“Because I’m nottheheir.It’s just a tradition to pass the baton to the oldest.Evan can take it just as well as I can.Or one of my cousins.”
“She also noted how alike our stories are between Pratt and O’Shay.Your Cross blood and my House of Blue genes.”
Scottie paused, hearing her phone buzz from her clutch resting on the table.She reached for it—
“Scottie, I’m sorry.Mum had no right—”
“It’s okay.”But she wasn’t listening as she stared at her phone.
“Scottie?”
She looked up.“My dad.”Her voice broke as she showed Michael the photo of him with Remi.“He’s engaged.”
* * *
Michael
By Sunday afternoon, he found himself in Brindleby and at his father’s kitchen table for the first time in months.
“I don’t know why I don’t come home more often,” he said, stirring cream into the cuppa Dad set before him.
“I’ve a tin of day-old biscuits from the corner bakery.”Dad retrieved a white can from the cupboard.“They might crumble if you dip them, but they’re sweet enough.”
Michael took a round, golden biscuit and tapped it in his tea.Like always, Dad’s kitchen was warm and bright, sunlight pouring through the mullioned windows.A fire crackled in the stone hearth.The slate floor smelled faintly of pine soap from an early morning mopping.
Beyond the wide doorway lay the living lounge, the same room where he and Evan had done homework, played games, watched telly, and decorated the Christmas tree.Down the narrow passage was his father’s den with its dark walls, thick carpet, leather chairs, bookshelves bowing under their weight, and the old desk passed down from father to son for generations.It was cluttered with folders, notes, and tea mugs not yet washed.
Dad had done his best to make it a welcoming place.He’d carted them to practices and rehearsals, taught them to drive and manage a bank account.He sewed on buttons and placed a cool cloth on their feverish heads.
When Michael turned fifteen, Dad set him with a stack of Cross books to read and pictures to study.At eighteen, he attended his first Cross family conference where he was immersed in their family mission, in history, faith, and the Crown.
“You don’t come home because you’re busy,” Dad said, ever practical.“You’re also a grown man.I don’t expect you every weekend.”He dipped a biscuit, frowning when only half came out.“What brings you today?Aren’t you on duty?”
“Lady Royal is with the queen.”
“How is our queen faring?”
“Well enough.They don’t tell us much of anything, but I see her frailty when she walks with Scottie,” Michael said.“What do you hear in your circles?”
“They’re keeping her health close to the chest.”Dad tossed back the last of his biscuit.“I saw photos from the Pratt anniversary party.Your grandparents looked well.As did your mother.”
“It was a lovely evening.”
“And your charge?Did she enjoy herself?Is she as beautiful in person?”
“She did and yes, she’s very much so…she looks, even acts, like her mother.”
“Yet you’re here, the day after the party, with a long face.”
Michael laughed softly.“Can’t I come home because I missed you?”
Antone Cross—semi-retired diplomat, lifelong servant of the Crown, and esteemed bachelor—still lived in Brindleby, the village where Michael grew up.Tucked on the western edge of the Midlands, north toward Dalholm, it was a place untouched by time.Stone cottages shaded by Douglas firs and oaks, a stream where Michael and Evan learned to fish threading through the green.
The eighteenth-century Cross House, a Georgian manor of pale stone and seventeen fireplaces, had been a gift from Queen Clemency to Michael’s seventh great-grandfather.The grounds and gardens were still maintained by a grant from the Crown.
“You can come anytime, Mick,” Dad said.“But I sense something more to your visit today.”
“I don’t know.”Michael leaned back, one hand around his cup.“I felt something last night.Something I’ve not felt since…” He met his father’s eyes.“Purnell.”
