But Sasha lowered his hand, smiling gently.“Romany’sa goodword,” he went on, only when he said it, the emphasis fell on thesecond syllable, not the first, and the y transitioned into a soft,foreign i sound that made Laurie shiver.“That’s what I am.Now…what about you, my visiting prince?What are you doing downhere among the Romani?”
“I…” Laurie paused.The compulsion, the repeated inner tug thathad drawn him here, would sound poor in plain words.But he didn’twant to dress it up, much less lie to Sasha, so he said, shrugging,“I just wanted to see you again.I couldn’t forget yourface.”
Toomuch, surely.He braced, waiting for Sasha to betray disgust or getup and walk away.But although Sasha’s expression became serious,all Laurie could detect there was a kind of concentrated,deep-seated pleasure.“Thank you,” he said.“And…you came a longway off your beaten track to find me, didn’t you?A long way fromthe beautiful car and—your father, was it, who dragged you off?Does he do that often?”
“Oh, only when I’m talking to people wrapped in blankets on theStrand.”
“And do you do that often?”
“No.You’re my first.I…never even looked twicebefore.”
“Don’t be ashamed.Why would you?It’s two different worlds,Laurie, and I think you live up on a mountaintop, even in yours.Last night I was afraid Ihaddisgraced some kind of royalty.”
“Oh, not even a minor aristocrat, until he dies.He’s only abaronet because his great-grandfather made enough money to buyhimself a coat of arms and half a county.”Laurie pulled himselfup.He wasn’t about to lessen the gap between this new friend andhimself by trying to do away with his family or their wealth—bytrying to make himself ordinary.“It’s my ma who’s the real blueblood.I think her lot owned the Languedoc while his were stillworking out which end of a woolly mammoth was which.”
Sashabroke into brief laughter.“French?”
“Oh, very.And you?Romanian?”
“Yes, by birth.Although my own mother…” Sasha trailed off, hisattention refocusing on a point beyond Laurie’s shoulder.“Well.She was English, but nevertheless…I am an illegal immigrant, andwhen that policeman making his way down the promenade sees me herewith you, he’ll assume I’m soliciting you for money or you’resoliciting me for sex.And he won’t like either, so…”
Sashabegan to get to his feet.Halfway there, he stopped and looked downat Laurie in astonishment.“Laurie, what…what’s thematter?”
Laurie drew a breath and resurfaced.He could feel, in themuscles of his face and brow, the expression that had been there asecond before.He’d never seen it himself—had never been looking ina mirror at the right time—but had gathered from friends and fromseeing his mother very occasionally do the same thing, that hisresponse to disgust or outrage was not a grimace but a stern andabsolute blank.A mask of aristocratic thunder.He never meant itor at least never meant that dawning aspect of his nature toshow—the latent imperiousness he had from his mother’s blood andhis father’s conduct.There isn’t apoliceman in this city who would dare questionme, that haughty bastard would say,let alone make such a vileimplication.
“Sorry,” he said to Sasha, who had gone pale beneath his patinaof city dirt and looked ready to run for it.“All right.Let’sgo.”
“Not you.Just me.”He grabbed up the sandwich papers and hispack and broke out suddenly.“Look, you saw me under the bridgeback there!You know what I do.”
Lauriedid.All that bewildered him, when he thought about it, was his ownfaint shiver of excitement at the thought.He should simply havebeen horrified, shouldn’t he, that a boy his own age should beforced to such a living, and to all intents and purposes he was.But underneath his dismay, like a vein of hot lava… “Yes!”he said.“I mean…it doesn’t matter to me.You don’t have to be afraid of thepolice, is all.Not while you’re with me.”
Sasha gazed down at him.The pain in his dark eyes dissolvedto a bright amusement.“Oh, my God.YouarePrince Harry.”
“No.He’s a nice enough bloke, but they’d never let him roamaround down here.My father, though…” He trailed off.The esplanadepoliceman, still far enough off for Sasha to make good his escape,was indeed turning his stately steps toward them.My father’s high up on the Metropolitan Policecommissioners’ board.Oh, yes.And whatwould he do to help Sasha or anyone else not white, rich,Protestant, and provably British since the time of the Normaninvasion?He’d help him by arranging for his deportation on thenext boat out.“Never mind.Okay, go.But I’ll see youagain.”
“No, you won’t.It’s better, Laurie.Trust me.”
“I’ll see you again.Will you let me give you some cash?To”—hepaused, grinning—“to buy your friend Len a pint, show there’s nohard feelings?”
“No.”Sasha was smiling back, his expression oddly gentle.“Idon’t want it.Not from you.”
