Chapter 11: Balcony Kiss
The massive oak doors of the Abbey swung inward, and the world inside was a cave of stone and stained glass, cool and quiet after the roaring sunlight. The scent of old incense and polished wood hit her first. Then the sound—a hushed, collective intake of breath from two thousand people rising to their feet, a rustle of silk and stiff morning suits that echoed in the vastness.
Her father’s arm was a rock. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice tight. “One foot in front of the other.”
Ahead, the procession was moving. The little flower girls, in simple white dresses with plumeria crowns, scattered petals from koa wood baskets. Her bridesmaids, in gowns of ocean-green silk, moved with careful steps. Then it was their turn. Two young pages, sons of distant cousins, their faces solemn, lifted the heavy train of her dress, the silk pooling over their small, white-gloved hands.
The aisle stretched forever, a mile of blue carpet between sea of blurred faces. The music—the organ’s deep vibrato—felt like it was coming from the stone beneath her feet. She kept her eyes fixed on the distant curve of the altar, on the splash of scarlet where the choir stood, on the slim, straight-backed figure in uniform waiting for her.
Will.
He turned. She saw his profile first, then his full face as he saw her. His expression didn’t change, not in any dramatic way. But his shoulders, which had been set with formal rigidity, dropped a fraction. His eyes, from this distance, were dark pools of pure focus. On her.
The walk was a meditation. The rustles, the whispers, the flash of cameras from the approved pool—it all melted into a hum. She felt the weight of the tiara, the whisper of the maile leaves against her skin, the slight drag of the train. Her father’s breathing was ragged beside her. She squeezed his arm.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Never better,” he choked out, patting her hand. “Just don’t let me trip.”
The distance closed. The faces on the front rows came into sharp detail. The Queen, a pillar of primrose yellow, her face unreadable. Her mother, already dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Kai, in his formal kāhei, giving her a slow, deliberate nod from his seat beside his aunt. It was an anchor.
Then she was there. The stone of the choir floor was solid beneath her thin soles. Her father lifted her veil, kissed her cheek, his own wet against hers. He placed her hand in Will’s.
Will’s fingers closed around hers. His hand was warm, slightly damp. He leaned in, just an inch. “You,” he whispered, the word lost under the organ’s final chord, “are a vision.”
The ceremony was a river of ancient words. They knelt. They stood. They listened to the Dean’s voice bouncing off the fan-vaulted ceiling. Leilani heard the phrases—“for better, for worse,” “in sickness and in health”—but they felt like sounds in a foreign language until she looked at Will’s profile, the intense way he was listening, as if memorizing each syllable.
Then the rings. The Archbishop presented the velvet cushion. Not the heavy, traditional gold bands that had been proposed months ago, but the two simple, dark bands of koa wood, inlaid with a slender thread of diamond and pearl. A murmur, a ripple of curiosity, traveled through the Abbey.
Will took hers. His hand was steady as he slid it onto her finger. The wood was warm, smoother than silk. It fit perfectly, a whispered secret against her skin. “With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, his voice clear and firm in the silent church. “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
She took his ring, her fingers trembling only slightly. She repeated the words, her voice stronger than she expected, echoing back to him. The wood met the base of his finger, a stark, elegant line against his hand. A piece of her home, now a part of him.
The register was brought forward on a great carved table. As they moved to sign, the music changed. The organ fell silent. From the choir gallery, the clear, resonant beat of a pahu drum began, a heartbeat rhythm that seemed to sync with her own pulse. Then the deeper tone of an ipu gourd, and the soft, melodic wail of a wooden nose flute. It was the piece her kumu hula had composed, the story of a long voyage. The sound was alien in this Gothic space, yet it filled it completely, weaving through the stone like a living vine.
She signed her name—Leilani Kalani Mountbatten-Windsor—next to his. The ink was black and permanent.
The Archbishop’s voice boomed. “I now pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Will didn’t wait for permission. He turned to her, his hands coming up to cradle her face, and kissed her. It was not a chaste, formal peck. It was deep and affirming, a claim and a surrender, right there in front of God, the Queen, and two billion watching people. The Abbey erupted. Not just applause, but a cheer that shook the dust from the ancient beams.
The walk back down the aisle was a blur of grinning faces, a tunnel of noise. Will held her hand so tightly she felt their new rings press together. The sunlight at the door was a shock. The noise of the crowd was a physical force. They were funneled into the first carriage, this one open-topped, for the procession back to the Palace.
