too hard.”
He laughed. “But it’s been such a stimulating few weeks,” he said. “Your endless small talk had me about ready to move out until I realized I’d started to depend on your pastry deliveries.” He tried to look nonchalant. “You’ll be pleased to know I’d planned for you to meet Hannah tonight.”
I brightened. “We’re talking about this now?”
“Seemed about time.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Or maybe you’ve simply nattered me into submission. For the love of God, either write that Sheffield Wednesday detective series or don’t.”
I craned my neck as if I’d recognize Hannah in a crowd, or even at all. “Is she here?”
“Alas, no,” he said. “She’s stuck at work. She’s a barrister, a very fancy one, actually. Human rights. Makes me feel like a lazy tosser by comparison.”
“Freddie!” I clasped my hands together in what was as subtle a gesture of glee as I could manage. “She sounds…”
“Out of my league?”
“I was going to say cool as hell,” I said. “Has she met Richard?”
Freddie shook his head. “I think she’ll impress the socks off him, but it’s been tricky enough getting me into her datebook,” he says. “And I don’t want her to feel pressured. It’s hard to find the right time to go public, and meeting Father could be even harder.”
I nodded. “Tell her your brother married a ne’er-do-well former greeting card artist. Richard will be delighted for someone with a real job to raise the level of discourse.”
He grinned at me, the most genuine one I’d seen in far too long. “Wise as ever, Killer.”
The sun had dipped below the horizon line, leaving only a last pulse of gold and an electric-blue sky swirled with pink clouds. The light flared with eerily cinematic timing as he said my old nickname, and it felt so good, I almost hugged him. But a halo of space was beginning to form around Richard, which was Freddie’s and Nick’s cue to join him. They nearly bumped into each other as they arranged themselves on either side of their father; Freddie gave an extra-jovial “after you” gesture. Unusually, I couldn’t read Nick’s face.
“Thank you for joining us to honor the important work of the Royal Geographical Society, one of my favorite patronages,” Richard said. “I’m told we’ve raised, conservatively, five million pounds towards the Antarctic mission. The anthropological and environmental impact of these grants is immense, and I’ve learnt more in my close meetings about RGS projects than I ever did at Oxford. Though don’t tell Oxford I said that.”
The room laughed politely.
“Which is why what I’m about to say is so bittersweet,” Richard continued. “Being a young patron of this society was formative for me, and it would be selfish to keep that experience from my own sons. My father held it before he passed, then my mother handed it down to me, and I’m delighted to continue the tradition by passing along this patronage to someone whose professional dedication has recently been on impressive display. So please, a round of applause for the RGS’s new patron, Prince Frederick.”
Richard put a hand on his younger son’s shoulder as he continued to wax proud. Freddie lapped up every word, unable to hide his delight, but all I saw was a mirage. Richard had taken oratorical pains to trace the patronage through the line of succession before skipping Nick—a slight the general public might not notice but Nick obviously would. What can look like a small twist of the knife often does the most harm; while Nick held it together admirably, it was the second time he’d been passed over for Freddie since our return, and I knew by the tension in his jaw that he felt the stab.
As the crowd thinned out, Nick took refuge in a corner of the viewing gallery. I joined him and we stared at the Millennium Wheel in the distance, framed by the last of the pink and purple sky.
“Do you think Father even remembers that my degree is in geography?” Nick asked.
“Probably not,” I said.
He closed his eyes. “I’ve taken every assignment, every crap job, spent hours in the basement filing meaningless papers at Clarence House.”
“You’ve been rock solid,” I said. “It’s just one patronage.”
“It’s puppeteering,” Nick said. “He couldn’t control me after the wedding, and it killed him, so he’s finding a way now. By using Freddie.” He rubbed the top of his head. “And people love it,” he marveled. “That’s the magic I apparently don’t have. Freddie worked his