Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Page 0,117

it. I’ve sat about long enough letting you and Gran and the weight of the damned world keep me pinned, and I’m finished. I don’t care. You can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, Philip. I’m done.”

He huffs out an almighty breath, turns on his heel, and stalks out of the kitchen.

Alex, mouth hanging open, remains frozen in his seat for a few seconds. Across from him, Philip is looking red-faced and queasy. Alex clears his throat, stands, and buttons his jacket.

“For what it’s worth,” he says to Philip, “that is the bravest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

And he leaves too.

* * *

Shaan looks like he hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Well, he looks perfectly composed and groomed, but the tag is sticking out of his sweater and the strong smell of whiskey is emanating from his tea.

Next to him, in the back of the incognito van they’re taking to Buckingham Palace, Zahra has her arms folded resolutely. The engagement ring on her left hand glints in the muted London morning.

“So, uh,” Alex attempts. “Are you two in a fight now?”

Zahra looks at him. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Oh. I just thought because—”

“It’s fine,” Shaan says, still typing on his iPhone. “This is why we set rules about the personal-slash-professional lines at the outset of the relationship. It works for us.”

“If you want a fight, you should have seen it when I found out he had known about you two all along,” Zahra says. “Why do you think I got a rock this big?”

“It usually works for us,” Shaan amends.

“Yep,” Zahra agrees. “Plus, we banged it out last night.”

Without looking up, Shaan meets her hand in a high five.

Shaan and Zahra’s forces combined have managed to secure them a meeting with the queen at Buckingham Palace, but they’ve been told to take a winding, circumspect route to avoid the paparazzi. Alex can feel a buzzing static electricity in London this morning, millions of voices murmuring about him and Henry and what might happen next. But Henry’s beside him, holding his hand, and he’s holding Henry’s hand back, so at least that’s something.

There’s a small, older woman with Bea’s upturned nose and Henry’s blue eyes waiting outside the conference room when they approach it. She’s wearing thick glasses, a worn-in maroon sweater, and a pair of cuffed jeans, looking decidedly out of place in the halls of Buckingham Palace. She has a paperback tucked into her back pocket.

Henry’s mother turns to face them, and Alex watches her expression flutter through something pained to reserved to gentle when she lays eyes on them.

“Hi, my baby,” she says as Henry draws up even with her.

Henry’s jaw is tight, but it’s not anger, only fear. Alex can see on his face an expression he recognizes: Henry wondering if it’s safe to accept the love offered to him, and wanting desperately to take it regardless. He puts his arm around her, lets her kiss his cheek.

“Mum, this is Alex,” Henry says, and adds, as if it’s not obvious, “my boyfriend.”

She turns to Alex, and he’s honestly not sure what to expect, but she pulls him toward her and kisses his cheek too.

“My Bea has told me what you’ve done for my son,” she says, her gaze piercing. “Thank you.”

Bea is behind her, looking tired but focused, and Alex can only imagine the come-to-Jesus talk she must have given her mother before they got to the palace. She locks eyes with Zahra as their little party assembles in the hall, and Alex feels like they couldn’t possibly be in more capable hands. He wonders if Catherine is up to joining the ranks.

“What are you going to say to her?” Henry asks his mother.

She sighs, touching the edge of her glasses. “Well, the old bird isn’t much moved by emotion, so I suppose I’ll try to appeal to her with political strategy.”

Henry blinks. “Sorry—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ve come to fight,” she says, straightforward and plain. “You want to tell the truth, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, Mum.” A light of hope has switched on behind his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we can try.”

They take their seats around the long, ornately carved table in the meeting room, awaiting the queen’s arrival in nervous silence. Philip is there, looking like he’s about to chew through his tongue, and Henry can’t stop fidgeting with his tie.

Queen Mary glides in wearing slate-gray separates and a stony expression, her gray