Robert was often described in the media as "aloof" or—my personal favorite—"an elegant display of royal reserve," but those of us who knew who best knew the truth: he was a prat.

Or, as Cynthia once eloquently put it: "a rule following ninny with a stick up his arse." Matilda was always the most sympathetic of the three of us, always reminding Cynthia and me of the weight of expectations and responsibilities that came with inheriting the crown.

Maybe Matilda was right. Maybe my cousin was under intense amounts of pressure. But, regardless, Cynthia still wasn't wrong—he was an arse.

Even worse by my account, he was a person with the ability to positively influence the lives of others—to save the lives of innocent people fleeing danger—and yet he did nothing.

I glared at his retreating figure, the echoes of his hollow threats still ringing in my memory, and slid my phone from my jacket pocket.

Cynthia picked up on the second ring.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the—"

"I'm giving you the green light," I cut in my tone still sharp Robert and my barbed exchange.

She hesitated before asking: "You mean for the ESL and British culture classes?"

"No, I mean the resettlement support clinics."

Cynthia sighed. "Tom, Uncle Henry was very clear—"

"And now I'm being clear," I practically snarled in my cousin's direction. "It's the right thing to do, and we're doing it. Make it happen."

"We'll discuss it tomorrow over lunch," she countered coolly.

I shook my head forcefully. "Cynthia—"

"I'm on your side, little brother." She cut in. "We've just got to make sure we have all our ducks in a row before anyone tries to squash it. When we announce, we have to be ready."

I smirked as I watched Robert approach Margret and Emma chatting happily before an eager audience of photographers. "We will be."