27. “Diamond Heart” - Alan Walker Sophia Somajo
“Diamond Heart” - Alan Walker + Sophia Somajo
With a bit of juggling, Maisie is able to clear our schedule so we can visit Mrs. Schumann in her care home the next afternoon. She sets up the appointment while I pray it will give us some answers.
When I arrive at the entrance to the palace garage, Henry’s already waiting, chatting with the security guard stationed there. There’s no sign of Maisie. She’s likely been tied up by a last-minute phone call.
“Ready?” Henry asks, pushing away from the wall he’s leaning against, his hands in the pockets of his dusty blue chinos. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, his aviator sunglasses dangling from the unbuttoned neckline. He looks exceptionally good and exceptionally dangerous to a compromised heart.
I glance down the hallway I just walked down. “Have you seen Maisie? She should be here by now.”
“She can’t make it.” He slides on his glasses and holds the door open for me. “Said something came up she has to take care of.”
Suspicion floods my veins as I precede him into the garage. “And she told you instead of me? I was just with her fifteen minutes ago.”
He shrugs and presses the button on a key fob. The lights of his car flash twice. “Maybe she didn’t want to bother you.”
I don’t believe him for a second, but I’ll have to talk to Maisie about it later.
There isn’t time right now. It will take at least an hour to drive to the village where the care home is located.
I slide into Henry’s passenger seat without a word and vow to ignore him the entire trip.
My arsenal is dwindling, and I need some kind of armor.
The sounds of a dramatic symphony orchestra flow from the speakers as I melt into the buttery-soft leather. Despite his many flaws, no one can fault Henry for his choice in cars or music.
The Wesbourne countryside flies past as we race up and down the rolling green hills dotted with lush forests and ponds.
He slows on the cobblestone streets as we drive through several small villages.
In one of them, school has just let out for the day.
A cluster of children cross the street, all rumpled uniforms and excited chatter, bags swinging from their arms.
Henry munches from the bag of crisps in his lap as we watch them. “You know I’ve never been asked what I want to be when I grow up?” he says.
I glance at him in surprise. He hasn’t attempted to break my silence yet, but there’s something about being with him outside the palace walls and the innocence of his comment that makes me give up my cold shoulder, to say nothing about the curiosity tugging at me.
“Well, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A king, of course.”
I make the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong answer. Try again.”
“If I could do anything? Probably business.”
“Business? In what capacity?”
“You know, owning them. Running them. I like the idea of exploring all of the possibilities that make something work.”
As a kid, he was always fascinated with taking apart toys, electronics, and anything else he could get his hands on. One summer, when he was fifteen or sixteen, he even dismantled a car and put it back together.
“I’ll bet you could do it,” I say.
“My father would disagree with you.”
“Your father is an atrocious disgrace to humanity. I hope we disagree on everything.”
“That’s why I stopped trying to please him a long time ago. He’ll never be happy with anything I do anyway.”
So that’s why Henry lives like he does. William is disappointed in him. He destroyed any chance his son ever had at an innocent childhood, and in return, Henry embarrasses him every chance he gets.
It certainly makes more sense than any of the reasons I’ve come up with to explain Henry’s day-to-night change at seventeen.
One minute we’re best friends, and the next we’re living in two separate worlds—he in one filled with women, fast cars, drinking, parties, gambling, and plenty of other things I’d rather not know the details about.
Being featured in tabloid after tabloid gave him a worldwide reputation, and he quickly morphed from a sweet and funny boy into a dark and handsome prince.
I, on the other hand, had my debutante season, danced with respectable gentlemen, only kissed three of them, only sipped champagne socially and never more than two glasses, attended art openings and museum exhibitions, completed finishing school, and went on to become the youngest director of the Historical Society at the age of twenty-three.
The fact that I lost my heart to Henry in spite of all of it feels like the plot of some low-budget romcom. He took me apart like some battery-operated toy, found out exactly what makes me tick, then instead of putting me back together, he just left the pieces scattered across the rug.
But he’s not the only one who knows how to wield a knife. And if he ever gets within an inch of my heart again, I plan to enact some destruction of my own.
