“No, thanks.”
“Tea?” Jane asks anxiously.
“Nope,” I huff, realizing I shouldn’t have blamed it on a headache. “Are you going to get in trouble? What happens when Victor doesn't get what he wants?”
Jane cocks her head to the side and thinks. Her thoughtfulness makes me think Victor always gets what he wants. She takes a second to respond. “I'm sure the change of time zone and long flight are very fatiguing. I’ll tell them that.”
“Thanks! Later, will you update me on Princess Mary?” I wring my fingers.
“As you wish.”
She reaches for my luggage again, and I add, “No, worries, I got it.”
“Are you—”
“Jane, feel free to sneak out and enjoy the evening or something. I won't be a bother.”
Once she steps out of the room, I lie on a bed of clouds, drawing oxygen into my lungs.
You can fix this.Ehh, tomorrow might be best.
The horror flashing over Princess Mary’s face unnerves me. Needing an escape, I consider Momma’s journal.
Do I really want to invade my mother’s privacy? God, am I ready for this?My mind’s a broken record, worrying over what I might find.Do I really want to know?
16
Victor
Flames dance in the fireplace as I lean a forearm against the mantel, pouring myself another snifter of whiskey, despite Grandmother Sarah.Bollocks, she needs better role models.I’m encouraging her filthy habits. But each time I see the anguish on my mother’s disappointed face, I pour another round of amber fire.
Princess Mary has alternated from crying to complaining to comparing me to my father as she bats her crystal blue eyes. I’m over being Silas Tudor’s firstborn son. Yet my mother still thinks the association is ammunition against my character. Now, I’m obligated to endure Mum’s recycled accusations.
“That littlecommoner,” Mary begins with a scoff, “I’ve an idea of exactly what youseein her. Same as your cousin saw inthatwoman.”
“His wife, Mum? With whom he shares adorable little ones with?” I grit out.
“Of course, all babes areadorable.Once they grow up—”
“Bloody hell, Mary.” Sarah shakes her head, removing the whiskey bottle from before me. She doesn’t pour herself a round but takes the whole bloody bottle and saunters toward Mary. Before uncorking it, she points to Mum, saying, “Why didn’t I take you off the tit much sooner?”
“Mother! Choice words.” Mary turns away from Sarah and asks me, “Surely, you are your father’s child?”
There’s no need for me to respond.
My grandmother strikes. “Well,pretty princess,it’s becoming rather refutable that you came from your mum’s quim. Why not emulate thatyouareyourmother’s child?”
Beneath her breath, Sarah calls her daughter a disrespectful wench because, well,cuntis too orthodox a word to have disclosed as well.
It's a low blow—tit for tat—but clearly, Sarah could always hold her own as she tosses the bottle back while drenched in diamonds. As for me, I’m fortunate enough that my grandmother would always take up for me.
Other than Burt, I’ve only had this grandmummy on my side.
Eh, I’m sulking.
Grandmummy, Her Majesty, did her best.
Sarah physically fought my father the first time she saw me with a black eye. These days she’s all bark and no bite. But the bark will inject her victim with its venom.