Prince Albert(69)

Albie doesn't answer until the car starts moving. "If you like, I can have them stop."

"No," I say, exhaling heavily. "Where are you going?"

"To the children's hospital," he says.

"You're going with me?"

Albie shrugs. "Noah mentioned you had this today and that your mother couldn’t attend," he says. "Sick kids are the prince's purview too, you know."

"You do charity work?" I ask, looking at him.

"Occasionally," he says. “I do have the capacity to think of someone besides myself.”

“I’d never have guessed,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wait. Did you come along because of me?"

"You mean, because I wanted the pleasure of your presence?" he asks.

I laugh. "No. Did you come with me because you thought I couldn't handle this myself?"

"I came with you because I couldn't think of anything better to do this afternoon," he says.

"Uh-huh." I look out the window, watching the scenery whiz by along the countryside. "Well, I'm glad you decided to come, anyway."





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Albie



I haven't been inside a hospital since my mother was sick. We had our own royal physicians, of course, and round-the-clock care for her from the best oncologists and physicians in Europe.

But once, toward the end, things got really bad, and she was brought to the military hospital in our capitol for treatment. There are all of these protocols for something like that, an entire wing at the hospital cleared for a member of the royal family, windows covered in brown paper in the hallways as a precaution in case of assassination attempt.

During a moment of lucidity, my mother laughed at the irony of security trying to prevent her assassination, given her terminal illness.

That was the only time I’ve been in a hospital.

I can still remember how it smelled – antiseptic and stale, the rooms pumped full of so much air conditioning that it almost felt colder inside the hospital room than outside in the chilly winter air.

I can’t forget the intermittent beeping and whirring of the machines.

For a moment, standing just inside the pediatric oncology ward, I think that coming here with Belle was a mistake.

When I see the kids in various stages of cancer treatment, all I can think about is my mother's death.

Belle is beside me. She meets my gaze and I think she knows what’s going through my head.

Then she squats down to talk to a little girl, who laughs as Belle reaches out and takes her hand and walks toward a group of kids. And I'm jerked out of my self-pity by a little boy who wants to know if I really live in a palace, and whether or not I own any race cars.

We spend a couple of hours reading stories and answering questions about royal life (“Do you have a crown?” “Do you have glass slippers?” “Do you sleep on a dozen mattresses?” directed at Belle, who furrows her forehead for a moment before realizing that it’s a reference to the Princess and the Pea fairytale).

Seeing Belle with the children makes me feel good, even though the setting brings up bad memories. “You’re a natural with the kids,” I tell her as we walk out the door.

Outside, she immediately tenses when a small group of photographers rush toward us, their cameras clicking away. I pause, whispering to Belle to wave, and she stands beside me, smiles, and waves.

Once inside the car, she slumps back against the seat. "Thank you," she says, her voice wavering. She clasps her hands together, her fingernails digging into the back of her hand.

"I told you that you wouldn't have to answer questions," I say. "Just smile and wave."

"No," she says, turning to face me. "Thank you for that, too. But, I mean, thank you for going there. It couldn't have been easy for you, with the way your mother died. You were really good with the kids."

I nod. Belle seems to have an uncanny way of anticipating how I feel about things. I'm not sure whether to be unsettled by that or pleased with it.

When she reaches for my hand, her face forward and not saying a word, I don't even flinch.

Contentment used to be a strange feeling. Yet, with Belle, it’s somehow starting to become a familiar one.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Belle



“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it today, Belle,” my mother says, setting down her fork. “There was an error in the schedule.”

“Wedding cake disaster?” I ask, only slightly sarcastic, as I sip my cup of tea.

“Oh, did your stylist already tell you?” she asks. “The chef had flown in from Paris for the afternoon, and it was last-minute, so…”

“It ended up being fine,” I say, cutting her off. Of course it was a wedding cake disaster. “Albie went with me.”