“You are one of the most loving people I have ever known, and, not for nothing, we are both stubborn as hell,” I said, twining our fingers. “I do not see us letting all that psychological shit win. I really don’t.”
“You seem awfully confident,” he said. “I wish it could be that easy for me.”
“Do you think this is easy for me?” I asked. “Because it’s not. It’s brutal. But this is a tipping point, Nick.” I caught his gaze and held it. “We will always remember this conversation. We will always remember what we decided tonight. If Eleanor’s rules are writing this story, which ending can you live with?”
Nick poked another finger into his sandwich, then prodded at it until the first two had a frown arcing underneath them. Then he stared at me, and in that look, his melancholy gave way to a sort of determination.
“I want to believe in myself the way that you believe in me,” he finally said. “Call him.”
* * *
Nick and I were coming home from a meeting with Bea the following month when Freddie came running up to us in the courtyard, flushed but handsome in a blue suit.
“Hi,” he said. “I saw you out my window. Do you two have a moment to talk? It won’t take long.”
Nick and I exchanged glances. We’d begun the day at Dr. Akhtar’s office, where I’d had another of what felt like an endless series of blood tests—this time to see if Freddie had been able to get the job done where Nick had not. Sometimes it seemed like I must have given all the blood I’d ever had in my body.
“You can’t go back on it now, mate,” Nick said, with a jocularity that sounded forced to all of us. “It’s a done deal. We’re just waiting to see if it worked.”
Freddie flushed hugely. “Right, right. I lost track of the timing there a bit.” He nodded aimlessly. “But I, um. It’s not that. It’s about me. I mean, I know that’s also…sort of. Anyway, it’s not about the baby.”
“Why don’t we go inside?” I suggested.
“Yeah, this isn’t a conversation I really want to have in the courtyard,” Freddie said.
“You’re making me nervous,” Nick said as we clattered up the steps and into Apartment 1A, as neat as a pin and smelling like cinnamon rolls.
“No, no,” Freddie said. “It’s not bad news! Is there somewhere we can be private? I don’t want the staff to overhear any of this.”
“Of course,” Nick said, shooting me a quizzical glance. The conversation I’d had with Freddie formally asking him for his help had been brief, and kind, and a bit fraught, all adjectives that could describe every chat we’d had since. I had no idea where this was going. Not even a hint.
We stepped into Nick’s office, cozy and warm. Someone, in preparation for our return, had lit a fire in the grate, and it crackled in welcome. Out the window, I could see that it looked like snow.
Freddie closed the door tightly and turned to us.
“You should sit down,” he said.
“Why all the cloak-and-dagger?” Nick said as we took spots on his sofa. “Are you going back into active duty?”
Freddie gave a wry smile. “In a sense.” He picked up a poker and prodded the fire, then hung it up and turned in our direction, without actually looking at either of us. “I wanted you to be the first to know—well, actually, the second and third, or rather, the sixth and seventh, if we’re really being specific about order here, eighth if you include me, which I hadn’t been…”
“Fred!” I clapped my hands. “Get to the point!”
“I’ve asked Daphne to marry me and she’s accepted,” Freddie said, in a rat-a-tat rush.
I felt as if I’d taken leave of my own body and was watching this conversation from somewhere twenty feet above the three of us, next to one of the lions carved into the paneled wood ceiling. Nick said nothing. Freddie looked between us both, back and forth, over and over, and said nothing.
“You’re not kidding,” Nick said. It wasn’t a question.
“Deadly serious, Knickers. It’s my turn to marry the heir,” Freddie said, attempting levity, but faltering at the crushed look on Nick’s face.
“Is this because of Father?” Nick demanded.
Freddie looked taken aback. “What? No. Of course not. Why would it be?”
Nick spread his hands out, as if this should be obvious. “Father started all this, back at the state dinner. I’m sure he’s delighted, but you can’t live your life to impress him, Freddie, he doesn’t care about anybody but—”
“It’s not Father,” Freddie interrupted. “That’s absurd.”
“Then what?” Nick asked, standing up, then sitting down again. “Is it me? Is it this?”
He gestured at me, and I saw his lip tremble.
Freddie paled, but his smile didn’t falter. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not. It’s me. I chose this. It’s what I want. Clive got his scoop after all, in the end.” He laughed, but it was hollow.
“Clive,” Nick barked, “is absolutely the wrong reason to do this.”
“Leave it out, Knickers, it was a joke,” Freddie said. He started worrying at his tie, finally managing to loosen it. “This is good news. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Good news? This is madness,” Nick said.
“No,” Freddie said firmly. “It’s sensible, is what it is.”
“Sensible,” Nick repeated. “How romantic.”
“The pressure of royal life is never going to be too much for Daphne,” Freddie continued. “My family is never going to be too complicated or too overwhelming or too confusing for her. This”—and here, he mimicked Nick’s gesture at my body—“will never confuse her. It’s easy. It’s so easy.”
“King of the Netherlands,” Nick said softly, shaking his head.
“King consort,” Freddie corrected him. “Prince consort? I’m not sure how the Netherlands works.”
“Which is why this is an absolutely ridiculous notion,” Nick said. “Of all the women to marry in haste, a crown princess seems like the
