by Kate Johnson
There was a pause. Eliza squeezed his arm.
“Fresh water?” said the Queen.
“With a solar still.” Eliza closed her eyes briefly. “I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“I have never thought you stupid,” said the Queen, and Eliza couldn’t help imagining the words ‘until now’ floating in the air. She sighed briefly, which was also something Eliza had never seen before.
“The Commonwealth Heads of Government are meeting soon,” she said, and Eliza took that as her cue to leave, until she added, “in Perth. There has been a motion on the table to amend the Act of Succession for some time.”
“In what way?” This was the first Eliza had heard of it.
“Firstly, to remove the frankly ridiculous requirement that all descendants of George II must ask my permission to marry. Technically, there are thousands of unlawful marriages all throughout the country, and thanks to Queen Victoria, Europe too.”
“I had thought as much,” Eliza agreed tentatively.
“Secondly, to remove the restrictions on religion. It simply won’t do to have the Supreme Governor of the Church of England as anything other than Church of England herself, but you, as you point out, are fourteenth in line. The proposed motion is to restrict those requirements to the first six in line. Should, of course, the wrong eight people die, you will be moved up and Mr Rivera may have to question his beliefs.”
Eliza blinked a few times.
“You mean… we can get married?” Xavier said. “Without me having to change my faith?”
“Abuela will be so relieved,” Eliza said, and he grinned.
“I wouldn’t celebrate too soon. It is a proposed agreement only, and all the Heads of Government must agree to it. The Privy Council has already approved.”
“How long will it take?” Eliza said, glad she was holding onto Xavier because adrenaline was driving her crazy.
“For an agreement? Governments move at glacial speeds, and there are 36 to contend with, but perhaps they can be persuaded to hurry things along if there is a given reason. The Commonwealth Realms must then pass it into law. I shall state your case. Don’t make any plans too dependent on time.”
She nodded to them, and this time Eliza realised she was being dismissed. She bobbed a stunned curtsey, Xavier bowed, and the Queen turned away.
She paused.
She turned back.
“You are looking well, Eliza,” she said. “And I am proud of you.”
With that she left, and Eliza managed to hold her tears until they were out of the room.
“Oh man, I should’ve gone to Caius. Look how cool their gowns are,” Clodagh said.
“Flashy,” Eliza said. “I like the Lady Mathilda one. It’s understated.”
“I suppose. And my mum will love the hood when I graduate. Look, it’s fur trimmed.”
Xavier looked up from his phone as Clodagh angled the laptop towards him. It all looked kind of Harry Potter to him, lots of people in long black gowns with weird ornate sleeves and hoods. “What’s the pink one?”
“Uh… they’re for medicine. Or vets. So they should probably have made them look a little different.”
“Yeah, it’s a little disturbing the veterinary one is trimmed in white fur,” said Eliza.
The photographer called, “Your Highness?” and Eliza and Clodagh exchanged a look.
“You Highness,” Eliza told her, and she grimaced and stood up.
“At least I’m not ignoring him any more. Took me months to get used to it.”
Clodagh had recently begun her degree at Cambridge, a process known for some reason as matriculation, and this appeared to warrant a million staged photos. Xavier and Eliza had already watched her posing outside the main entrance to the ancient college, inside the formal hall, the chapel, and the garden. Now she was being photographed in the more photogenic parts of the library, trying to keep a straight face as she was instructed to look serious with an ancient manuscript in front of her.
“They had me posing with the same one,” Jamie said, materialising behind them.
“Yes, but she’s studying History,” Eliza said. “Is there much in ancient manuscripts about Computer Science?”
“Oh, absolutely. The Venerable Bede actually invented binary, and not a lot of people know that.”
They watched Clodagh, in her plain black gown with the particular type of frogging on the sleeves exclusive to Lady Mathilda College, pretend to read a book written in a script Xavier had been assured was actually English. Eliza would have had a nightmare.
