28. “Tattoo” - Jordan Sparks
“Tattoo” - Jordan Sparks
The air has cooled considerably by the time we reach Henry’s car. The clouds are churning into a thick gray soup, completely obliterating what might have been a beautiful sunset. A rumble of thunder echoes in the distance.
“She was butter in your hands,” I mutter as he opens my door.
“What can I say? I know how to handle women.”
“You should hand out complimentary barf bags.”
He throws his head back and laughs, and the sound reverberates through the still evening air. After climbing into the driver’s seat, he says, “Celia Eleanor, are you jealous of an old woman?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m upset she didn’t tell us anything useful.”
“What do you mean? Of course she did.”
“I’m sorry, but were you listening? How is hearing about a baby turtle she once adopted helpful in any way?”
“She told us how the diary was found. Now we know it’s legitimate.”
I scoff. “Hardly. All we know is that she has a penchant for telling stories.”
“You think she made it up?”
“It doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t prove anything either way.”
He looks at me strangely, and I realize that I’m showing my hand with my obsessive need for proof. I can’t let him see how badly I need this, or why I need it. He would sabotage everything.
“I just like black-and-white answers,” I add.
“I know,” he muses.
“Why are you helping, anyway?”
He pulls the car back onto the road before speaking. “My father took something valuable from me.”
Chills prickle my body. I want to murder King William for what he did.
Henry’s knuckles flash white on the steering wheel. “His position as king is the most important thing in the world to him. He’s so convinced the diary is rubbish . . .” He shrugs. “I guess it feels like the universe has given me a chance at retribution.”
It makes sense, even if it’s completely twisted and selfish. I feel a white-hot rage welling up inside me. William stole his son’s innocence. You certainly won’t catch me telling Henry he shouldn’t want vengeance.
Before I’m even aware of what I’m doing, I reach over and cover the hand on his leg with my own. It’s warm, and he splays his fingers so mine slip between them, then curls them together. It’s such an intimate gesture, my insides clench.
After a few beats, I pull my hand away and tuck it under my leg. The first splatters of rain hit the windshield. “Why were you asking Mrs. Schumann about the employment records?”
“Assuming Philip didn’t die on board The Caledonia, they were likely going to try getting him a job in the palace, right? To make it possible to be together?”
“You think Helena was going to what—smuggle a gardener into her room?”
“What other choice did she have? He wasn’t even gentry.”
I should have thought of it myself. I cross my arms over my chest. “He wouldn’t have used his real name anyway, so how will the records help us?”
“He could have taken the name of the man who actually died.”
“Assuming, of course, Philip himself didn’t die.”
“Hey,” Henry says, “it’s a theory we have yet to disprove. I’m sticking with it until we know otherwise.”
“So you want to cross-reference the records of the people who were hired after The Caledonia landed with the ship’s manifest?”
“Can’t hurt to try, right?”
No, it can’t hurt. But it won’t make a difference. Because even if one of the men who was aboard that ship was hired at the palace, there won’t be irrefutable evidence that he wasn’t exactly who he said he was. Nothing to prove that my lineage is the one that belongs on the throne.
Rattle the shackles around my wrists all you want, but at the end of the day, I’ll still be married to the man who is the gasoline on the fire burning me alive.
It’s getting difficult to see the road due to the rain coming down harder and a strong wind whipping it nearly horizontal. Even Henry’s headlights make little difference in the blinding wall of precipitation.
“I’m going to pull off,” he shouts over the noise.
We’re in one of the small villages we passed through earlier. He stops in a car park belonging to a tiny pub. Its lights are only a hazy glow, but nonetheless a beacon of life in the midst of the flood pouring from the sky.
He shuts off the engine. The silence that now fills the vehicle, coupled with the noise of the rain outside, creates the feeling of a warm cocoon.
Except that warm cocoon is going to become suffocating very quickly.
For some reason, sitting in a car alone with Henry is much worse when said car is not in motion.
“Want to make a run for it?” I ask, with a nod toward the building.
He raises his eyebrows. “We’d get drenched.” Glancing into the back seat, he adds, “I have an umbrella, but the way this wind is blowing, it won’t do us any good.”
I swing my door open, jumping out directly into a giant pool of water. Ignoring my drenched trousers, I dash through the rain toward the entrance of the pub, Henry right on my heels. We burst through it, bringing a spray of water with us.
