I cleared my throat. Nick turned to look at me with surprise. “Dr. Akhtar did mention a sperm bank,” I admitted. “Once. Or twice.”
“When?” Nick asked. “Were you even going to tell me?”
“I was not, because I told her no,” I said tightly. “We don’t need it.”
“Correct,” Eleanor said. “Those people are strangers.”
“Some couples go well into double-digit rounds of IVF. We’ll get this,” I said.
“We don’t know that,” Nick said, looking suddenly stressed.
“Then we can adopt,” I said.
“No.” Eleanor’s head shake was crisp. “That is a nonstarter in your situation. Next?”
“I mean…” I exchanged glances with Nick. “That’s sort of it. If we can’t do it together, we need someone else. That’s the normal way this goes.”
“But you have agreed, time and again, that normal is not the way this goes,” she said, gesturing to the room, as if it represented the monarchy itself—which, in a sense, it did. “Do you really mean to suggest that the throne should pass to an outsider?”
“Our child wouldn’t be an outsider!” I said. “He or she would be just as—”
“This is not the time for mawkish tripe,” she said. “Of course there is nothing wrong with adoption, or specimen banks. But it would be against the law for that child to inherit the throne.”
“It is medieval that anyone cares how we build our family,” Nick spat. “It’s the twenty-first century.”
“The monarchy has survived since the medieval period for a reason,” Eleanor said. “And your child might care. That child might care very much, if you had to sit down and explain to it that while it is special, and loved, it cannot have what your firstborn is traditionally destined to have, because it doesn’t come from the right place. How different that child will feel. How very alone. Can you do that to him or her?”
Nick downed the rest of his port and went to slam down his glass, but thought better of it and walked it over to the bar. Then he paced over to the window, leaning against it as the scenery juddered past.
“So, what?” he said. “I make Bex go through another twenty rounds of IVF with my crap DNA? All for your dynastic ego?”
Eleanor tutted. “The solution is obvious,” she said. “And I’ll wager your Dr. Akhtar has also already brought that up with one of you, who has chosen not to share it with the class.”
She stared right at me again, and my skin went cold. This was an ambush.
“Don’t, Eleanor,” I said. “Please don’t.”
“His DNA is as close as it can be,” she prodded.
“Stop,” I whispered. “You can’t do this to them.”
“He’s of Lyons blood,” she persisted.
“It’s unconscionable.”
“And the baby would carry a natural family resemblance,” she finished. “We’ve put the affair rumors to rest, so this is rather a safe option, don’t you think?”
It took a full extra second for the force of her suggestion to hit the brothers.
“Bloody hell,” Freddie said, his face flushing bright red.
“I need air,” Nick said, fumbling to open a window. “I might also jump out.”
“I realize this is fraught,” Eleanor said calmly. “But if Rebecca doesn’t have a baby of Lyons lineage, then Frederick, you will be Nicholas’s heir. Is that your desire?”
Freddie’s head was cradled in his hands. He said nothing.
“Indeed,” Eleanor said, waving her empty port glass. Nobody moved to refill it, until Nick finally snatched it out of her hand.
“You sound like a madwoman,” he said, ripping out the cork and refilling her glass with haste. “This cannot happen.”
“It would be a beautiful favor to ensure the happiness of his family,” Eleanor said, “and also the smooth continuation of the Lyons Dynasty.”
“Oh, is that all?” Nick said.
“I was honest with you, Eleanor,” I said. “I trusted you when I admitted that we were having trouble. I could’ve easily used some random sperm and told you Nick got me pregnant.”
“Now I wish you had,” Nick said.
Eleanor pushed herself out of her chair and pointed a finger into my face. “Do not joke about the family I’ve fought for,” she hissed. “You do not know what it means to have this weight on your shoulders. To carry the past, the present, and the future, all at once.” She straightened. “It is an elegant solution, and no one but the four of us would be the wiser. Stop pouting about what’s been done, all of you, and think about what you can yet do.”
Freddie stared at the ground. “This is really why we’re all here, isn’t it?” he said tartly. “You wanted us in a confined space to boss us around. To force my hand. Nothing ever does change, does it?” He blew out his cheeks. “I am the pawn you use to protect the king, and the queen, and to hell with it if I’m caught in the crossfire.”
“Now you’re being dramatic,” Eleanor said.
“I’m called the spare for a reason,” he said emptily. “The extra piece in case the machine breaks down. Not a person. A part.” He stood. “And I’ve had enough of it.”
He faced his grandmother and the two of them squared off, stock-still, in a charged stalemate. Eventually, Eleanor dusted her hands together as if this were sorted.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced. “I trust you three to do the right thing.”
The three of us, however, said nothing. Not right away. Freddie slumped back down into his corner of the couch, while I pressed myself further and further into the arm on the opposite side, as if the mere allusion to our past had somehow sexualized the sofa cushion between us. Nick turned and looked at us, back and forth, one after the other, for an interminable time before grabbing the port to fill his own empty glass. The train hit a bump as he went to pour it.
“The hell with it,” he said, swigging straight from the bottle and then holding it out to Freddie.
“Going to need