Xavier slid his phone back into his nicely-tailored pocket. Perez had just emailed that the red tape involved in the Lopez case was going to kill him one day, but he thought he might be able to find grounds to bring Melissa Featherstonehaugh in for questioning. “There’s that text that says ‘I have a girl for you’ that Luis says he can’t remember getting. It could mean a lot of things. I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven you both for being so underhand,” Eliza told her cousin now, as they watched Clodagh try not to look bored.
“Both? I should like to point out sending you to Nassau was Clodagh’s idea, not mine.”
“And you’ve got to admit, it worked out pretty well,” said Xavier, taking Eliza’s hand. She smiled at him, apparently despite herself.
“In which case it was all my idea,” said Jamie loftily.
Clodagh made the mistake of grimacing at her husband, who the photographer then noticed. “Oh, Your Highness!”
“Which Highness?” he and Eliza said at the same time, before Jamie winked and went forward to join Clodagh. Neither of them seemed to actually enjoy having their pictures taken, but it was apparently a necessary evil.
“That joke might not even be in effect if they don’t get that bloody law passed,” Eliza muttered.
“They have the date. How hard can it be?”
“Yeah, getting three dozen countries to pass the same legislation within six months should be easy,” Eliza said.
He kissed the top of her head. “It’ll happen. And if it doesn’t, there’s always Vegas.”
Vegas was beginning to look like an increasingly attractive option. The Queen had given her Royal Assent for the marriage to go ahead, subject to the laws of the Commonwealth being changed. She had also set the date for their marriage—Eliza should have known she’d get no say in it—in six months’ time, which was also the deadline for passing the Perth Agreement into law in all the Commonwealth Realms.
Xavier didn’t really understand why it wasn’t just the law in Britain, since that was where she was Queen, but Eliza had attempted to explain that she was actually Queen of quite a lot of places, and they all had to agree to it too. He had absolutely no idea why there were 53 members of the Commonwealth, of whom 36 had voted for the amendment and only 16 had to actually pass it into law.
“Can’t she just make a royal decree?” he said, and Eliza gave him one of those looks that said he was being a stupid American again.
“Monarchs throwing their weight around tend to lead to us getting in hot water,” she said. “Civil Wars, losing the Colonies, that kind of caper. We don’t go in for it much any more.”
They watched the photographs a while longer, and then Jamie and Clodagh were moved on to a reception, to which Xavier and Eliza had been graciously invited the moment they turned up.
Everyone there wore the same gown as Clodagh, apart from a few postgrads like Jamie who had subtly different outfits. Some people had huge elaborate hoods hanging down their backs, including one with the pink and white fur hood Clodagh expected her mother to be envious of.
“So is this another one of those things you guys do that’s meant to confuse outsiders?” he asked Eliza, as Clodagh and Jamie posed for selfies with yet more excited students.
“What, the gowns and everything? More or less. Only this is an Oxbridge thing, not a Royal thing.”
“I meant it was a British thing,” h
e said drily. Nothing in this country made sense. Eliza had attempted to explain a million complicated rules about her family, who had strict guidelines governing what you said or didn’t say and to whom you said or didn’t say it. The rules about who to curtsey to that she’d explained to his mother were apparently true, and left him dizzy. He expected to have to bow to everyone, but she said that might change when they were married. Maybe. There wasn’t a lot of precedence, apparently, for Blood Princesses marrying commoners.
‘Blood Princess makes you sounds badass,” he’d told her.
“It makes me sound like a video game character,” she’d replied.
Now he seemed to be in a Harry Potter movie, all black academic robes and soaring ceilings with little shields all over them. Like the royal palaces, this place was full of symbolism and arcane terminology. He wondered if anyone actually understood it, or if they just pretended to.
People kept looking over at him and Eliza, and he entertained himself trying to work out if this was because they’d been recognised, or because they were the only ones not in wizard robes. Or maybe because Eliza was looking particularly lovely today in a blue silk dress that matched her eyes.
I can’t believe I’m marrying this woman.
Last week, the Princess Royal had casually dropped into conversation over dinner that the tenants of the Old Rectory had given notice on their rent.
