Page 11 of The Rest is History

Charlie

E lodie keeps looking over her shoulder.

We’re milling about in Clock Court because it’s a beautiful day, and it’s more pleasant to be outside than in the Great Hall. No matter how spectacular a show the sun puts on when it streams through the stained glass windows.

It’s her third Saturday at the palace. After her first day’s charged necklace incident, I made sure to keep her second week uneventful.

We stayed with the other queens for most of the day, and she seemed to enjoy their company.

After having spent the previous Saturday almost exclusively with me, I suspect the bar was low.

I’ve also ensured we maintain exactly the same relationship within the school gates as we have so far this academic year. Monday to Friday, it’s business as usual. By which I mean:

Total outward lack of interest on my part. Hostility, even.

A polite distance on her part.

Countless shameless stares at her arse, the nape of her neck, and any other body part (including her face) whenever I have the slightest chance.

Even more countless vigorous rendezvous with my fist what seems like every morning and evening.

So there you have it.

Consider yourself up to speed.

She’s looking backwards, towards Anne Boleyn’s Gateway, the passage under the clock tower that leads back to Base Court and the main entrance to the palace.

‘Expecting someone?’ I ask with a studiedly disinterested air.

‘Yeah.’ She breaks her vigil to glance at me. ‘My twin sister and my niece.’

Twin sister? Twin fucking sister?

Oh, dear Lord. I am so fucked. Because— there are two of them? The angels in heaven must have been working a double shift the day Elodie and her twin were created. Or they were just so damn proud of their handiwork that they duplicated their celestial creation.

Because why have one Elodie Peach when you can have two?

It’s now my head twisted backwards, my eyes scanning the entrance.

My fantasies involving Elodie, and her slim white neck, and her huge green eyes, and her extremely shapely rack, and the glorious curve of her arse, have got out of fucking hand since she came on board at the palace, and they cannot handle the extra titillation of a twin, for fuck’s sake?—

She’s a mind reader.

‘We’re not identical,’ she volunteers. ‘We just about look like sisters. She’s prettier than me. Fairer.’

There’s no way on earth the sister is prettier. That’s a physical impossibility.

‘I see.’ Not my most articulate moment, but all my capacity is employed in trying to will away an erection as I wrestle my fantasies back under control.

‘Did you not know I had a twin?’

I glance back at her. I love it when we actually converse.

It gives me the perfect cover to drink in every inch of her.

Every pore. Every eyelash. The rosy plumpness of her lips.

She goes light on the makeup when she’s here, but she doesn’t need much.

She has a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks.

They’re adorable. Anachronistic, of course, but I’m not complaining.

‘No.’ Believe me, sweetheart, you could knock me down with a feather right now.

‘I talk about her a lot to Zara,’ she insists.

‘I’ve got good at zoning you two out,’ I say coldly.

Which I know is a dick move. It’s also highly inaccurate.

The reasons I zone her out are not the disinterest I’m implying now, but self-preservation and my tendency to lose myself in a rapture of fantasies about her.

The latter means that when she thinks I’m lost in a textbook, I’m often in cloud cuckoo land.

A flash of disappointment, or hurt, maybe, crosses her face. I tell myself it’s for the best. Her dislike of me is by far the most effective way of buttressing my Jenga fortress.

I throw her a bone. ‘I’ve heard you mention your sister. And your niece. You live with them, right? I just didn’t realise you were twins.’

‘Yeah.’ She brightens, and I want to shake her. I want to hear her tell me I’m a rude, obnoxious twat and a terrible boss who has no business managing people. She’s too bloody quick to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Especially me.

‘How old is your niece? Is she at school locally?’

‘She goes to Woodland House.’

‘Ah. Great establishment. They do excellent work there.’ A few of our pupils have joined from Woodland House in Year Seven, with some of the finest grasp of the fundamentals of learning I’ve seen.

Her eyes widen, either because I’m being not-hideous, or because she wasn’t expecting me to know Woodland House so well.

‘They really do, don’t they? We went to a parents’ evening there a couple of weeks ago. I couldn’t believe how much progress Olive—that’s my niece—had made in a couple of terms.’

‘ You went to her parents’ evening?’

She hesitates, as though she’s evaluating something in her head. ‘Yeah. My brother-in-law walked out last summer. They’ve hardly heard from him since. That’s the reason I moved down here—just to be with them, you know?’

‘That was the ‘family thing’,’ I mutter.

A wry smile. ‘Good memory.’

I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.

I gaze down at her, drinking in the vision before me.

We’ve been mobbed this morning, and it’s all her.

She draws people to her. I’ve seen it at school—pupils, staff members, parents—but here, doing her best impression of one of the most beguiling characters in all of history, she unwittingly makes sure no one stands a chance. They can’t keep away from her.

It’s in the way she carries herself in this costume.

Perfectly poised, just like Anne Boleyn would have been.

The square bodice framing the flawless skin of her bust, while that bloody necklace dangles its B tantalisingly, three drop pearls suspended on bare flesh. The black hood showcasing her beauty.

That’s all they are: the dress, the hood, the jewels. Props. Gimmicks. The real magic lies beneath them.

I want to tell her that my opinion of her has just shot up even further, no matter how impossible that seemed moments ago. That her giving up her job and home to support her sister is a sacrifice of immense proportions. That her willingness to make such a sacrifice is revealing.

That people in my past have been as closed to the concept of sacrifice as Elodie has been open.

But all I say is, ‘They’re lucky to have you.’

My reward is another smile. Less wry this time. More genuine. Open.

And another brick falls, the Jenga tower around my heart wobbling precariously.

When her family does turn up a while later, I almost laugh. Because, yeah, her sister’s an attractive woman. Very attractive, even. Fair hair, delicate face that her daughter’s clearly inherited. But that’s it.

Next to Elodie, she looks ordinary.

There’s much hugging and gushing and squealing when they spot her. I mean, it’s not my reaction of choice, but I get it. Elodie Peach as Anne Boleyn is a fucking miracle. A sight for sore eyes.

Elodie introduces us. I can hear the reluctance in her voice. Presumably, she’s as keen as I am to keep her work and personal life strictly separate.

‘Charlie, this is my sister, Grace, and my niece, Olive. Guys, this is Charlie.’

Meeting her family was never part of the plan. There’s only one thing for it.

Stay in character.

‘Good gentlewomen,’ I boom. ‘Welcome to my fine palace. You may call me Your Majesty.’ I wink at the girl, Olive, and she giggles.

‘Where are your other wives?’ she asks. ‘Are they here too?’ Her voice is low. Quiet. She cranes her head around.

I peer down at her. ‘How many wives do you think I have?’

‘Six! But not all at the same time.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You are correct, child. Most sadly for me, today all of my wives are here. Together. Do you know how much noise they make? Alas, not all of them give me as much trouble as this one.’ I elbow Elodie.

‘Can I see them?’ Olive asks.

‘I believe they are in the Great Hall, my Lord,’ Elodie says in her Anne Boleyn voice. Olive giggles again.

I thrust out my arm, cursing the weight of my robes in this warm weather. ‘To the Great Hall, then.’