by Lucy Parker
“I did listen to an impassioned performance of his breakfast anthem.”
“Youth is a time for making an arse of oneself, and His Highness excelled at the brief.” Dolores bent to her computer and pulled up a catalogue entry. She scrawled a series of numbers on a Post-it note. “But there’s a recording in the archives of him playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Listen to it. The man wove magic.” Her silky-smooth voice was low and musing. “He treated his instrument with the skill and respect of a devoted lover, and it responded to his touch like a woman in the throes of desire. Every sound, every sigh, coming together in pure harmony.”
The skin over Sylvie’s cheekbones felt slightly taut. Fleetingly, compulsively, her eyes slipped sideways again to where Dominic stood quietly listening to Dolores.
And silently scrutinizing her.
Her heart, increasingly unreliable the past few days, did another skippety-hop, and her stomach muscles clenched.
She swallowed, dragging her gaze away, and saw that the smile in Dolores’s dark eyes had deepened into intense speculation.
Perhaps taking pity on Sylvie’s obvious discomposure, Dolores tilted her head and switched that perspicacious stare to Dominic. “And why the sudden fascination with Patrick?”
There was a fractional pause before he responded blandly, “Just a small research project. But we were hoping to have a look at the private collections.”
“A research project. I think it can be arranged.” She exhaled. “Good heavens, I owe you a good deal more than that.”
“You owe me nothing. But we would appreciate the short-term loan of that key.”
“I owe you my whole world.” The words were soft, but slipped immediately into normal tones before Dominic could reply. “You’re lucky with your timing. I’m on leave after this week. But I can certainly give you a couple of hours now.”
Stepping back from the desk, she held up the electronic key card and spoke with the resonant burr of a tour guide. “Follow me, lady and gent, as we enter these hallowed halls and step back in time.”
Despite her initial enthusiasm to fossick amongst antiques and lovely old letters, Sylvie was feeling a little uncertain in general now, but she followed them through a locked door behind the desk and into a chilled corridor. Which, in turn, led into an absolute tangle of hallways. If she got lost in here, she’d probably emerge back into the square at about age fifty-three. She was pleased to discover that the farther they receded into the building, the messier and more archaic-looking things got, and by the time Dolores let them into a large chamber, they might be in the country house attic of her dreams.
High wooden beams across the ceiling were spotted with the odd cobweb, and shelf after shelf was stacked with labeled cartons and bubble-wrapped picture frames.
“When members of the royal household pass,” Dolores said, “often their personal belongings extend into hundreds of boxes. These came from Patrick’s own properties. Some of it has been catalogued. A great deal has not. We’ve only had this set for eighteen months. You can be assured that if you return in eighteen years, the archivists will have at least half of these boxes fully classified.”
“Are we allowed to just . . . touch things?” Sylvie asked.
“As I’m personally vouching for you and not telling anyone about this, yes,” Dolores returned cheerfully. “Just put on a pair of those gloves, don’t break anything, or take anything, and put things back where you found them. If any long-lost crown jewels fall out of a file, it’s not Finders Keepers.” She gestured over to a long worktable and handed Sylvie the Post-it. “There’s a tape deck on the far table. Here’s the shelving reference for the music recording. It has been logged and digitized, but I think you’re a woman after my own heart. You’ll always seek the original source.”
She studied them for a further moment. “What are you hoping to find?”
Once more, briefly, Dominic’s eyes met Sylvie’s. “Inspiration.”
“I see.” Dolores’s response was a little enigmatic. “Well, that’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? I’ll leave you to it.”
She was already heading out in a brisk stride, but popped her head back around the door to fix Dominic with a stern stare. “Postscript. I’ve chased enough snuggling students out of the public stacks lately. No hanky-panky in front of Will.” She patted a bronze bust of Shakespeare on the head. “You’re old enough to know better.”
The door slammed shut behind her, dislodging a wave of dust particles in the cool air, sending them spinning past Sylvie’s hot cheeks.