“At least keep the change from the twenty.Otherwise…” Lauriepaused, then once more surprised himself with his own guile.“Otherwise, how can you say you bought me lunch?”
I’ll see you again.Laurie sent thethought after Sasha’s retreating back.He didn’t have long in whichto do so.Between one glance and the next, Sasha was gone, meltinginto the crowd and the dazzling winter sun.His disappearance set adry knot of pain in Laurie’s throat.He’d read somewhere thattwenty thousand people went missing each year in Britain alone,just dropped off the radar and were never seen again.He hadwondered at the statistic, wondered how it could happen.Well, hehad just seen it.It happened like that.
Thepoliceman was still making his steady track through the park towardhim.Laurie turned to look at him.This time he let the cold,forbidding mask come down deliberately, got to his feet on thefountain steps, and stood, hands on his hips, against the rainbowedbackdrop of Neptune and his mermaids.The policeman paused for asecond, then as if on purpose, swung around and pursued his beatalong the Embankment.
* **
Laurie’stutor arrived the next day, and from then on he scarcely had anhour to call his own.Sanderson, a thin, bespectacled young man whohad obviously been told by Sir William to educate his son or dietrying, threw himself with nervous energy into the task.He set upshop on the top floor.It made sense; there was an old schoolroomup there, complete with massive dark oak desks and blackboard, andmaybe Sanderson shared his student’s instinct to put as much spaceas he could between himself and Sir William.But it gave Laurie thechills to be back on the scene of so many grim childhood hours.Homework, extra tuition during holidays, when the happy shouts ofother kids would rise up to taunt him from the square.At least, hethought, settling into a chair and giving Sanderson his best lookof respectful attention, he now more or less fitted the furniture.Could see over the desk’s top.He patted his algebra textbook, toall appearances businesslike and ready.
The sole alleviation to Laurie’s misery during the grimbattles that ensued was Clara’s presence.She turned up for everyclass with a view, as she put it, ofbettering herself, though she spenther time discreetly readingCharmednovels behind the cover of one of Laurie’smathematics texts.Laurie wanted to tell her the deception would godown better if she put McKay’sAlgorithmsthe right way up, but hedidn’t want to tease her.He appreciated her loyalty too much forthat, though he could have wished she was not seeing her elderbrother daily revealed as such a dunce.He crawled off to his atticafterward, too numbed out for a while to do anything more than siton the windowsill watching the traffic come and go in the slice ofthe real, living world he could see between two imprisoning Regencyfacades.He even experienced a brief envy for the pigeons, whomight be dying of cold out there but at least could fly, feed, andcheerfully shag one another as they chose.
Except he wasnotstupid, was he?Laurie had once known some of the thingsSanderson was trying to teach him, or he would not have scrapedthrough his A levels and into Oxford, no matter how many stringsSir William had had to pull to help effect this.Although theshadowy unknown scope of his father’s influence sometimes madeLaurie shudder, he did remember slowly picking up enough of themethods and equations he needed to get by and amassing, albeitwithout much comprehension, enough dry facts and data to makehimself sound intelligent on the subject of politics, at leastuntil he met someone who actually was.
That wasthe problem.Enrolled as an undergrad at Oxford, Laurie wasconstantly surrounded by people for whom these matters were dailymeat and drink, their lives’ work, not a schoolboy game for slidingyour way through exams.Laurie could recite chapter and verse onevery English government that had held sway since the system wasinvented, giving the information as lines to an imaginary characterin a history play; he could sing, for Clara’s entertainment, thevalue of pi to a hundred decimal places.But these tricks would cutno ice with Oxford dons.His cover, over the course of his firstuniversity year, was slowly and systematically being blown apart.He felt as if the walls were closing, his mind clouding over.Akind of low-level panic ran always in the background of hisdays.
Had he ever been really good at anything?Yes.His faltering self-esteem triedto defend him.He’d loved English lit at school, mostly for itsdrama component but devouring poetry and novels too.That had beenall right with his father.Reading was a gentlemanly hobby; aknowledge of literature was a gentlemanly acquisition.When it cameto drama, however, Laurie had excelled, learning lines overnightthat should have taken weeks, transforming effortlessly into anyonefrom Hamlet to Hermione, his unself-conscious gender-swapping aboon to those entrusted with the task of teaching drama in anall-male school—frustrating those teachers in equal measure withhis absolute refusal to take part in any play that might receive apublic airing, especially on parents’ evenings.Knowing SirWilliam’s prejudices, they had not tried to force the boy, and onthose nights he had been their most talented nonperformer,tirelessly prompting from his secure hidden place in thewings.