Inside, dark paneling rises halfway up the walls.
Above that, framed oil paintings and black-and-white photographs are scattered in a haphazard pattern.
Booths line the small space, their bloodred vinyl upholstery cracked and peeling.
An ancient stereo struggles to be heard over the rage of the storm.
When we enter, the handful of patrons sprinkled around the room turn in our direction.
All too late, I realize we’ll be recognized, even in a small village nearly an hour from the capital.
Maybe especially here. I don’t know what reaction to expect—do they hate me?
—but I desperately want to retreat back the way we came.
But surprisingly, after assessing us, everyone turns back to their meals.
I look over at Henry. His normally roguishly styled and tousled hair has lost all of its volume and is matted to his forehead, sending rivulets of water down his face.
He actually doesn’t look much like himself at all if you aren’t used to seeing him up close and in person.
The murky interior of the pub helps dilute his features, although the fact that no one seems to have placed that signature jawline is a miracle.
A young woman with an apron, a dark ponytail, and a dozen piercings greets us with a warm, enthusiastic smile.
Something like recognition crosses her face, but after a few seconds, she must decide we just bear a strong resemblance to the royal couple.
She motions with her hand and leads us to a booth at the back of the room.
After sliding onto the sticky vinyl, we take the proffered menus, and she leaves us to study them.
“I am dying for a cup of coffee,” I say.
“Warm ale will heat you faster,” Henry offers, absorbed in his own menu.
“Do I strike you as an ale drinker?”
“No. That’s precisely why I suggested it.”
If he thinks I’m about to be coerced into ordering an ale simply because he doesn’t think I will, he’s wrong. “I’ll have a coffee and the chowder,” I say when the server reappears.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try something new every once in a while,” Henry tells me after placing his own order.
“Actually, it might. But please, swim with as many sharks as you like and eat all the buffet sushi you want.”
He just smiles and shakes his head, sending several drops onto the marred wooden tabletop. The server brings our drinks with a smile and assures us our food will be ready shortly.
“I’m so glad we weren’t recognized.” I warm my frozen fingers on my mug. “I long for the days when no one knew me.”
Henry chuckles into his ale. “We were definitely recognized.”
I frown and take a sip of my coffee. The heat chugs through my bloodstream. “No, we weren’t. They would have said something.”
“This will blow your mind, but not everyone voices every thought aloud.” He pushes his ale across the table. “Taste it.”
I roll my eyes and lift the glass to my lips.
The full, malty flavor is intense but not unpleasant.
He’s right. Instant warmth shoots through my belly, then spreads to my limbs.
I set the drink back down and lift a shoulder.
“Not bad. I still prefer my coffee, and I still don’t believe she knows who we are. ”
Henry smirks and raises the ale to his own lips, keeping his gaze on me. A familiar tingle rings through me, and I avert my eyes, but it’s too late to stop the flush from crawling over my face.
“You forget, I know women,” he says.
“If that were true, you’d know her smile meant you’re welcome in her bed anytime.”
“Those smiles I also know quite well. And that one wasn’t for me.” He takes another swig and licks the foam from his lip. I drag my eyes and thoughts away from them.
In perfect synchronization, the server returns, bearing our plates on her tattooed arms, the food steaming hot and smelling delicious. Henry’s stomach growls as she places his fish and chips before him.
“I know this is hugely inappropriate of me,” she says, “but tonight is Trivia Night, and I would score so many bragging rights if I brought you.” She clasps her hands together in a pleading gesture. “It’s so much fun, I promise.”
Henry pops a chip into his mouth and looks at me questioningly. The spark in his eyes is unmistakable. “You’re the walking encyclopedia. It’s your call.”
I know he thinks I won’t do it, and my first inclination is to decline. But I can’t stand his gloating. “Sure, why not,” I tell her.
She thrusts a fist into the air. “They’re going to freak when I bring Celia Chapman-Payne back. Oh, and I’m Amber, by the way,” she says, dropping into one of the most awkward curtsies I’ve ever seen. “Here, let me grab your plates. We play in the back.”
As we follow her out of the dining room, Henry whispers into my ear. “Told you that smile wasn’t for me.”
I sock him in the stomach with my elbow.