“Daddy bought it,” Eliza had explained, “after he moved out, so we could see him. It’s only a couple of miles away. The lands run together. It’s been rented for the last however-many years. Is Daddy going to sell it?” she asked her mother.
“Well,” said Princess Henrietta, straightening a fork that didn’t need to be straightened, “Not exactly. He rather wondered if you might like it. As a wedding present.”
Eliza’s eyes went wide. Xavier could only blink. “A house? He’s giving us a house?”
“Yes. It’s in need of some renovation, of course. That would be my gift to you. Of course, if you’d rather live somewhere else, we can talk about that. I’d understand if you didn’t want to be practically next door. Although it would mean you’d have easy access to your pool.” She shrugged as if the gift on offer was a bale of towels. “You’ll want to see the place before you make a decision. I thought we might go over tomorrow. Oh, and do try to act surprised when your father mentions it.”
Xavier hadn’t needed to act. The Duke had arrived to show them over the place, which wasn’t quite the little vicarage he’d been expecting. The Old Rectory—harking back to the days when many clergymen were the younger sons of the nobility and rather preferred to live like it—turned out to be a handsome Georgian property with eight bedrooms, a library, and a dovecote. The kitchen alone was larger than his mother’s house.
“Oh, it’s nicely proportioned,” Eliza said, looking around a drawing room that could have held a tennis match. “Do you like it, Xavier?”
He thought it was insane. But then again, he’d been looking up the Duke of Suffolk’s ancestral home, which made Buckingham Palace look a bit dull and provincial, and could well believe that this sort of house would be considered cosy by Eliza and her family.
“If you like it, I’m happy,” he told her honestly. “I’d live in a tent in a field with you.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Eliza, and skipped off to redesign the Morning Room.
He stood now in Lady Mathilda College, in an oak-panelled room he—newly educated—could tell was probably Jacobean, and marvelled at the ways his life had changed.
Eventually, Clodagh threw up her hands and said if anyone else took a picture of her she’d scream, and they escaped through the back tunnels of the College to the private garden where Jamie and Clodagh’s little house was.
“Ugh, I thought that would never be over,” Clodagh said, taking off her black gown and flinging it on a chair as if it smelled.
“Careful, you’ll need that next week for the Formal,” said Jamie, hanging his neatly in the closet by the front door.
“I swear this place has as many rules as your family,” she complained, kicking off her heels. She had on a dress made of bold black and white stripes, which probably wasn’t what the university had meant when they specified those two shades in their dress code.
“Well, it will all be worth it when you get a nice red hood to hang on it, in…”
“No, don’t tell me how many years,” Clodagh said, shuddering. “Right. Wine?”
She opened a bottle, which didn’t last long, as Jamie cooked something spicy and Eliza flicked through images of outfit choices on her iPad.
“I mean, if I listen to Mummy’s ladies in waiting I’ll be dressed like someone’s maiden aunt,” she said. “Look at the state of this.”
She showed them a dress with a pleated, mid-calf skirt and a matching jacket.
“It’s… classy,” Clodagh said doubtfully.
“It’s normcore. It’s beige. And this,” she flicked to another, which was a shift dress and matching coat, cleverly cut to conceal the fact that she was a human female in possession of any skin between knee and neck.
“Navy can be kind of, um… chic,” said Clodagh, unconvincingly. She straightened a flounce on her dress.
“My mother wouldn’t wear this. Granny wouldn’t wear this. And the shoes… it’s all ‘sensible heels’ and ‘you don’t want to trip’, as if I haven’t been walking in heels since I was… well actually I don’t remember not walking in heels.”
“Jamie said the media department were pushing you to announce on The One Show,” said Clodagh.
Xavier had no idea what The One Show was, but Eliza didn’t want it so he made an appropriate face of displeasure, and when their attention was back on dresses again he slid his phone from his pocket.
“Was the message sent in English?”
“Right? As if it’s a new movie coming out. I told them, you get me on the six o’clock news or we’re going to Vegas to get married in a drive-thru chapel.”
