chapter twenty-five #2
“I know,” I say, snuggling into him, “but it’s too early to stop here. Nothing is open. And I don’t want to get back too late. I barely made a dent in that second manuscript last night.”
“Riles, you’re on vaca—”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give me a hard time.”
He raises his hands. “I just want you to do what you want to do.”
“I am. I’m here, aren’t I? And anyway, how about you? What do you want to do and see? When we planned our trip for today, you let me pick all the places.”
He settles his hands again, one on my shoulder, the other on his lap. “That’s because they were the places I wanted to see as well.”
“So we’re not omitting anywhere you wanted to visit?”
“No. I want to see Westminster Abbey, Windsor Castle, and the Tower of London. We’re going to all of them, so I’m happy.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I conclude he’s telling the truth. “We can’t stop here, even if I wanted to. We booked our admission to Windsor for nine, and we’ll arrive there not long before that time. If we get off now, we’ll have to cancel and reschedule. And we might miss out.”
“Do you always do everything by the book?”
“Mostly, yes. I like to be organized.”
“I can tell.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. Especially when in a foreign country.”
“All I’m saying is it’s okay to be spontaneous every now and again.”
“Need I remind you that I have been spontaneous, and it resulted in puke… on you.”
The train pulls away, so I scoot forward again and get lost in the rolling hills and countryside, the landscape so different from what I’m used to.
Serene. Earthy. Beautifully verdant. It provides a sense of peace, and I wonder if I lived here in a previous life.
Perhaps I was a blacksmith’s daughter, a tavern whore—hopefully not—or a highborn woman?
Imagining my life as a fictional character, I get lost in the fantasy until we’re disembarking at Windsor Station.
“I wonder if the king is here,” Riley says as we walk the cobbled paths past quaint shops to the castle.
I look toward the cylindrical tower. “He’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the royal standard flag isn’t hoisted.”
“What’s a royal standard flag?”
“It signifies the presence of the monarch.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read… a lot.”
Releasing my hand, Riley shows the admission clerk our tickets when we get to the gate, and once we pass through a security checkpoint, we’re granted entry beyond the stone and brick fortress walls into the grounds.
I turn in a circle. “Wow! I can’t believe I’m here, where kings and queens have lived for centuries.” Rushing to a stone wall no higher than my waist, I lean over it. “Isn’t it magical? And how pretty are the gardens? They’re so well-kept.”
“That’s because they cut the lawns with scissors.”
“What?” I snap my head to him. “No, they don’t. They mow them with lawnmowers.”
“I’m kidding, Riles.”
“Oh. Well, they probably did cut them with scissors at one point or another. I wouldn’t be surprised if Henry VIII ordered them to be snipped one blade of grass at a time.”
“Was he the dude who beheaded his wives?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “Philandering murderer.”
Riley rears back a little. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“Harsh? He was a terrible king and husband. Treated his wives like dirt. Except for Jane Seymour. He liked her, but she died shortly after their son was born.” I point to St. George’s Chapel. “They’re both buried in there.”
“And you know all of this from reading a lot?”
“Yes.” I lift my chin, proud. “And because Mom was a big fan of Tudor history. After I started my internship, I managed to chase down a first-print copy of Philippa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl for her. It was her prized possession, besides me, of course.”
Linking my hand with his, I practically swing our arms and skip to the door of the chapel, excited I can tell Mom what I’m about to see.
My feet falter to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Riley asks.
“I just realized I can’t tell Mom what I see here today.”
He tugs my hand. “Sure you can.”
“How? I tossed her into the ocean, remember?”
“Riles—” He smooths my hair behind my ears. “—you scattered her remains at sea, as she wanted you to. You still have her memory, so talk to that. That’s how I talk to Dad.”
“Did you cremate your father as well?”
“No. But I talk to his memory more than I talk to his headstone.”
Huh. Nodding, I contemplate giving it a try. I still want to talk to her and tell her everything I experience. And she would love to know about this visit.
Stepping inside the nave of St. George’s Chapel, I hold my breath at the white marble architecture and stained-glass windows. St. Mary’s Basilica was grand and beautiful, but it pales in comparison to this. “Holy moly,” I whisper.
“Peanut butter,” he whispers back.
Laughter bursts from my throat, and I have to stifle it by muffling my mouth with my hand. “Don’t make me laugh in here.”
“I couldn’t exactly say mother”—he mouths “fucker”—“could I?”
“No.” I giggle. “You most certainly could not.”