The cool spring air of May bit through the silk. Will threw his cloak around her shoulders, pulling her close. They didn’t speak. They waved, their hands mechanically moving, but their heads were bent together, foreheads touching, as the carriage rocked through the streets.
“We did it,” he said into her hair.
“Almost,” she said. “One more performance.”
Buckingham Palace was a fortress of controlled chaos. They were ushered through side doors, up private staircases, into a holding room where champagne waited but neither of them touched it. Leilani’s dress was adjusted. Her tiara was checked. Will’s uniform was brushed free of invisible lint.
A equerry appeared at the door. “They’re ready for you on the balcony, Your Royal Highnesses.”
The corridor to the central balcony felt longer than the Abbey aisle. The sound from the Mall was a sustained, tectonic roar. They stepped out into the pale afternoon light.
The scale of it was incomprehensible. A sea of people stretched all the way to the Admiralty Arch, a swirling mosaic of flags and faces and flashing cameras. The noise hit them like a wind. Will’s hand found the small of her back, his fingers brushing deliberately over the slight bulge where the strand of maile vine was tucked into her sash, a secret connection.
They waved. The cheers crescendoed. The traditional call began, rolling over the crowd in waves. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Will turned to her, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. It was the smile from the portrait, full of awe and possession. “Ready, Mrs. Mountbatten-Windsor?”
The formality of it, amidst this madness, made her laugh. “Always, husband.”
He leaned in. This kiss was different from the Abbey. It was for the crowd, yes, but it was also for them. His lips were warm, a little chapped from the wind. His hand pressed harder against her back, feeling the maile through the layers of silk. It was a promise of something private, of the land and the quiet waiting for them. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, a physical vibration in the air.
When they broke apart, foreheads together again, the world narrowed to his eyes, the cool weight of the aquamarine on her brow, and the faint, green scent of home rising from her gown.
“Hawaiʻi next,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din.
“Just us,” she whispered back.
“And about four hundred security blokes,” he said, and she laughed, a real, unfiltered sound lost in the cheers.
They waved again, hands linked. She looked out at the countless faces, the swirling Hawaiian flags held high, and for the first time, she didn’t feel the weight of the stone balcony beneath her. She felt the future, vast and unknown, pulling them forward like a tide.
She felt the future, vast and unknown, pulling them forward like a tide. Then the door behind them opened again, releasing a wave of contained chatter and the scent of perfume. The rest of the family began to stream onto the balcony, a carefully orchestrated arrangement of smiling waves and practiced positions. Will’s hand stayed firm on her back, a fixed point in the shifting geometry.
His parents came first, then his siblings, creating a living frame around the two of them. The crowd’s roar adapted, cheers shifting for each new face. Finally, the Queen emerged, her walk steady and measured. She took her place beside Leilani, not in the center, but slightly to the side, a deliberate yielding of the focal point. They waved in unison, a choreography of wrists.
The noise was a physical wall. Leilani’s cheeks ached from smiling. Under the cover of the sustained cheers, the Queen leaned in, her gaze still fixed on the distant Admiralty Arch. “A satisfactory beginning,” she said, her voice barely a thread of sound. Then her eyes flicked to Leilani’s forehead, to the delicate aquamarine nestled in her hair. “The tiara. It suits you far better than it ever did in a vault.”
Leilani kept waving, her mind scrambling to parse the words. “Thank you, Your Majesty. It’s an incredible honor to wear it.”
“It is not a loan,” the Queen said, the words crisp and final. Her gloved hand gave a single, faint pat on Leilani’s arm where it rested on the balcony ledge. “Consider it a welcome. And a reminder. The color of the sea looks different, depending on which shore you’re standing on.” She straightened, her public smile re-engaging, the moment of shocking intimacy sealed shut as cleanly as it had opened.
Leilani’s breath caught. The weight on her head shifted, transforming from a borrowed object to a permanent anchor. Will, sensing her tremor, glanced down, a question in his eyes. She just gave a minute shake of her head, her heart pounding a wild, private rhythm against the public drumbeat of cheers.
The hour on the balcony passed in a blur of sustained noise and mechanical waving. Her shoulder burned. The tiara, for all its beauty, began to feel like a crown of needles driven into her scalp. When the equerry finally gave the signal to withdraw, the silence of the picture gallery felt deafening, a thick velvet blanket thrown over her ears.