She was very aware of Dominic standing a few feet away but wouldn’t have looked at his face just then if a million-pound contract and her life itself were at stake.
“Dolores seems very, um, energetic,” she offered into the echoing silence.
“Yes,” Dominic said, intensely drily. “Doesn’t she?” He was already slipping on a pair of white gloves and reaching for a carton, lifting it down from a shelf and reading the detailed label on top. The sleeves of his shirt and wool pullover were pushed back, his famous forearms on full display.
To be quite honest, the more he kept shoving his shirt up, the more she could see why they had their own fan account on Instagram.
“How do you know her?” Not planning to lose ground on the battlefield, Sylvie pulled on gloves and chose a stack of wrapped photographs.
“She was a customer, a long time ago. One of the first I handled after I finished my qualifications and started working for my grandfather full-time.”
Sylvie wanted to ask what Dolores had meant by a favor owed, but there was something about Dominic that made her cautious of prying too far. He was like a human fortress, seemingly impenetrable. But no human being was beyond hurt. She was beginning to have the strangest, prickliest feeling when she was with him, that she could tap, tap, tap against the stone wall—and, just maybe, stab through the tiniest of cracks.
And the feeling it was very important she didn’t.
“You know,” she said suddenly, lifting out a photo of three ascetic, anaemic-looking people with guns and spaniels, “your grandfather is one of my earliest memories.”
Dominic was leafing impatiently through a thick file. His fingers paused on the paper. “Sebastian is?”
“And his chocolate.” Sylvie grinned. “Figures. Most of my strongest memories are food-related. And of those, most of them chocolate. It was my fifth birthday. My aunt Mallory took me to De Vere’s. Your grandfather was out in the storefront. He shook my hand, wished me happy birthday, showed me the front page of the paper, and asked which of these people should win the general election. I chose the one with the nicest eyes, and he said, ‘Excellent. A wise young woman.’ He gave me a cupcake on the house, and Mallory let me pick out a whole box of chocolates. A dozen of Sebastian De Vere’s signature truffles, all for me. I didn’t even have to share.” Her smile flickered. “But I did. Mallory and I went to Kensington Gardens, we sat near the Peter Pan statue, and we gorged ourselves on milk caramel creams. It was . . . a really good day. I’ll never forget it.”
She didn’t really expect Dominic to reply, but he looked across at her. “In the bare bones of an anecdote, I can hear his voice.”
“You were close.”
He said nothing. And then: “We were. Despite a rocky beginning.”
Sylvie frowned.
He must really want to change the subject. He actually voluntarily encouraged her to speak. “And you were clearly close to your aunt.”
A pang. And a flood of love, always, forever love, from her heart to the tips of her toes.
“She was the great love of my life so far.” Sylvie looked down at the second photo she’d unearthed. It was—must be—a mother and daughter, two women a couple of decades apart in age, their features so similar. The daughter was seated, her mother’s hand resting on her shoulder. And at their feet, yet another spaniel. Royals and spaniels seemed to go hand in paw. “My parents died when I was a baby. I never knew them. Ma
llory was my father’s younger sister. She was barely twenty-one when she was landed with custody of me. There was no one else. My mother was an only child of only children. My father had no other siblings, no cousins, or aunts or uncles. If Mallory hadn’t taken me, I’d have had to go into foster care. I don’t think she even hesitated.”
She traced her fingers lightly over the photograph. “She used to strap me to her chest and take me to her uni tutorials. She was an artist and became a curator, an expert in nineteenth- and twentieth-century glass art and sculpture. Any time she had a contract or speaking engagement outside of London, she made sure I was okay with it, and off we both went.” Finally, simply: “She was always there.”
“Until?” Dominic asked quietly, and a film of blurriness distorted the strangers in the photo.
“Until I was nineteen. When the universe put a very bright light into the sky, a lot too soon.”
There was a clock somewhere in this room. She could hear it ticking, a repetitive dull sound.
