The door’s unlocked and we go in. I’d never noticed how eerie a library is at night—large and echoed—like a mausoleum. But I notice it now as I glance about the main floor, listening. I head down a set of stairs near the circulation desk, with light coming from small windows in the doors at the bottom of it. I glance through the windows and spot a room at the end of a long hallway. It’s about classroom size, the kind of place where a Bible study or Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting might be held. Or a book club.
The door’s open just enough to hear, but closed enough that I’ll remain undetected if I stand outside of it. I lean back against the wall, listening to the charming lilt and fall of Sarah’s unmistakable voice. And I discover a whole different side of her—another version to add to all the others. I don’t think I’ll ever completely figure her out.
She sounds confident, efficient, and sure, almost businesslike. I wonder if it’s this place, if it’s because this is her domain, and she thrives here. It almost reminds me of my grandmother in her office or while addressing Parliament.
When it seems as if they’re wrapping up, Mick and I duck into a room next door. It’s filled with odd-smelling boxes, a bag of ski masks, cans of red paint, poster boards and signs—one says “Free the Butterwald Ducks.”
What in the bloody hell is a Butterwald Duck?
When the last trickle of bookworms slinks down the hall, and only three distinct voices remain in the room—and I know who those voices belong to—I have Mick wait outside while I pop my head in.
“Don’t tell me I missed it? Over already—damn.”
Sarah’s entire face lights up. It makes me feel a bit drunk.
“Henry! What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
And I’m only half joking.
A gorgeously round little piece with bright blue eyes and blond hair approaches from across the room and curtsies, sighing, “Wow. Wow, wow, wow.”
This must be Annie—Sarah talks about her and Willard often.
“This is Annie,” Sarah says.
She’s the type I’d usually go for—perky and easily happy with a look of pure hero worship on her face. The funny thing is, she’s Sarah’s friend, and that fact puts up an immediate roadblock in my brain, muting any attraction to her.
“And this,” Sarah gestures to a short bloke in a large chair with an enormous smoking pipe between his lips, “this is Willard.”
Willard doesn’t stand, but dips his head instead of bowing. It’s not proper—but given my own derision for all things “proper,” it doesn’t bother me.
“Impressive pipe,” I tell him. “Should I call you Sherlock?”
He grins. “Only if I can call you Princess.”
My head toddles as I think it over. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to stand that.”
“Excellent.”
Willard motions to the decanter of amber liquid on the table beside him.
“Brandy? It’s cheap, but it gets the job done.”
“Please.”
While he pours me a glass, Annie chirps, “For God’s sake, Sarah, when you told Haverstrom you had official Palace business to tend to, I was sure you were pulling all our legs. What kind of business does Sarah do for you, Your Highness?”
“She’s helping me reorganize the Palace library.” I press my finger to her lips and she almost passes out. “But that’s a secret—a surprise gift for the Queen.”
I glance over at Sarah where she’s packing up a box of papers, and she smiles gently at the lie.
“Did you have a good meeting, love?” I ask her.
And there’s that pretty pink blush again, though I’m not sure why it appears this time.
“Yes, it went very well.”
Sipping my brandy, I tease, “Do you open the meeting with a sacrifice to the book gods? An animal or a nonreader, perhaps?”
Smoke puffs from Willard lips as he answers, “Only on Tuesdays.”
“Have you ever thought about writing a book, Prince Henry?” Annie whispers. “My ex-boyfriend, Elliot, always said he wanted to.”
Willard checks his watch.
Then Annie goes on.
“You could write under a pen name about the behind-the-scenes secrets of the palace. Or,” a sly look comes over Annie’s face while she glances at Sarah, then back to me, “it could be a sexier tale. About a young virgin who tames the wild, worldly prince—like Fifty Shades but with royalty.”
“I’d read it.” Willard shrugs.
Come to think of it, so would I.
Back at Anthorp Castle, Sarah and I get ready for bed—we each brush our teeth and change in the bathroom. Me, in my usual sleeping pants and bare chest, Sarah in her cotton pants and simple top—it’s a thin-strapped tank top tonight, and her tits look amazing. Then we sit on the bed. I pick up my guitar and strum a few notes.