Rousing as the car slows, I sit up straighter and quickly swipe at the corners of my mouth. Fortunately, they’re dry. My nap can’t have been more than a tiny snooze. Hopefully Henry was too preoccupied to notice.
“You need more sleep,” he says. Not preoccupied after all.
“I get plenty, thanks.”
He pulls onto a paved driveway, marked by a sign announcing we’ve arrived at the care home.
A three-story brick manor stands on a hill at the top of it, and out front is a car park.
Two turrets bookend the house, and various chimney stacks peek out of the roof.
Large windows give it a gaping, inquisitive look.
As I move to open my door, Henry puts a hand on my arm. “I’m serious. You’ll get sick if you don’t get enough sleep.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” I push the door open and climb into the sunshine.
As we approach the front entrance, I wish for the millionth time that Maisie had come along. I’m uneasy tackling this with just Henry. He’s on a streak, breaking my heart. What if he does something that sends me completely over the edge?
Like slipping my hand into his and squeezing. The action sends fingers of sensation through my arm and into my belly. I hate that his touch still has that effect. I’m about to yank my hand away when he drops it on his own.
The foyer of the home is as grand and imposing as the exterior, only it smells of antiseptic and old people. A chill clings to the air like fog, enough to penetrate the blazer I’m wearing. I shiver and glance out the window at a beckoning garden, dazzled in sunlight.
A young receptionist in nurse’s scrubs assures us Mrs. Schumann will be right out. She practically trips over her own feet when Henry smiles his thanks. I roll my eyes at her retreating back.
Several minutes later, Mrs. Schumann is escorted into the foyer by a male nurse. We introduce ourselves and each press a kiss to the side of her wrinkled face.
“Oh, I know who you are.” Her short, curly white hair bounces as she lets out a chuckle, which morphs into coughing.
“I may be in a home, but I still follow the news.” She’s wearing a bright floral house dress, and someone has applied blush to her papery cheeks, making her look alive and energetic, like an origami crane brought to life.
The nurse motions to a doorway on the left. “Would you like to use our reception room?”
“Actually,” Henry says, “I was wondering if Mrs. Schumann might like to take a stroll in the garden.” He bestows that heart-stopping grin on our elderly hostess, and she positively blooms under it.
“That sounds lovely,” she says, taking the arm he offers and leaving me to follow them outside.
The garden is small but meticulously kept, its wide paths swept free of debris. A gentle breeze wafts a perfectly blended perfume as it rustles through the flowers. The sunlight soaks into my pores, and I silently thank Henry for the suggestion that we leave the cold manor.
Mrs. Schumann’s heel catches on an uneven section of the walk, which causes her to stumble, and I step up to assist her on the other side. She doesn’t even spare me a glance, still thoroughly enamored by Henry.
“When they told me who was coming to visit, I could hardly believe it. Of course, I know why you’re here.
Seems the only thing I’m good for these days is giving interviews.
The nurses always turn them down for me.
I don’t want any pesky reporters poking into my business.
But with you”—she beams at him—“I’ll make an exception. ”
Never one to resist an adoring female, he returns her ridiculous smile and pats her hand, which is in the crook of his elbow. “I’m flattered you’d make the time for me.”
She giggles like a schoolgirl. “Just think what the girls will say when I tell them Prince Henry himself kissed me. They’ll be fit to be tied.” She chuckles again, leading to another coughing fit.
“Do you want some water, Mrs. Schumann?” I ask, coming to a stop and halting our progress along the path. “I’d be happy to fetch a cup.”
“I’m fine. Stay.” Her tone holds authority. This woman was obviously a commander of something in her day, even if it was only the local quilting bee.
Henry snorts under his breath, and I glare at him over her head.
“Mrs. Schumann, as you’ve already guessed, we’re here about the diary,” I say. There has been enough fawning over Henry to last several lifetimes. “I actually worked at the Historical Society when your grandson donated your items. We would love to know how it came to be in your possession.”
A smattering of clouds conspire to cover the sun.
Mrs. Schumann’s eyes feel like two needles pricking me as she looks me over.
There is certainly nothing wrong with her vision, whatever her age might be.
I’m currently being turned inside out and thoroughly inspected.
I only hope she turns me right side out when she’s done.