“Part of Me” - Katy Perry
Most people don’t know my family is descended from royalty. It isn’t the kind of thing you bring up in conversation—“Yes, my great-great-great-great grandfather was the king, small world, huh? Would you like another glass of wine?”
It’s not like I’m considered in line to inherit, although technically I hold the impossible twenty-second spot, after Henry’s Aunt Margaret and a bunch of dodgy cousins.
It’s been nearly two hundred years since a direct ancestor of mine sat on the throne.
But if this diary is right—and I’m highly skeptical that it is—I should be ruling Wesbourne.
It’s staggering at best, debilitating at worst.
If the truth had come out back then, my life would look completely different right now.
Bea and I would have been raised in the palace as princesses.
When my father died, the whole country would have mourned the loss of their king.
I would have been crowned queen on my twenty-first birthday.
Would I be planning my wedding to Beck right now?
Would we even know each other? Or would I be engaged or married to a man chosen for his suitability as my prince consort?
“Only if it’s true,” I say in answer to Henry’s question. “Although it can’t possibly be. Do you know the kinds of lengths Helena would have had to go to in order to have an affair? It’s preposterous. It’s more likely the diary was forged.”
“C, if there’s even the remotest possibility—”
“Think about what you’re saying.”
“I can’t think. I need food.” He pushes himself from the cushy recesses of the chair.
“You just ate an eight-course dinner a few hours ago.”
“Exactly. It was hours ago. Please let me raid your fridge.” Henry doesn’t wait for an answer, just leaves the room, presumably headed for the kitchen.
I roll my eyes and follow him into the dark hall.
Someone has to do damage control. All of the guests have left, meaning we must have been in the library much longer than I realized.
The kitchen looks eerie without so much as the light from the microwave clock broadcasting the time in glowing numbers.
I find Henry standing in front of the refrigerator, both doors gaping open as he shines the light from his phone over the shelves. In a few swift movements, he gathers a small pile of food beside the stove.
He spins around to face me. “Frying pan?”
“You couldn’t just grab a bag of crisps like a normal person?”
“I have a craving.” His voice is muffled by the cupboard he’s currently sticking his head into. He reemerges, skillet in hand. “For a toastie. Want one?”
I shake my head, both in answer to his question and in incredulity at the situation. Who in their right mind could eat after everything we just discovered? I say as much.
“Food helps me focus. Here, come hold the torch for me.” He hands me his phone.
I hop onto the countertop and watch as he uses a match to light the gas range and sets the pan on top. “Is this an avoidance technique?” I ask.
He glances up from the bread he’s spreading with butter. “I’m a stress-eater. And that stuff in there”—he uses the knife to motion in the general direction of the library—“is enough to tank even me.”
“Henry, it doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything. We can’t just bury something like this.”
“It’s been buried this long. We can just rebury it, pretend we never found it.” I watch in fascination as his sandwich grows: brie cheese, slabs of cheddar, pancetta, a spoonful of blackberry jam—necessary on all toasties in Wesbourne, although the variety depends on the region—and anchovies.
“Please tell me I did not just see you put anchovies on that thing.” I move the light closer. Yep, they’re definitely there.
“Don’t criticize my masterpiece.” He carefully lowers the whole thing into the hot pan. The scent of butter and cheese caramelizing almost makes my mouth water. “We have to think about this from all angles. If my father isn’t the legitimate ruler, I sure as hell don’t want him on the throne.”
Opinions on our current monarch are divided. Some despise him, others hold him up as a hero for the things he’s done in his two-decade reign. I don’t have to wonder which camp Henry falls into.
“As far as everyone knows, he is the legitimate ruler,” I say.
Lifting my leg, Henry grabs a spatula from the drawer beneath me. I feel goosebumps instantly rise at the contact. “At least four people know about the diary now.”
“I’m willing to forget about it if you are. And Maisie won’t say a word if I tell her not to.” That leaves the old lady who donated it, but who will believe the ragings of someone with one foot in the grave? Maybe she hasn’t even read it.
“But think about what you’d be giving up.”
I count the advantages on my fingers one by one. “A lifetime in the public eye, enough stress to turn me prematurely gray, and no chance at a normal life. Practically paradise.”
He slips the spatula under his loaded toastie and flips it gingerly onto the other side. “Okay, so it wouldn’t be a walk in the park. But you’d do a better job than my father.”