A drop of wet touched the corner of her mouth, and she caught it on her tongue before it could fall farther. Blindly, she set the photos aside, reached for the nearest box, pulling it onto her lap.
Something scraped against the wooden floorboards, and then he was there, crouching before her. Her hands gripped the sides of the carton.
He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the warmth and solidity of his presence.
Strange, that the man she’d always considered one of the coldest people she’d ever met could get down on the floor with her and radiate such utter solace.
Neither of them said a word. She listened to his deep, even breaths, until her own came freely and her shoulders relaxed.
Only then did she look up into his eyes, fixed steadily on her face. His black brows were pulled together.
“It was a long time ago,” she said softly.
“Does it feel like a long time ago?”
Her smile was crooked. “It feels like a hundred years ago. It feels like yesterday.”
He nodded, and that small movement wasn’t acknowledgment; it was understanding. Another fragment of grief, splintering the quiet in the room. Memories of his own.
“Me and Rosie,” she whispered. “I think we both know firsthand that love and family is something you’re born into if you’re lucky, but hopefully you’ll also find it along the way. And parenthood, it’s not always the person who gave birth to you.”
His eyes flickered.
She hesitated. “You too?”
A long silence before one word. “Yes.”
As her mind retreated from both the pain and shelter of the past, recentering in the present, Sylvie became hyperaware of her surroundings. The ticking was coming from an old grandfather clock; she could see the antique face now, just beyond Dominic’s left ear.
There was a bit of dust caught in his thick hair.
A muscle pulsed beside his lips.
Sylvie swallowed and lowered her gaze to the open box. There were more photographs inside, mostly of strangers, more official settings and public occasions than candid shots of the family’s leisure time. She studied a studio portrait of the prince, aged perhaps forty. He sat rather stiffly on a bench, shoulders very straight, lips a little tense and narrow. With the lingering remnants of her own sadness tugging at her, the expression in his eyes spoke of desolation.
With painstaking care, she returned the photograph to the box. Standing up, she glanced at the numbers on the Post-it Dolores had given her and plunged into the rear stacks. That section was meticulously organized, and she located an envelope containing a cassette tape without difficulty.
A welcome smile spread through her body as she plugged in the very retro-looking tape deck and slipped in the tape. She could suddenly see the tiny kitchen of Mallory’s first flat, sunlight filtering in through pink curtains, books and plants everywhere, and cassette tapes scattered across the table. Standing on her aunt’s feet and holding her hands as they danced around the tiles.
Eight-year-old Jay already sporting a romantic coif of dark hair and a melancholic expression, rolling his eyes at her taste, but using months of hoarded pocket money to buy her a Spice Girls tape for her birthday.
She sat down slowly at the table, aware of the faint rustling sounds behind her as Dominic continued his efficient search, and pressed play.
As the first piano notes wrapped around her, Dominic’s movements slowed and stopped.
Pulling off the gloves, Sylvie set them down neatly. Leaning her elbows on the wooden tabletop, she rested her chin in her hands and closed her eyes.
There were rare moments when the passing of time, the significance of the clock, the entire world beyond four walls, drifted into nothingness. She existed in those endless minutes in a bubble, suspended only by the music and the rhythm of her own breaths and Dominic’s silent presence. There was no physical connection between them, she couldn’t even see him—and it was as if she could feel the skin of his hands, the steady beat of his heart, the comforting rasp of his fingers sliding between hers.
When she eventually reached out and turned off the tape, she felt the echoing quiet down to her bones.
Her cheeks were wet against her hands. She ran her pinkie fingers under her lashes, collecting the lingering traces of tears, before she turned.
Dominic was standing motionless, looking down at the box he held. When he lifted his head, the faintest sheen lent those dark eyes the endless depths of the midnight sky.
“If it were possible to bottle sound and sculpt it into visual form,” he said simply, and she nodded wordlessly.
Releasing a long, shaky breath as she put her gloves back on, she stood and removed the tape, returning it to its envelope.
