“Are you sure?” I asked.
She kissed me again, I kissed her back and I was just beginning to relax and enjoy myself when my mind was wrenched back to that terrible cell, to the gargoyles in the chalk circle and the relentless cackle of the Prefects.
The next thing I knew, Abbey was no longer sitting on my lap but standing over me, concerned, disappointed, smoothing down her T-shirt.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really wanted to-”
“It’s fine.”
“I hate to let you down.”
“You’re not,” she said, although I would have been deluding myself not to recognize the frustration which tinged her voice.
“It’s just that I’ve had a long day. A lot’s happened.”
“Of course.”
“And… Oh God-” Something halfway between a sob and an irresistible urge to vomit began to force its way up my body — the great, indigestible tumor of the truth.
Abbey stroked back my hair, held me close, whispered in my ear. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry.” I was gulping back tears. “But there’s something I can’t stop thinking about. Something in my past.”
Abbey kissed me on the forehead. “Let it out.”
“I need to tell you…” My nose had started to run and I could feel grief and rage take hold. “I need to tell you how my father died.”
The heir to the throne woke the next morning to find Silverman standing over him holding a breakfast tray, a large pot of tea, a sheath of correspondence and a fresh edition of the Times, all of it balanced with the kind of dexterous skill one can acquire only through decades of experience.
“Your Royal Highness. Good morning, sir.”
Arthur wriggled up in bed. “Plump the pillow for me, would you, Silverman?”
Obediently, the equerry patted the pillow into place.
“I have sleep in my peepers,” said the prince.
With great tenderness, Silverman teased out the granules of dust which had accumulated overnight at the edges of the prince’s eyes. He walked over to the wardrobe and laid out his master’s outfit for the morning — crisp gray suit, starched white shirt, underpants emblazoned with the prince’s crest and a choice of half a dozen ties, all of them varyingly somber shades of mahogany.
Once the equerry was done, the prince asked: “What do the papers say? Be a good chap, would you, and summarize the headlines.”
Silverman scanned the front page. “The prime minister is flying home from Africa,” he said, and at the mere mention of the man, the prince rolled his eyes in exasperation. “A new health secretary has been appointed. And a rock musician has been arrested for punching a traffic policeman.”
“What else, Silverman? What aren’t you telling me?”
The equerry cleared his throat discreetly. “There is a small article about your mother, sir.”
“My mother?”
“Some wholly unfounded piece of speculation about the state of her health.”
“What are they saying, Silverman?”
A moment’s hesitation, then: “It would appear, sir, that the headline is: “At Death’s Door?”
“How do they know? It’s not like anyone’s even seen her for months.”
“It’s only a newspaper, sir. They are peddlers of exaggeration and hyperbole.”
“I do wonder when she’ll show her face again. You know, of course, that she never liked me all that much?”
“I’m sure you must be mistaken, sir.”
“Never like Laetitia either, come to think of it. Of course, that’s why Mother won’t see me anymore. She thinks I’m weak. She thinks I’m squeamish. And I suspect the public tend to concur. It’s really most unfair.”
Silverman cleared his throat. “Will that be all, sir?”
Arthur took a sip of his tea and eyed his breakfast. “Thank you, Silverman. You may go.”
The equerry backed toward the door.
“There’s just one more thing.”
“Sir?”
“What do you make of this Streater fellow? Seems a rum sort.”
He does not appear to be a man in whom I would be altogether happy to place my faith, sir.”
“Oh?” Strangely, the prince seemed almost affronted by this. “Well, I’ll say this for him. He makes an uncommonly good cup of tea.”
“Is that so, sir?”
“I’m seeing him later, as it happens. He’s in the midst of telling me the most extraordinary story. Something about my great-great-great-grandmother. Something about a contract.”
“Good Lord, sir.”
“Good Lord, indeed, Silverman. It’s all madness, of course.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something like that? Any rumors of that nature?”
“There are always rumors, sir.” Silverman bowed his head. “If there’s nothing else?”
Arthur Windsor waved the fellow away and sat in silence for a while, alone with his boiled egg, his suspicion, his storm-cloud thoughts.
An hour or so later, he left his room and, brushing aside offers of assistance from various members of his household staff, walked swiftly to the old ballroom, not stopping to question his haste or wonder why he was hurrying with such rapidity to meet a man whose company, in the normal course of life, he would have found distasteful in the extreme.
Arthur arrived at the appointed time to discover his host already waiting for him, drinking tea and smirking.
Streater didn’t bother to get up when the prince walked into the room, just grunted once and slurped noisily at his cup.
“Mr. Streater?”
There was another lip-smacking sound before the sharp-featured man looked up. “Be with you in a minute, chief. Just having my brew.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Thirsty?”
Arthur Windsor became uncharacteristically. He seemed to shrink back, withdraw into himself, a royal snail edging into his majestic shell. “What I mean to say is that I’d really like some tea.”
Streater drained his cup and set it on the table beside him. “What was that, mate?”
“I said I’d really like some tea.”
“Bad luck, chief.” Streater sounded not in the least apologetic. “Think I’ve just had the last of it.” He belched expansively.
The prince looked stricken.
“Sorry about that.”
“Are you quite sure?” Arthur said, his voice wavering under the weight of disappointment. “Might there not be a little left behind?”
Streater shrugged. “Doubt it. But I’ll check anyway.” He popped the lid off the teapot, peered inside, paused, wrinkled his nose and said: “You’re in luck, chief. There’s a few dregs after all.”
Arthur’s voice was glutted with relief. “Dregs will be fine.”
Streater poured out about half a cup and passed it to him. “Happy now?”
Arthur gulped it down in one. “Much better. Thank you, Mr. Streater.”
The blond man flashed his sharky smile. “We ought to crack on with your education. Your mum doesn’t want us to drag our heels.” Like a ringmaster about to introduce the prize of his menagerie, he clapped his hands and the room instantly grew dark. “Tea down, chief. It’s look-and-learn time.”