Page 10 of The Unlikely Heir

My mother’s words from years ago echo in my head, “Never trust a man with a mustache.” She did have a point—there is a correlation between villains and upper-lip facial hair throughout history.

“Nice to meet you, Raymond,” I say, shaking his hand.

This must be weird for him. Until yesterday, he worked for my Uncle Albert, the previous heir to the throne. Now, he works for me. Is he experiencing the same whiplash I’m currently suffering from?

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says smoothly, but one side of his mustache quirks down like it disagrees with his words. “Her Majesty is waiting for you in her sitting room.”

Even though I visited Buckingham Palace numerous times as a child, I don’t think I could navigate my way around without GPS. So I’m happy to follow Raymond as he leads me through the hallways.

Portraits of my ancestors gaze down on me, and it’s hard not to imagine judgment in their gazes that this American pretender is now heir to an ancient crown.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, swallowing hard.

Raymond opens a door for me, motioning for me to go in.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and enter.

Queen Katharine stands against the burgundy curtains on the far side of the sitting room.

This is a queen who has been on the throne for forty years. She’s helped guide her country through wars, economic crises, and a pandemic.

She’s provided a constant presence and stability in an ever-changing world.

She’s lost a son and her husband, and in the last forty-eight hours, has learned of the betrayal of nearly every member of her family.

Yet she stands with a ramrod straight back.

I bow my head in the way ingrained in me as a child, the royal bob that comes instinctively.

When I raise my eyes to meet hers, I see dignity and determination in every line of her face, her clear blue gaze unwavering.

“Hi, Gran,” I say.

My grandmother’s lips twitch up in a smile. But it’s a tired smile, and I can see the strain around her eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Callum,” she says quietly.

I move forward and press a kiss on her cheek. My grandmother always has the same scent, a mixture of lilac and rose.

As a child, I used to find that reassuring. Whether dressed in her slippers or wearing the crown jewels, she always smelled the same.

I haven’t seen her for four years. On her last visit to America, she’d had a private dinner with me, among her other royal duties. We’d had a great chat about the history of Greenland, which was something I’d been interested in at the time. Gran had been interested to learn that humans first inhabited Greenland over forty-five hundred years ago and that there are still no roads or railways between the towns.

I don’t think either of us ever imagined that the next time I would visit her would be in these circumstances.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’ve had better weeks,” she says, and the quiet resignation in her voice tears something inside me.

This is not what she should be dealing with in the twilight years of her reign.

She should be sitting back and reflecting on her life’s work, not watching everything she’s built crumble because of her greedy children and grandchildren.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” I say.

“The commentators are already saying this will be the end of the monarchy.” She says the words almost conversationally, as if she’s not talking about the death of an institution that has absorbed her life, of the end of over a thousand years of tradition.

I feel a flash of rage at my family members who have brought this catastrophe tumbling down on her.