“I’m not sure how to translate that experience into a cake design,” she murmured—and honestly, part of her wouldn’t want to. It had been something profoundly, transcendently personal, somehow, as if every note had hung in the air like the most delicate of lace, drawing around her and Dominic and the haunting spirit of Patrick. And whatever emotion in the prince’s life had slipped from his soul and into those piano keys. “But it’s going to be difficult to top that.”
She took the envelope back to its drawer, reluctantly closing it away.
Leaning lightly against a pillar near Dominic, she nodded at the box he was sifting through. “Have you found anything interesting yet?” She coughed to dispel the lingering huskiness.
“Trying to form a task force with the enemy?” He seemed to take refuge in the sardonic, as quick as she was to step back from that sudden, almost overwhelming sense of intimacy.
“What’s that saying about keeping them close?” Sylvie watched as he turned a small velvet box over in his hands. “Don’t worry. That end contract is ours—”
“Ours?” He arched a brow.
“Sugar Fair.” She’d woven glittery strands of ribbon through her fishtail plait, leftovers from the golden anniversary cake. One slipped loose now and she wrapped it around her thumb. “Fair warning, in the final leg of this race, I will sail airily past you and scoop the honors with very little remorse. But in the meantime, if you’re planning to show up everywhere I go, it’s too much effort and a little too Agent Ninety-Nine to sneak around you in covert circles. I’m prepared to extend a level of cooperation.”
Dominic paused. “All right. A complete walkover would be a sour victory. I will also cooperate. To an extent.”
“Very magnanimous.”
“I thought so.” He ran his fingers over the seal of the velvet box, looking for the opening. “And for the record, if you want me to be worried about credible competition, you’re going to have to do better than fondant stars, sugar dragons, and pseudo-magic. It’s a wedding.” He found and popped the lock. “Not their sixth birthday.”
The usual retort was tickling half-heartedly at Sylvie’s tongue, but if anything had magical properties, it was this room. For at least the next five minutes or so, she didn’t real
ly feel like arguing with him.
In fact—
“You know,” she said slowly, winding the fallen gold ribbon tighter and tighter around her thumb, “you have the tableside manner of the shark from Jaws, but the actual basis of your criticism on the show is usually sound. You know what you’re talking about, and you bring that experience to the set.”
Dominic removed some padding from the box and lifted out a bundle of more velvet. “My experience tells me that’s not ending in a compliment.”
“But,” Sylvie went on with emphasis, “you have an awful lot to say about my business, none of it good, for someone who, as far as I’m aware, has never actually stepped foot in the place.”
His veiled gaze raised from the unknown object held so gently in his hands.
“Tomorrow night, the last booking in the Dark Forest ends at nine.” The ribbon tore in her grip. This was likely the biggest mistake since she’d screwed up the mechanism in that unicorn cake, but apparently she was dedicated to committing it. “Consider this your official invitation into enemy territory. Meet me downstairs at quarter past nine, and I’ll give you your very own potions class. If you’re going to denigrate my hard work, you might as well know what you’re talking about.”
The offer ended in just the shade of a taunt, and his jaw tightened on what had likely been an instinctive “not a chance in a hell.”
In the silence, the ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like a warning.
Bad-idea, bad-idea, bad-idea.
Tick-tock, listen to the clock, tick-tock, the man’s a cock.
With deft, sensitive hands that had rescued a stranded earthworm and eyes that could betray the most profound understanding . . .
“I have a business meeting tomorrow.” She imagined he’d sound similarly enthusiastic if she’d invited him to a joint colonoscopy. “Half nine?”
She slipped her phone out of her bag, tapped it into her calendar, and wiggled the screen at him. “Done. See you there. And unlike the Starlight Circus, I make no secret of high booze content.” She refastened her bag. “Speaking of, Rosie should probably have a heads-up that Johnny’s daily pick-me-up contains enough alcohol to anesthetize a horse. Even sober, he’s pretty disastrously frank for a public figure.”