Page 4 of Cross Me

“I’m not sure that should be the Crown’s official stance,” he said.

“I wasn’t planning on releasing a statement to that effect.” My lip curled at the thought. The press would have a field day with it, and although there was a time when I would’ve enjoyed delivering a ‘screw you’ to anyone who thought they should have a say in my private affairs, I didn’t have that luxury any longer.

“Anonymity and freedom from criticism are two expectations only afforded to private citizens.” His words were gentle. Not for the first time I suspected the Prime Minister felt a paternalistic responsibility to me, probably owing to the death of my father. He might not feel so inclined if he knew how little I respected my father’s advice before his death. I didn’t need lectures about the difficulties of being a member of the Royal family. I’d dealt with the media circus for as long as I could remember. My own marriage had been dissected by the tabloids. More than once, my wife’s life had been put in danger by overeager leeches who believed exactly what the prime minister had just said: there was no privacy afforded to royals. Of course I knew that, it was why I had been the one to accept the crown. It might’ve been easier to reject my birthright and make a life on my own. I would never know. The only thing I remained certain of was that my position afforded me the ability to grant some bit of security to those I loved. It also meant bearing the brunt of criticism for my progressive stances.

“Perhaps you could consider another option.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Bring someone in. A publicist of sorts,” he suggested. “Someone you can trust to help you maneuver the stickier situations.”

“I’ll keep it under advisement,” I said through gritted teeth. There were actual matters of state to discuss. Instead we were sitting here worrying about public perception. That was the difference—I realized something. There was a difference between a man who climbed to political office and one who was born to lead. I’d never had a choice of life. In a way, that was turning out to be more freeing. No one could challenge my birthright. No one could vote me out. If anyone had qualms over my choices, it wasn’t going to endanger my political career. I would still be King.

No, it would take far more sinister machinations to remove my power. Taking the crown was a much bloodier affair than an election. I had survived my first assassination attempt. My father had not been so lucky. I had no idea how many he’d survived before the one that claimed his life. I suspected that I myself had survived on more occasions than I knew. But those attempts hadn’t come from people or journalists or other countries. None of the forces with which the Prime Minister felt so concerned were at play in any of those events. It had been the poison underbelly of Parliament itself. I reminded myself every week, while the Prime Minister sat across from me with a fatherly smile on his face: politicians couldn’t be trusted. One member of Parliament had already been arrested in connection with my father’s assassination, and despite our best efforts, we still had not discovered how far the plot reached.

Still, perhaps he was right. Maybe I needed someone to handle the public announcements. It would be a load off. If only I could find someone to attend these meetings.

I glanced at the clock, my thoughts slipping away to much more important items on my agenda. I wanted an update on Clara. The longer this meeting continued, the longer I would wait for one.

“There’s one final matter I’d like to discuss. The funding for the Sovereign Games.”

I grimaced. That had not been on my agenda. “That was my father’s pet project.”

As far as I was concerned that was the end of that. I’d spent the better part of the last year removing all vestiges of my father’s reign from this office. I wasn’t about to continue his hobbies.

“It was one of your father’s most popular programs. Furthermore, Parliament has approved its half of the funding. There seems to be a general consensus that Britain is feeling more divided than usual.” He was choosing his words carefully. It wasn’t just the country that felt divided, it was the entire world. Some of my own choices had certainly fractured the unity of the people here, but I didn’t see how that mattered in this instance.

“I wasn’t even aware the games were moving forward.”

“Your grandmother has been quite persistent in—”

“Of course she has.” It was starting to make sense. My grandmother, Queen Mary, had left residence here after the death of her son. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Mostly, because she had called my wife a whore. “So, this has become her baby.”

“I suppose in a way. She feels strongly that Albert’s memory should be kept alive.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I might be the only person content to let my father’s memory remain at rest. In his final moments, he had sacrificed himself for me. But while in the end he had granted me acceptance, he had denied it to me for most of my life. His final choices didn’t erase the nearly thirty years of disapproval and mistrust between us.

A knock broke the mounting tension in the room, but before I could call the person in, Norris stuck his head through the door. “I apologize for the interruption but I need to speak with you immediately.”

“Not a problem.” The Prime Minister stood, smoothing wrinkles from his suit. “I need to check in with my secretary. I’ll see you this afternoon?”

As if I had a choice.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said in a flat voice.

Norris closed the door behind him and I began to shuffle through the day’s agenda, looking to see what unsavory briefing was next on my plate. “Thanks for the save.”

But he didn’t smile.

“There’s been a development. I must warn you that this is likely nothing,” he began.

My blood ran cold. It dawned on me too late. Norris wasn’t the type to interrupt a meeting with the Prime Minister because I was bored. That was something Brex would do. But Brex was with Clara. If Norris had abandoned his sense of propriety to interrupt a private discussion, something must be terribly wrong.

“This isn’t confirmed,” he continued, his voice remaining suspiciously even, “but we did receive a message.”

He held out his mobile phone and I scanned the screen as the weight of what I read settled onto my chest like a boulder. I couldn’t quite digest it—words like bomb and faction and symposium. It didn’t matter if there was confirmation. It didn’t matter what my wife wanted anymore. It didn’t matter if there was only a shred of possibility that what I was reading could be true. “We need to find Clara.”

“Alexander, I will handle this.”