Page 77 of A Prince Among Pirates
But it isn’t my father who walks into the room. Instead Henry himself darkens the doorway, wearing his father’s crown and followed by a small entourage of servants.
He is breathless and a little wild eyed, which alarms me. I collect myself and bow at the waist immediately. “Your Majesty,” I say in greeting, glancing up at him through my lashes for a cue.
He waves a hand to the men behind him. “Leave us; I would speak to him alone,” he says. And then he stops one man to add: “Bring some wine.”
I offer a nervous laugh as I slowly straighten my body. “Wine? It’s barely half past ten, Your—”
“You’re going to want it,” he says to me, and I shut up, because who am I to disagree with the king? Though the pit of my belly turns to ice as the servant returns with a decanter, I take the glass and stare into the red liquid as he pours it, sinking into the settee across from the king.
He wears no wig today, his dark, wavy hair combed back as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times over the courseof the morning. He has new creases in his face, around his eyes and mouth. It started to snow not twenty minutes before Henry’s arrival, and I am grateful for a reason to stare out the window instead of at him.
“It’s beautiful,” he says.
I jump and slide my gaze his way. “Yes,” I agree. “I’ve always been fond of the snow.”
He smiles as he sips his wine. “I remember watching you play in the gardens here at Kensington when you were just a lad,” he says, that strange fondness in his voice, just like the last time I spoke to him.
There was frost on the leaves then as well. At least now we are warm. “I built a snowman by the queen’s roses,” I reply.
For a moment I think we are imagining the same afternoon. I wonder what it looks like from his point of view. I vividly remember admiring him as he taught me how to roll the snow to create the body.
“Forgive me…,” I finally say. “I have so many questions. What happened to the crew of theDeliverance? Where is the man who turned me in? And when is my father going to be here?”
“Are you that eager to see him?” Henry asks, ignoring my first two questions as he offers me a knowing smile over his wineglass.
“Well, no,” I say frankly, because what would be the point of lying now? “But I’d rather like to get it over with.”
“What do you think is going to happen, Christopher-Henry?”
I frown and set my glass down. No one has called me thatsince the night I ran away from home. I’ve almost forgotten it was my name. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I am about to ask again about the crew when Henry sighs and sets his glass down. “I think it’s time you know the truth.”
My stomach clenches.
“It’s something I never intended to tell you. But the time has come when I can no longer deny what I know to be true. I owe it to my realm and to my people.”
I blink at him and pick up my own glass, because I’m starting to think he was right about needing wine to get through this conversation. I don’t say a word, and instead bring the glass to my lips and drink deeply.
What I wouldn’t give for Captain Sharpe’s port right about now. Or his arms around me…
“Christopher-Henry,” the king says, his voice oddly stern.
I take a second longer than I should to lower the glass, lick my lips, and set it down again. “Did something happen to my father?” I ask, and I cannot account for the strain in my voice or the tightness in my chest at the thought. My father, for all intents and purposes, despises me. And yet, after losing the crew, the thought of losing him and being truly and utterly alone in the world is too much to bear.
“No, Christopher-Henry. Viscount Falmouth is fine. He’s on his way here now, with his wife and their two children.”
I finally force myself to look at Henry. What does he mean by speaking of my family as if they are strangers to me? I swallow hard, trying desperately to work out where this conversationis going, while at the same time knowing deep down exactly what he’s going to say.
I don’t want to hear it.
“Elizabeth’s new baby?”
“A girl,” Henry says.
I can’t quite decipher how I feel about that. On one hand, it means I am still the heir to Falmouth. On the other, it means I am still stuck being the heir to Falmouth. “I see.”
“Christopher-Henry… I told you once before that I remember your mother,” he says, and reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat to pull out a small, round object wrapped in a faded scrap of blue and silver silk. I stare at the design on it, the familiar lattice of small peaks, like rounded honeycomb in a pointed teardrop shape. It’s so reminiscent of the bolts of silk from the marketplace at Nassau that for a moment I forget how to breathe.