My laugh is abrupt. King William isn’t my favorite person on the planet, but that doesn’t mean I’m better qualified to lead a country, for god’s sake.
What’s disconcerting is that Henry has guessed that I want this—which I do, so much it shocks me, but I can’t let him see that. No matter how badly the thought of leading the nation pulls at me, I can’t do this. It would be too destructive.
“Coming forward with this would tear the country apart. You can’t just go around flinging two-hundred-year-old bombshells without a nasty fallout,” I say.
Henry slides his concoction onto a plate and cuts it diagonally. “It’ll come out eventually. Secrets always do.” He holds the plate toward me. “As much as it pains me to do this, are you sure you don’t want half?”
“Positive. But I would appreciate being relieved of my duties as your torchbearer.” I shine the light into his eyes.
He takes the phone from me and sticks it in his pocket. “Oh god,” he moans, after biting into the sandwich. “This is divine.”
“Spare me your food orgasm.”
“You have to try it.”
“Sorry, you lost me when you put anchovies on a perfectly good toastie.”
“C, I promise this will change your life.” He waves it close to my nose.
“I’ve had enough life-changing revelations for the night, thanks.”
He moves to stand in front of me, close enough that a hint of pine rises above the scent of burnt cheese. “Open up.” He moves even closer and shrugs, his hips brushing against my knees. “Unless you’re scared.”
This situation is careening toward a cliff edge. I lean forward blindly and manage to bite into the toastie he’s holding in front of me. An explosion of flavor ricochets in my mouth—sweet, salty, tangy.
“Well?” Henry says, as though he’s an artist who’s just spent twelve months on a painting.
I offer a noncommittal grunt. “It’s okay.”
“Celia Eleanor, you lying twit. You loved it.”
Covering my mouth while I finish chewing, I grant him a small nod. “It’s pretty good.”
He spins away from the counter and pumps a fist in the air. I use the opportunity to slip down from my perch and start putting things away. The sooner I send him on his way, the better.
“I still think we should come forward with all of this,” he says a few minutes later as he loads the dishwasher.
“And I think we shouldn’t.” I swipe a wet cloth over the countertop.
“Is it really because of Wesbourne? Or is it something else?”
My hand freezes mid-wipe. “Like what?”
“Like maybe you’re scared?”
“This isn’t a stupid sandwich, Henry. We’re talking about an entire country.”
“I know that. I also know that you would sacrifice everything if you thought it was the right thing to do.”
“I don’t consider severing that tenuous and potential thread sacrifice. The right thing to do here is to say nothing.”
“And give up the opportunity to make a real difference in this country?”
My skin heats with the rage starting to boil inside. “Implying what I’ve done so far can’t be considered a ‘real difference’?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I just think you could do so much more.”
“That’s rich coming from a guy whose only contribution to Wesbourne to date has been an enormous number of broken hearts and probably more than a few STIs.”
His tone turns steely. “What I do is none of your business.”
“But what I do is yours?”
“Would you calm down? I just want you to think about this before throwing it all away.”
“Stop telling me to calm down! The press would drag me through the mud. And then they’d hang me. Throwing out a curveball like this will affect everything.” I take a stabilizing breath. “Why do you want it so badly?”
Henry doesn’t respond, and those few seconds are all I need for the truth to smack me between the eyes.
“Oh.” My breath comes out in a rush, and a sick knot forms in my chest. “Doing this would relieve you of your own responsibilities. You’re unbelievable.” I throw the dishcloth at him and walk out, not bothering to find out if it hit him or not.
In the library, I gather up the diary pages from where they’re scattered on the floor. Henry’s footsteps sound behind me.
“C, that’s not why I want this.”
“Save me the bullshit. I should have been suspicious from the very beginning.”
“If we let this go, it will all be a lie.”
I slam the papers onto my desk. “Since when are you such a proponent for the truth?”
His face puckers with hurt. “That’s low, even for you.”
“Even for me?”
He tousles his hair, and the firelight glints off the strands like they’re interwoven with gold. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that your barbs usually hit the mark.”
“Words are the most effective way to let people know exactly how you feel.” I refuse to let him guilt-trip me. “You should know.”
“Fine, I deserved that. But maybe you should sleep on this before deciding.”
“There’s nothing to decide. This conversation is over, and this”—I slap my palm onto the stack of pages—“doesn’t leave this room.” I push past him, then turn back before walking out the door. “And stay the hell away from Beatrice.”
Henry can go fuck himself.