“Piss off, Clive,” Nick muttered.
“Thank you, Keldah. I’m delighted to be here,” Clive said, and then his face arranged itself in a sad expression. “And gutted that it’s under such mournful circumstances.”
“You take Idris Elba’s feelings right out of your mouth,” I told the TV.
“The crowds in Westminster have far outpaced the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence, though, of course—you can take it from me—the Queen Mother is substantially more beloved,” Clive said. “The hope is that all well-wishers can get through before the funeral. A few lucky ones will catch the family members taking up the rotating guard posts near the casket, so there’s that to look forward to.”
“Look forward to,” Nick repeated. “Yes, there’s so much to enjoy about a wake, you simpering twerp.”
I studied Clive’s face as he yammered on about everything from the logistics of the funeral procession, to the dignitaries who were expected to attend, to our innermost feelings. His slick handsomeness had tapered into something hawkish, and his dark hair had what looked like bottle-gray strands at the temples, giving him an air of gravitas and expertise that he didn’t deserve. I hoped he’d had a miserable time trying to keep up with his royal column now that he’d lost his best sources—us—and people were accordingly starting to side-eye the accuracy of his scoops, but this was a massive all-hands-on-desks news moment, as it were, and he clearly intended to maximize it.
“…and we expect to see the Prince of Wales, his sons, and Prince Edwin standing guard over the casket together,” Clive said. “But the real headline is the public reappearance of Queen Eleanor. A nation waits with bated breath for its broadly beloved…”
Nick muted the television aggressively.
“Aren’t you curious to see what b word he was going to use for her?” I teased. “Boss lady?”
“Bloodline begetter?”
“Big cheese?”
“I dare him,” Nick said, picking up his phone in what I knew he imagined was a casual way. The only new item on his lock screen—a selfie we’d taken on the edge of a cliff in Scotland—was a news alert about the weekend’s Premier League games being rescheduled out of respect.
“Are they back yet?” I asked softly.
He turned over his phone and dropped it on the couch. “No idea.”
When Marta died, Freddie had immediately been recalled from Wherever—sincerely, we didn’t know—and Richard had gone to fetch him himself from his preferred private airfield. It was a kind gesture from someone who rarely deployed them, and it made us both anxious that he knew something we didn’t, which my inner armchair psychologist suspected was why Nick’s insomnia had him up at all hours watching the same newsreel footage of his great-grandmother repackaged by different channels. Right now, the news was showing Marta and her husband, Richard, returning from a royal tour of Australia that had gone on for eight entire weeks. I’d never seen him in motion before; he was tall and fluid, almost graceful, and smiling. He didn’t at all look like a person who would drown in an ill-advised boat outing. Eleanor and Georgina were greeting them as they disembarked from the plane, looking very young and yet also vaguely old, thanks to their ’50s hairdos. Eleanor was willowy and refined, on the cusp of leaving her teen years behind, and Georgina at sixteen was already a bombshell. Their arms were intertwined, and they didn’t even unravel themselves when they curtsied to their parents.
“It’s weird to see this, knowing what we know now,” Nick said. “I’m glad you told me, and it is juicy, but it’s quite sad to watch them and wonder how long they had before…”
He trailed off, and looked at his phone screen one more time. Nothing.
* * *
The Freddie who walked through the doors of the ornate private vestibule outside Westminster Hall was not the same Freddie who had left us. He was thinner, and tired, with the air of someone who’d been lugging something very heavy and hadn’t registered yet that he’d put it down. His new beard looked freshly trimmed, like the well-considered choice of an adult man and not something he grew out of laziness in the field. He looked older. Almost gaunt. At the sight of him, I let out a breath that I felt like I’d been holding for six months. Nick simply stiffened. It was then I noticed Freddie’s right arm was in a sling over his military uniform.
“It’s nothing,” he said as he came in the door, holding up his left hand. “Don’t freak out.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“You are,” he replied. “Broken arm, is all. Rough outing a couple of days ago.”
“Rough is one way to put it,” Richard said, coming into the vestibule behind Freddie in full military regalia. “Two other men died.”
My hands flew to my mouth. Freddie gave me an awkward one-armed hug.
“Lots to be grateful for,” he said. “I saw the least of it.”
“Holy…” Nick caught himself, and took his brother’s free left hand in an unconventional handshake. “No one told us about any of this.”
“That’s because, technically, it’s classified,” Bea cut in, appearing behind Richard with a clack of her heels and shooting his back a look that could only be described as treasonous.
“But you knew?” Nick asked.
Bea straightened her collar. “I work for Freddie as much as I work for you,” she said. “Who do you think was in charge of making sure this stayed under wraps? I don’t mind saying that it was challenging.”
Freddie leaned over and punched her companionably on the arm. “You get full marks, Beatrix,” he said. “A job very well done.”
“I would have appreciated being more in the loop,” Nick said.
“It’s done now, Nicholas,” Richard said, although not unkindly.
“It is that,” Freddie said. His voice was hollow.
“So does that mean you’re back?” I asked. “For good?”
Freddie shrugged his elbow in my direction and said nothing.
“We were running on borrowed time with the press, anyway,” Bea said, glancing down at her vintage Cartier
