Page 76 of The Unlikely Heir

I’m trying to joke it off in my head, but I keep butting up against my hurt and regret.

I miss him.

I miss him so much.

There have been so many things in the last week that I’ve wanted to talk to him about. His absence feels almost physical, like a missing limb.

The most fabulous kiss in my life wasn’t worth losing Oliver over.

But I have no idea how to get him back.

Today I’m at an engagement for the Hedgehog Appreciation Society, trying desperately not to think about him.

There are no hedgehogs around, unfortunately, although maybe that should be considered fortunate after the swan incident.

Luckily, it’s one of the more laidback events I’ve attended, so hopefully my distraction isn’t too noticeable. There are two barbecues cooking away at the edge of the lawn, filling the air with the aroma of burned meat and fried onions. People are milling around, chatting amicably. Most of the conversation centers on hedgehogs.

Normally this would be my happy place, learning new things about British wildlife. But collecting random facts isn’t nearly as much fun, knowing I can’t share them with Oliver.

Nevertheless, I discover that a hedgehog has five thousand to seven thousand spines on their back that can be raised in defense.

I also discover that the population of Britain’s rural hedgehogs has declined by seventy-five percent recently due to the loss of hedgerows and changes in farming practices.

Seeing the pained face of Quinton, the chairperson of the Hedgehog Appreciation Society, as he describes the plight of the hedgehog, it suddenly strikes me how many good people there are in this world. The news is often filled with stories of terrible people doing terrible things, but it ignores the silent heroes that walk among us, who make the world better in small ways. But those small ways all add up to making it a world worth living in.

“So, how long have you been involved in hedgehog conservation?” I ask Quinton after I finish off my delicious sausage.

“About twenty years,” he replies. “It started when I found a litter of hoglets in my back garden. It’s turned into a family affair now. My wife, Nora, is the association’s secretary, and my son, Gabe, is over there manning the barbecue.”

“I really admire how you dedicate so much of your time to protecting native wildlife.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness. And thank you so much for coming here today.” He sends a glance toward the journalists and photographers gathered at the edge of the lawn. “You being here means we’ll get so much more attention to our cause.”

It’s still bizarre to think I can help people just by showing up. But this is one of the most important aspects about my job as Prince of Wales, using my voice to speak for those who do not always get heard.

Another committee member approaches us. She’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “Hedgehogs, eh? Why can’t they just share the hedge?”

“I like your T-shirt,” I say. “It’s very funny.”

She smiles at me.

“Would you like to hear a hedgehog joke?” she asks in a low, raspy voice.

“Absolutely.”

“How do hedgehogs kiss?”

“How?”

“Very carefully.”

I laugh, but about halfway through, my laugh turns slightly rueful. Because kissing is a delicate topic for me at the moment.

It turns out prime ministers are like hedgehogs. You should be careful about kissing them too. But I don’t think adding that tidbit of advice to the conversation is a good idea.

She regales me with a few other hedgehog jokes, which definitely expands my repertoire of prickly humor.

I’m laughing at one joke—What do you call a famous hedgehog? Hedgendary—when I glance at the barbecue and my laughter abruptly stops.