Page 27 of The Unlikely Spare

Nicholas

Twelve hours into a twenty-four-hour flight, and I’m trying to ignore the fact that I’m effectively trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the stratosphere with no escape.

Well, I guess technically there is an escape. It just involves plummeting approximately thirty-eight thousand feet without a parachute. Which seems a tad dramatic, even for me.

Out of the window, the endless blue expanse of the Indian Ocean melds with the endless blue of the sky, leaving the impression that the jet is suspended in nothingness.

It’s quite a fitting metaphor for my current state of existence, now that I consider it.

“Your Royal Highness, would you care for some refreshment?” The flight attendant—Emma, if I recall correctly—appears at my elbow with a practiced smile.

“Do you have anything potent enough to make the remaining twelve hours disappear?”

Her smile widens. “I believe we have an excellent selection of whiskeys, sir. Single malt? Blended?”

“Surprise me.” I give a wink. “I trust your judgment.”

“Very good, sir.”

I catch Officer O’Connell’s gaze from across the cabin. His expression remains impassive, but something in his eyes suggests he’s cataloging this interaction as another example of my inadequacies.

Marvelous.

The other two security officers on this leg of the journey, Officer Singh and Officer Davis, maintain their positions with considerably less visible judgment than O’Connell. Singh is engaged in quiet conversation with James, my private secretary, while Davis appears to be reviewing building schematics on his tablet.

Emma returns with a crystal tumbler containing an amber liquid. “Talisker 18-year-old, sir. A robust single malt with notes of maritime salt and smoky peat.”

“Sounds perfect for crossing an ocean,” I say as I accept the glass. “Thank you, Emma.”

I take a sip, savoring the burn in my throat. It’s excellent, but even the finest Scotch can’t silence the incessant drumbeat of thoughts in my head.

My phone buzzes with a message from Callum.

Just checking in. How’s the flight? Did you get a chance to read through my notes? Remember the note about the First Nations peoples’ welcome ceremony.

My half-brother, ever the responsible heir, making sure I don’t embarrass the Crown on the other side of the world. I can’t entirely blame him. My track record for dignified behavior has been somewhat…inconsistent.

There was that rather unfortunate incident at university when I convinced half the Oxford rowing team to streak through the Bodleian Library during finals week.

And there was the New Year’s Eve in Monaco where I bet Prince Jacques I could water ski in a tuxedo.

And I can’t forget the time when I accidentally set fire to the curtains at the Danish ambassador’s residence, trying to light a cigar I’d pilfered from Uncle Albert. I was seventeen and convinced I was James Bond, right until the smoke alarms went off. In my defense, who leaves highly flammable Victorian drapes next to a drinks cabinet? That’s practically entrapment.

Although I like to think my record has improved since I had to become a working royal. Now everything I do has wider repercussions.

I type back:

Flight’s fine. Relax. I promise not to cause an international incident.

His response comes quickly:

That’s all I ask. And, Nicholas…thank you again.

I stare at those last words, and that familiar tangle of emotions stirs inside me. Affection for my brother wars with the lingering resentment of being the understudy, the spare part shipped halfway around the world because the star of the show has more important business.

Absently, I unlock my tablet and find myself scrolling through media coverage of my upcoming tour. The headlines are predictable:

Prince Nicholas to Shore Up Monarchy Support Down Under