It used to be my favorite song and also—quite coincidentally, I assure you—the only piece he could play decently at the time. Henri’s improvement over the intervening years is striking. Sure, he’s no Bob Dylan, nor can his voice hold a candle to my brother’s voice. Theo could’ve made a career singing professionally if he weren’t a little busy being a crown prince. But Henri has mastered both the instrument and his pleasant baritone remarkably well now.
As he sings with his rich, warm voice, I can’t help but draw a parallel between his musical skills and his sexual prowess. Just like with his singing, there’s a new confidence in his lovemaking, a layer of mastery that wasn’t there before.
What hasn’t changed is that this man has always known how to give me the kind of sex I enjoy. He must have a heightened ability to hear me, see me, and pick up on my tiny nonverbal signals. The best part is that none of it comes across as contrived. He doesn’t need me to call him “Sir” or any other such nonsense that would reassure him of my temporary and voluntary self-abandonment. Being both dominant and attentive to my needs comes to him as naturally these days as it did ten years ago.
The fire crackles, punctuating Henri’s performance. Soon, everybody is singing along.
When the song ends, there’s a moment of silence, a collective appreciation for the music and the performer. Then, enthusiastic applause and encore’s break out.
Henri grins as he tunes his guitar, clearly enjoying the moment. With a few strums, he launches into Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” His voice carries the poignant melody through the night air, and the song seems to resonate around the campfire, touching something deep within each of us. It’s visible in the dreamy expressions on the firelit faces and audible in the emotion that tinges the voices that join Henri’s.
As he transitions into “Let It Be,” the classic Beatles song, our little group hums along, wrapped in the comfort of the familiar chords. The applause that follows is heartfelt.
“Now in French!” someone calls out.
The others cheer, backing the request.
I brace myself for “Santiano,” a beautiful Celtic-inspired piece and Henri’s go-to French song ten years ago. He never managed to do it justice. I’m curious if tonight will be different.
To my surprise, Henri picks a different French hit, “Revolver Eyes” by Marc Lavoine.
As he sings, his gaze locks with mine, intense and unyielding. The lyrics talk about a woman with eyes like revolvers. A shiver runs down my spine every time Henri reaches the refrain in which the woman opens fire and shoots the hero, dooming him for all eternity. Lavoine’s imaginative story of a helplessly enamored man feels like a private conversation between Henri and me.
Or maybe it’s all in my head.Breathe, Eugénie!It took me years to heal—incompletely, as it turned out—the first time around. I can’t afford to jump headlong into loving Henri again.
As the song ends, his gaze lingers on mine for a moment longer before he breaks away, a flush darkening his face.
He immediately transitions into “Brown Eyed Girl.” Unlike the previous song, Van Morrison’s energetic tune was part of Henri’s repertoire ten years ago. He plays and sings it much better now. And… he’s changed the lyrics! The realization makes me gasp as Henri gets to the chorus, and his eyes are riveted to mine in the firelight.
“You, myblue-eyedgirl. Do you remember when we used to sing?”
The group sings the refrain and I join in, “Sha-la-la, la-la, la-la…”
Can there really be a second chance for Henri and me?
What if Darrel’s failure to fall for his Key to the Key was a fluke, the exception rather than the rule? What if Henri and I are predestined for each other after all? It appears that neither of us was able to move on in ten years, and the ease with which we rekindled the flame begs the question of whether it had ever been fully extinguished.
Someone said, “Feelings that come back are feelings that never left.”That someone may be right.I can’t wait for Sunday when Henri will admit to his past anti-royalism.He was only twenty!A youthful tendency for rebellion and fascination with revolutionary ideas were no doubt partly responsible for his transgression. But I strongly suspect there was more to it than that. I hope he’ll tell me what it was.
Demonstrably more mature than a decade ago, he must realize that if he wants me in his life, then he must overcome his shame and be honest with me. And then we can have a fresh start.
The possibility of a new beginning with Henri steers my mind back to the fateful afternoon ten years ago, in Carlo’s office. Iresist the pull. There’s no joy, no satisfaction at the other end of that uneasy, slippery memory.
But it’s too late. My thoughts are already careening down it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The image is as vivid as a 3D movie. I walk into the MESS building, my nineteen-year-old head filled with curiosity and nonchalance. Carlo Bodden-Bock, the then boss of the Mount Evor Secret Service, isn’t just our top spy—he’s Uncle Richard’s childhood friend and practically family. I’m half expecting this to be about planning a surprise after-party for Uncle Richard’s jubilee.
But when I’m led into Carlo’s office, I know immediately this isn’t about party planning. His usually affable face is etched with gravitas.
“Your Highness, thank you for coming,” he greets me, motioning to a chair next to him. “Please.”
I sit down, my interest piqued.
Carlo turns his laptop toward me and hits play on a video. I stare at the screen, uneasy. At first, it’s a mundane scene. A dozen or so young people are seated around a table in what is probably a privatized booth in a bar. Drinks are being served. Two or three faces look vaguely familiar. I might’ve seen them at a function or a party I went to with Henri. But they aren’t his close friends.
I furrow my brow. “What am I looking at, Carlo?”