Dragging me toward the quire, he steps onto the checkered floor tiles and rubs his beard, his head circulating like a windmill. “The carvings in here are out of this world. So detailed and intricate.”
I let go of his hand, fairly sure he doesn’t even notice, and leave him to it before strolling along until I’m standing over the plaque that marks the vault in which Henry VIII and Jane Seymour are interred.
A surreal sense of intrusion settles over me as I stand above them, so much so that I can’t help but keep moving, until I realize the entire building resides over vaults and comprises surrounding chantries of royal remains: King Edward IV, Queen Elizabeth Woodville—Mom liked her—HRH Prince Philip, and more recently Queen Elizabeth II.
I take a moment to pay my respects and then head outside for some fresh air, the weight of the moment overwhelming.
Waiting beside the door, the morning sunlight bounces off my face as I watch the Changing of the Guard ceremony.
“You okay?” Riley asks, stopping beside me.
“Yeah. I just needed some air. It was viscerally spiritual in there.”
He doesn’t probe any further, instead nodding toward the men in their red uniforms and black fluffy hats as they march by. “What’s going on?”
“The guards are changing.”
“Changing what… their clothes?”
“No, silly. Changing shifts, so to speak. You might see it when we go past Buckingham Palace too.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and rubs his beard. I want to rub it too, but I take his hand in mine instead and walk up the hill toward the Upper Ward.
“Where are you heading now?” he asks.
“Inside the castle.”
“You can go inside, even though the royal family lives here?”
“Of course you can. But they only allow entry to certain parts.”
“Sweet!”
His interest is endearing, so I squeeze his hand tighter as we step inside St. George’s Hall, overjoyed that I’m not experiencing this on my own.
“Nice,” he murmurs, looking up at the gothic-inspired high-pitched ceiling, beautifully constructed and covered with crests, red carpet blanketing the vast floor below.
“Did you know this place was destroyed by fire in the nineties?” I say.
“No.” Riley reaches out to touch a statue but is politely berated by a security guard, so he snatches his hand back like a naughty child. “That would’ve sucked. There are a lot of fancy paintings in here.”
“Apparently, most of them were already removed because the castle was under renovation. That’s how the fire started, you know? An industrial lamp ignited a curtain, causing the blaze.”
“Peanut butter.”
I whack his arm. “Stop it.”
“No. It’s my new favorite saying.”
Ignoring him, I continue along the passageway. “Many staterooms were destroyed as well. Thankfully, the royal library was untouched. Oh my God, that would’ve been horrific. All those priceless books.”
“I’m guessing that would be your worst nightmare.”
I wince. “More or less.”
We explore the rest of the castle, including the Crimson Drawing Room, grand staircase, and Queen Mary’s Dolls’ House, before boarding another train to London. And when we pass by Big Ben to visit Westminster Abbey, Riley playfully covers my ears as we walk beneath the clock.
I swat at him.
We then take a double-decker sightseeing bus past Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park, where we stop for a late lunch in a flower-covered tavern before reboarding the bus and continuing through Trafalgar Square to the Tower of London.
Standing on the south wall of the ancient fortress, I gaze wistfully at Tower Bridge as it spans the Thames. “It’s so pretty.”
“Pretty? That river looks dirty as shit.”
“Not the river. Tower Bridge.”
“I thought it was called London Bridge?”
“No. London Bridge is boring compared to that beauty. It’s upstream from here. We’ll go beneath it when we catch the river ferry to the London Eye.”
“Let me guess… you know that through lots of reading as well.”
“Uh-huh.” I look down to where a group of people on a walking tour follow their guide along a path. “Don’t worry, I originally thought that was London Bridge too, until I researched my trip. Most non-citizens do.”
“Glad to know I’m not dumb then.”
I smirk. “You know the capital of Norway. You’re not dumb at all.”
He pulls me into his arms, my back pressed to his chest, his head resting on my shoulder. “I only know it because of Roni. She’s the geography nut. She always wanted to travel to Europe.”
“Why doesn’t she? Why didn’t you travel here together?”
“Because she didn’t want to take Poppy out of school, and she couldn’t leave her behind.”
“That’s a shame. I’m guessing you would’ve loved sharing this cruise with your family.”
“I would’ve, but… I’m glad I’m sharing it with you.”
I twist my head back. “Me too. It’s been interesting. Interesting but nice.”
“Only nice?”
“More than nice.”
It’s been phenomenal. Something I’ll always treasure.
“If it weren’t for you, Riles, I wouldn’t have seen half the things during this trip that I’ve seen so far.”