“Hah,” said Clodagh. “Oh, is that why the normcore clothes? So you wouldn’t clash with the sofa?”
Eliza shrugged. “I think it’s because most of the Palace’s fashion advisors still think hobble skirts are ladylike. I mean, Mummy asked if I wanted Lady Ogilvy-Wright’s advice. Have you met her? She’s a thousand and one and thinks nice gels look jolly smart in piecrust collars.”
“No, Spanish. Burner phone. No chance of finding it now. Does this girl you suspect hablo Español?”
Clodagh snorted into her wine. “Oh, that’s cute,” she said, regarding a dress with little crowns on it.
“Shame neither of us will be allowed to wear it.”
“I might get it anyway,” Clodagh said. She winked. “They can’t take pictures of me inside the University.”
“I’ll find out. Eliza only just started learning—”
“What are you going to wear?” Jamie asked Xavier, wandering in. He’d immediately lost his smart clothes in favour of jeans and a t-shirt with R2-D2 on it.
“Me?” said Xavier. He shrugged and casually laid his phone facedown. His relationship with clothes was tepid at best. “Uh, whatever the stylist tells me to wear.”
“Boys are so lucky,” complained Eliza. “You get a nice suit and I get a dress with no discernible design features whatsoever.”
“I liked the palm tree one,” said Xavier.
“There’s a palm tree one?”
“He’s being silly. I can’t wear a dress with palm trees on it.”
“Eliza, you’re a princess, you can wear what you want,” he said, and she and Clodagh laughed bitterly.
Xavier had seen pictures of previous royal engagement announcements, all the way back to the Queen and Prince Henry posing stiffly in post-war austerity, since when the fashion did not seem to have changed at all. Every royal couple since seemed to be a decade or two out of style.
Clodagh and Jamie had shocked the nation by appearing in bright, modern cl
othes. Clodagh’s blue kimono style dress had sold out seconds after the interview aired, and her bright red heels were still being imitated now. Clodagh had recounted her strenuous efforts to wear something that didn’t make her look like a secretary from the 50s, to resist straightening her tight curls and removing the row of gold earrings from her earlobe. “They don’t like too much personality, the Royals,” she sighed, as if she wasn’t one of them now.
When Eliza broke off to go to the bathroom, Xavier found himself sitting in the living room with Clodagh, who was pulling one hell of a face at some of the outfit choices Eliza had been sent.
“I mean, I reckon she should wear something like she had for Ascot,” she said. “She looked awesome at Ascot.”
“She sure did,” Xavier replied, because the image of that red dress was still imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. “Hey, Clodagh? Can I ask you something?”
“Hmm? Oh, I use lots of conditioner,” she said, absently touching her hair.
“No,” he smiled. “I mean about this whole… Royal thing. Do you ever… kinda want to burst out laughing?”
“Oh my God,” she said. “All the time. Sometimes out of sheer terror.”
“Right? I mean, the Queen, right,” he lowered his voice. “I thought my Abuela was scary.”
“I know. First time I met her she insisted on speaking to me alone. I thought I was going to wet myself.”
“And the Palace, and all the rules…”
“Wait ‘til you get to Christmas. It’s insane. They have an order of precedence as to when you arrive. We’re allowed to get there after Eliza but have to arrive before Victoria and Nick, who have to arrive before Annemarie, who if she was just widowed would fall behind them in precedence but because she’s the mother of the next in line she holds their position. Or something. Wait.” She frowned.
Xavier gaped at her. Christmas at his mother’s house involved hundreds of over-excited kids, more food than anyone could ever eat, and an order of precedence that said whoever got to escort Abuela to Midnight Mass had done something right recently. “That’s insane. For Christmas?”
“Oh yes. And they all open their presents on Christmas Eve, because that’s how the Germans do it, the children finish trimming the tree, which is fun when the oldest is five and just wants to put Spiderman on everything, and they all give each other gag gifts. I mean, don’t go expecting diamonds or anything. It’s, like, novelty loo seats and Homer Simpson cufflinks.”