Inconceivable! Read Online Free Page B

my fingertips, forcing them to push the button repeatedly. My photos from the preschool were on there!
    “Do you know the number? I can take you to a phone.” He started down the stairs.
    “Yes. That’s great.” Distraught that the phone―and photos―likely weren’t salvageable, I dropped the dead device back into the bag.
    At the bottom of the stairs, he veered left and there was a rotary phone in a small alcove in the wall.
    “Will this do?”
    “Once I figure out how to dial it.”
    James picked up on the first ring.
    “Yes?” he demanded.
    “Hey, it’s Hatty,” I said a little sing-songy, trying not to give away my editor’s tone to John who stood a respectable distance down the hall, but remained within ear shot.
    “Are you on your way back? Please tell me you got some good shots of the prince and the girl who got into the limo with him. It’s all over Twitter and Instagram, though no one got a clear shot of her face. We have to get the story of the mystery girl. I bet he’s seducing her at the palace right now.”
    “Well,
I’m
with the prince. He gave me a ride to Belvoir.”
    I registered the horror of James’ words. Journalists becoming a part of the story was a major no-no. “He pulled
you
into the limo? Why the hell would he do that?”
    I worked hard not to roll my eyes. “He’s agreed to let me interview him. But I won’t make the 4:00 p.m. deadline.” I tried to sound like the seasoned reporters who held their own with the editors.
    “Okay. Ask him who does his hair. I’m kidding. But definitely ask him about the little tart who was on his arm at the Carlisle racetrack Sunday afternoon. If you can get him to talk about this stuff, all the regional papers will run your story. They eat this shit up. See you soon.”
    “Fine,” I said and hung up the phone. My toes dug into my damp shoes at the thought of writing a story about the prince’s love life.
    “All set?” John asked.
    “You bet. Where do you want to talk?”
    “In a big room filled with my ancestors. Come. I’ll show you.” He was already rounding a corner at the end of the hallway.
    John led me to a room with a ceiling that was at least two stories high. Arched windows at the top of the walls ushered in natural light. The layout reminded me of a great hall I once saw while touring a German castle. The walls were painted a deep red, creating a dramatic backdrop for the room’s many paintings.
    I strolled inside and surveyed the artwork. There were portraits of serious-looking royals as well as pastoral landscapes that reminded me of the Ozarks. Bloody combatants were frozen in time on several canvasses marking major moments in Toulene’s history.
No one does war like Europeans.
    As I walked deeper into the cavernous space, my heels clicked on the parquet floor, then fell mute when I crossed onto a broad maroon rug that ran the length of the room.
    While I soaked up the paintings, John pulled two white chairs out from the wall, positioning them in the middle of the room. He handed me a black notebook and pen.
    “Here. You might need these. I want you to get my quotes right. Most reporters fail at this basic task.”
    “Thanks. I’ll do my best. Before we start, tell me about this room.”
    “It’s called the Regents Room. If you ever tour the palace, you get to walk through here. But few people outside the family and close friends spend any significant time in here.”
    “So who’s your favorite relative?”
    “That’s a tough choice because so many of them have fascinating stories. If I had to pick, it would be Uncle Fergus.” He pointed to a painting halfway up the wall to our right. “He’s the one standing in front of a mirror being fitted for a suit.”
    “Ahh. And why is he your fave?”
    “See the woman in the painting crouched by his feet, checking the length of his pants? That’s Emmaline, the royal seamstress. Despite extreme ridicule from his mother, Queen Helena, Fergus followed his heart