“Get it? Heart on your sleeve?” she prompted. The words were stamped on crookedly. “It’s part of my submission to a fashion school in London. If I get in, I can finally blow off this place.” She nudged me. “You should wear it when Nick comes back to town.”
“No,” Cilla said firmly.
“You’re right. A drawing of a sleeve on a heart would—”
“No,” Cilla said, and gestured for another round of drinks.
When we returned to Pembroke, PPO Popeye jumped out from near the mailboxes like he’d been watching for me.
“Steve is in Windsor,” he said, handing me a packet of what looked like instructions. “He says the castle is closed to the public tomorrow if you want a squizz.”
I was so programmed not to expect any movement on the Nick front that I had nothing whatsoever to say in response, and PPO Popeye seemed taken aback by what he perceived as my hesitation. He hadn’t presented this excursion as merely an option. He wiggled the folder under my nose and then poked me in the arm with it.
“Um. Of course. Thanks,” I said lamely. “Oh, and there’s something in your teeth.”
“I know,” he said, walking away with the awkward gait of a man trying, and failing, to mask his military precision.
Windsor Castle was favored by at least four of the eight Henrys, several Georges, the lone Elizabeth, both Victorias, and Queen Eleanor, and it’s also the royal residence that I love best. Unlike Buckingham Palace, which is protected by a large courtyard and a fence and feels rather isolated from the bustle around it, the town of Windsor directly abuts the edge of the castle grounds, like it’s merely the fanciest house on the block—which, technically, it is. But the true wonder of Windsor is that it has survived a thousand years and a fire, and is still in active use. In fact, the day I went, the Royal Standard was flying, indicating that Eleanor was staying there—and possibly looking down on me as I ate my fatty, three-quid sausage roll on the walk to the gate. I’d been up so late talking to Lacey that I slept through my alarm and almost missed the train. I’d barely had time to brush my teeth, much less my hair, and I’d thrown on the first shirt I found. I didn’t even realize until I took off my cardigan on the warm train that it was Joss’s design. She’d gotten what she wanted: I was going to Nick with a heart on my sleeve.
The one in my chest pounded as I loped up the hill. As much as I’d been dying to see Nick, now that it was happening, all I could hear in my head was every piece of advice from last night’s well-intentioned emergency summit.
“You need a plan, Bex.” Lacey’s voice crackled through the speakerphone. “You are not suave enough to do this without a plan.”
“What if you show up and he acts indifferent?” Cilla said.
“Or you blurt it out, but the magic is gone?” Lacey again.
“Are you going to wear my heart shirt?” Joss asked.
“Are you going to ask about India?” Lacey barreled on, ignoring her.
“Say nothing about your feelings,” Cilla said. “Not at first. It’s been a while. Just be yourself and let any awkwardness ebb.”
“Then jump him,” Joss offered.
“No, then watch for a sign that it’s time to be honest with him,” Lacey said.
“Then jump him.” Joss again.
“No, then keep your distance. Say your piece calmly and then look him square in the eye,” Cilla said.
“Then jump him,” Joss said. “Jumping is the whole point.”
“But Bex can’t be trusted,” Lacey said. “She jumped Clive, and look where that got her.”
“You guys, I’m right here.” I said. “Look, I will be careful, I promise. No jumping.”
But while being dignified and self-possessed seemed executable at three a.m., now that I was actually at Windsor, I didn’t know how to keep the truth from hurtling out of my mouth—or even stop from jumping him. Before I knew it, I was through the entryway and Nick was loping down to greet me, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a blue hoodie that brought out his eyes. My brain clicked on and reminded me to control myself. To wait for the right time. Cordial, civil, normal, poised. These were my watchwords.
“Hey!” I called out, walking toward him.
“Bex! How are you?” he said, leaning toward me.
I didn’t trust myself to hug him, so I turned away a bit, forcing Nick to stop short. Strike one for normal.
“This is amazing,” I said quickly. “I can’t believe you have a home with an actual moat.”
“I knew you’d love it,” he said. “Lots of history, and today, no tourists. Hope you brought your pencils.” He took my arm lightly to point me in the direction we needed to walk. “I thought you might need something to distract from the big family holiday in America.”
“That’s really nice of you,” I said, touched.
His eyes caught my flag pin, affixed to the collar of my coat. I smiled amiably and said nothing else. The platonic, civil, cordial Bex had to be on guard against random acts of feelings. (Although I did quickly ogle him a little. Unlike the castle around us, I was not made of stone.) We walked in silence uphill toward the castle’s giant circular turret, pausing only to admire the regrettably nonfunctioning moat that had been landscaped into what would, come spring, be a stunning garden.
“I miss Oxford,” Nick said eventually. “I’ve been gone too much. How is everyone?”
“Cilla and Gaz haven’t killed each other yet,” I said. “Joss thinks she has a shot at a design school, so she quit going to her tutorials. And Clive, um, started seeing someone.”
“Oh?” Nick’s voice was even.
“Someone named Cordelia? He said you guys met her your first year?”
“Ah, yes, I know her well,” Nick said.
I snickered before I could stop myself.
He grinned. “Not that well. Here, let me show you the view.”
He led me up to the battlements along the back of the castle, where I found myself staring down an extremely steep hill at an unruly expanse of land.
“William the Conqueror set up a bunch of fortresses within a day’s march from each other, and picked this spot because the high hill made it quite protected from one side,” he said. “And with the Thames as a transport or supply route, the town grew up around it naturally.” He pointed into the distance. “If you squint, you can see Eton.”
I peered across the fields and saw the spires of a cathedral in the distance. Eton was the town across the river, home to the fancy boarding school that had housed nineteen eventual prime ministers, ten iconic writers, and Nick and Freddie.
“I loved it there,” Nick said. “We used to walk around over the bridge in our dress clothes, and we all looked the same. Nobody bothered about who I was. No one even noticed.”
“What were you like then?” I asked.
He leaned against the stone wall. “Much the same, I suppose,” he said. “Scrawnier. Quite sporty. Obsessed with the Wall Game.”
“You are definitely going to have to explain that one,” I said. “It sounds like something you’d play in prison.”
Nick laughed. “I oughtn’t be surprised news of the Wall Game didn’t make it across the pond. It’s only ever played at Eton,” he said. “See, there’s a curved wall running the length of a field that’s five meters wide and—”