slipping an arm around Henry’s waist.

“Sure,” says Henry. “I’m just sorry for this to end. It was fun.”

“True,” says Alex, tightening his grasp. “But what’s ahead will be even more so. It’ll be our
future.”

“In our forever home?” asks Henry with a smile.

“You bet,” says Alex. “With occasional forays to DC and London, of course.”

“I hope Bea will let us keep my room in the flat at Kensington,” says Henry. “I don’t think I could
face staying with Gran at Buck House.”

“Not to worry,” says Alex. “Wherever you find a bed, I’ll be sharing it.”

“I’m counting on it,” says Henry with a smile. “Forever and ever.” They kiss softly.

“If you two are going to do that,” says Cash, “I’ll be in the other cabin on the plane.”
 “I’ll join you,” says Ken. “It’s not like they can sneak off once we’re aloft.”

“Don’t worry, guys,” says Alex. “Henry and I aren’t going to do anything shocking. We’ve already
joined the Mile-High Club.”

They laugh at Cash and Ken’s expressions, and then, holding hands, they scamper down the
concourse. The other two, laughing, run to catch up with them.

Chapter End Notes

A few random notes:

The royal distinction of "friendly" vs. "friends" is not original to me. Many a new
footman or maid has been invited to tea with Her Majesty and shared a very convivial
hour, only to receive a stern-faced frown the next day for over-familiarity. Journalists--
who collaborate with royals on biographies, etc.--will think they're quite close, but
they quickly discover that there is an invisible line which no one without documented
royal blood can ever hope to cross. One of Prince Charles' conflicts with Diana had to
do with her refusal to recognize this boundary, though since supposedly she carried at
least one of these friendships over into the bedroom, his dismay is understandable.
Also, one of Princess Anne's former PPO's who crossed this boundary line is rumored
to be the biological father of her daughter Zara, rather than Anne's then-husband, Mark
Phillips.

In Pete Buttigieg's autobiography, "Shortest Way Home," he describes how when he

finished his degree at Oxford, "They threw a pie in my face in keeping with the old
Oxford tradition." When I read this, I thought some nasty Brits were just playing a
prank on a gullible American, but it turns out that "trashing" has truly been an Oxford
custom for graduating seniors since the 1990's. Despite repeated efforts to end it,
students insist on continuing. Though messy, it is at least kinder than the former male
undergraduate custom of impregnating the female servants.

Queen Victoria's grandson, Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale
("Prince Eddy"--his grandmother insisted that he be named after herself and Prince
Albert, but his mother always called him by one of his secondary names, Edward or
Eddy, after his father the future Edward VII) was involved in a scandal at a male
brothel in Cleveland Street in 1888, though it was kept hushed up for nearly a century.
Another grandson, Ernest, Grand Duke of Hesse and By Rhine, the brother of
Alexandra Feodorovna, last Empress of Russia, was married to his cousin, Princess
Victoria Melita ("Ducky") of Edinburgh and Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, who did indeed
divorce him after she caught him in bed several times with various stableboys. She
later married another cousin, Grand Duke Cyril Vladimirovich, first cousin of
Alexandra's husband, Tsar Nicholas II. After Nicholas, Alexandra, and their children
were murdered in Ekaterinburg, Cyril was the heir to the Imperial Crown, though
because the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna refused to admit that her son and his
family were dead, she never recognized the claim. People also resented the fact that, in
an effort to save his skin, Cyril led a band of revolutionaries on a parade through the
streets of St. Petersburg waving a red flag immediately after the February 1917
revolution. It was an act of betrayal for which Nicholas II had never forgiven him.
Joining this rather large band of people who harbored eternal grudges against poor
Cyril, Ducky did indeed find out something for which she never forgave him, and as
Henry says, refused to speak to him forever after, even on her deathbed.

Speaking of Ducky, a number of Queen Victoria's granddaughters had strange

nicknames. The three daughters of Edward VII were known in the family as Toots,
Snipe, and Gawky. In a family where half the Princesses were named "Victoria" and
most of the Princes were named "Albert"--at Queen Victoria's insistence--you had to
do something to distinguish exactly which Princess Victoria or Prince Albert you were
talking about. The custom was not limited to the British Royal Family--the brother of
Emperor Nicholas II, Grand Duke Mikhail Alexandrovich, was known in his family as
"Flopsy."

As I said last week, thank you for sticking with me for all these months! I've enjoyed
this series TREMENDOUSLY, and I'm looking forward to its continuation!
 Afterword
Chapter Summary

Additional fanfic by RevJohnO

If you enjoyed this fanfic, please check out my two additional series: first, A New Life, A New
Land, A New Hope, which continues Alex and Henry's story where CMQ left off. We get to see
them setting up the brownstone, negotiating the occasionally thorny issues of moving in together,
etc. We also get to see Alex's first steps in his law school career, the opening of Henry's homeless
queer youth shelter in Brooklyn, and even their eventual wedding! This series was written before
CMQ published the 2022 Commemorative Edition, so it is not consistent with the Henry POV
chapter in the new canon. Sorry!

The second is Together Forever, which picks up thirty years after the events in RWRB, and we get
to meet Henry and Alex's children. Alex is now a senator, and Henry is now His Royal Highness
the Prince Henry, Duke of York, KG. The last chapter of TF is, in my opinion, the best thing I ever
wrote, so I hope you enjoy it!

I added this Afterword at the suggestion of chaosofbelievers, one of the readers of Distinctly
British, who wondered why I hadn't linked the three fanfics into a single series. The simple reason
is that I am really dumb about following computer directions, and thus couldn't figure how to put
all three together. cob suggested that if I really couldn't follow AO3's instructions about making a
series, that I simply add an afterword directing readers to the other fanfics, since this would make it
easier for readers to find them. If you appreciate cob's suggestion, be sure to let them know!

If you like this fanfic, please be sure to leave me kudos. I welcome any comments, suggestions, or
questions about anything I have written, so please feel free to contact me. Thanks for checking out
this fanfic, and enjoy the others. God bless you!

End Notes

Again, many thanks to my dear friend gaytriforce for all his many suggestions, corrections,
and general help. And all my love and thanks to Bobbie, who has been my primary
cheerleader for over thirty years!
Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!