1. “Elastic Heart” - Sia #2
Maisie bites her lip and quickly looks down at her tablet.
“Do I even want to know?” I mutter.
“No, and that’s why I’m stalling,” she blurts out.
I close my eyes and steel myself for whatever portent of gloom she’s about to unleash.
This job has given me more headaches than four years of statistics courses ever did.
When I open them again, I see that Maisie’s are closed and that she is subtly mouthing something, probably a petition for favor from the universe.
“Maisie.”
Her eyes pop open, and she looks at me for two seconds before a string of words flies out of her mouth. It’s completely incomprehensible.
“Could you repeat that? In English this time?” I say.
She takes a deep breath. “The Privy Purse is empty.”
“Empty.” I sip my coffee, trying to overlook the awful taste to get to the caffeine. “How is that possible?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that there is to be a payment plan installed on our wages. And you know I didn’t take this job because of the money, and I have savings, so I’m fine, but I’m not sure how many other staff members can afford to receive only a portion of their salaries for the week, and—”
Her verbal faucet continues gushing, but I tune her out. How can the Purse be empty? I’ve only been on the throne for two months. It’s not like I’ve gone on any major shopping sprees or commissioned palace renovations. I’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone spend millions on unnecessary things.
“Arrange a meeting with the keeper of the Privy Purse. I need to get to the bottom of this.”
“Of course.” Maisie’s fingers begin a wild attack on the keyboard.
I click my pen rapidly, my thoughts spinning even faster.
“Why has he not come to me about this himself? It doesn’t make sense.
” The guy is in charge of the royal family’s finances.
How could an error of this magnitude have happened?
Has he been siphoning from the accounts? Is he lazy, drunk, incompetent?
“I have no earthly clue,” Maisie says. “I just caught word this morning about the wages. Payday is coming up, and everyone is freaking out.”
Five hundred people are employed by this mammoth institution, and all of them are counting on me to put food on their tables and petrol in their cars. I think about Davies needing to pay for braces for his son.
“Arrange a meeting with my father’s banker as well,” I say.
“I— Yes. Absolutely. Um, your father? I’m afraid I don’t . . .”
Maisie would rather confront a mouse than seem incompetent, but I should have specified more clearly. “Harold Bardman’s. That’s where my father’s trust is located.”
“Right. Got it.” There is another flurry of typing, and then she says, “I don’t mean to pry, but what exactly are you planning to do with the trust?”
“Use it to cover wages until we can get to the bottom of this debacle.” I slide open my desk drawer for a notepad.
“You shouldn’t be using your personal money.”
“Why not?” I jot down a name and tear the paper off. “It’s not like I need it to live off of. At least I didn’t think I did,” I mutter under my breath, and hand Maisie the slip. “This is the name of the banker who handles all of our trust funds.”
My father left Beatrice and me each sizable trusts and the rest of his money to my mother.
Prior to my coronation, we lived a comfortable lifestyle off the interest from those accounts, so the balance of mine should be enough to cover the staff’s wages for a short period of time, but it’s not a long-term solution.
I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know what the royal household spends on salaries in a month.
I assumed that was something the keeper of the Purse was handling.
“I doubt your father intended for you to spend that money on other people. It was meant as a gift to you.”
“He would turn over in his grave if I didn’t do this. Besides, how can I parade around in the latest fashions while my staff can’t even heat their homes? It’s just common decency.”
Maisie shakes her head. “Decency would be securing a loan to cover the wages. You have a bigger heart than you let on.”
“Well, don’t tell the press. It would ruin their day.”
Despite the fact that I am doing the best I can with only a few months of preparation for being monarch, the press is determined to paint me as nothing but a money-loving, fame-hungry throne-snatcher.
This is likely because of my recent divorce and everyone’s opinion that I must be the stupidest woman on the planet.
If only they knew.
“I will warn the palace press office so they can stay on top of it,” Maisie says.
“That’s the last item on this morning’s agenda.
I will let you know once I have those meetings scheduled.
” She rises to leave, eyes still glued to her screen, then promptly sinks back into her chair. Her face has turned ashen.
“What is it?” I ask.
She turns to me, her eyes large behind her glasses. “Please do not panic.”
I’ll never understand why people give such warnings. They always have the opposite effect, as evidenced by the tightening of my fingers around the pen in my hand.
“The press secretary just handed in his resignation.”