“Portraits,” Will sighed, rolling his stiff neck. “The fun never stops.”
The official photographer was a different one now, a man with a terrifyingly quiet demeanor who directed them with subtle flicks of his fingers. They were posed in front of Titians and Van Dycks, on gilded chairs, standing stiffly beside a marble fireplace. “Relax your jaw, Your Royal Highness,” he’d murmur to Leilani. “Sir, a slight turn of the body toward your wife. Yes.”
It was performance, an excavation of their joy for permanent record. They took pictures with the full family, then with just the Queen, then with her parents and Kai. Kai, in his kāhei, looked like a revolutionary who had stumbled into a museum, his stance defiantly relaxed. “Look like you like each other,” he muttered to Leilani during one setup, and she finally cracked a genuine laugh, which the camera captured.
Two hours. Her feet, in their delicate silk shoes, were numb blocks. The train of her dress was a beast that required three attendants to position. Will’s smile became fixed, a polished mask. When the photographer finally lowered his camera and said, “Thank you. That will be all,” they both swayed on the spot.
Their private suite seemed like a sanctuary after the day’s grand theaters. Leilani stood in the middle of the sitting room while her dresser began the meticulous work of undoing the hundreds of hooks. The dress sighed away from her body, a cascade of heavy silk pooling on the floor. She stepped out of it, feeling lightheaded, almost naked.
Will was already shucking his uniform jacket, the scarlet tunic landing on a sofa with a thud of medals. “I think my face might crack if I smile again,” he groaned, pulling at his collar. He walked over, now in just his trousers and untucked white shirt, and began to carefully extract the tiara from her hair. His fingers were gentle, probing for the pins.
It came free. He held it, the aquamarine catching the evening light from the window. “Yours permanently, eh?” he said, having heard the news from a staffer. “That’s not a welcome gift. That’s a declaration.”
“It feels like one,” Leilani said, running her hands through her flattened hair, her scalp tingling with relief. She padded to the bedroom where two open suitcases lay on the bed, already half-filled by a valet. Next to them were folded piles of soft, familiar clothes: linen trousers, cotton shirts, a simple sundress.
She pulled on soft jeans and an old, faded NYU sweatshirt. The feeling was visceral, like shedding a second skin. Will emerged in chinos and a rumpled heather-grey jumper, his hair mussed. He looked twenty again, just a boy.
They packed the rest themselves, a silent, shared ritual. Will folded his t-shirts with a surprising neatness. Leilani rolled her swimsuits, tucked in the lauhala hat her mother had sent. She placed the koa wood ring, which she’d slipped off her finger, into a small velvet pouch. It would go in her carry-on.
“The security briefing is at oh-six-hundred,” Will said, zipping his suitcase closed. “The flight’s at ten. They’ll drive us straight to Northolt.”
“And then?” she asked, though she knew.
“And then we disappear,” he said, coming to stand before her. He brushed a thumb under her eye, where the makeup had been scrubbed away, leaving faint smudges of exhaustion. “Into your five thousand acres. Just us and the geckos.”
“And the security blokes in the trees,” she reminded him, a smile tugging her lips.
“Details,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. His voice softened, serious. “Iolani Palace. You’ll be the first descendant of Liliʻuokalani to sleep there since…”
“Since her,” Leilani finished. The historical weight of it, the circularity, settled in the quiet room. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a return. A reclaiming of a space that held her family’s joy and immense sorrow. She wasn’t going as a tourist. She was going home, and she was bringing her husband.
Will picked up the velvet pouch with her wedding ring, handed it to her. “Ready to go back?”
Outside, the last of the crowd’s cheers had faded, replaced by the normal hum of London at night. Their suitcases stood by the door. The tiara, now hers, rested in its leather case on the dressing table, a pale blue gleam in the lamplight. Here, the world was stone and tradition. There, it was volcanic rock and tidal waves.
Leilani slipped the ring back onto her finger, the koa wood warm. She took his hand.
“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go understand the tides.”
The pre-dawn darkness of the palace mews was a shock after the relentless spotlight. A nondescript Range Rover, its windows darkened, idled where gilt carriages had stood. Leilani slid into the back seat, her body screaming from the day’s sustained performance. Will followed, his shoulder pressing against hers, a solid warmth.
Her mother was already inside, smelling of lavender and nervous energy. Kai climbed into the front passenger seat, tossing a backpack at his feet. “Couldn’t sleep,” he grumbled by way of greeting, staring out at the cobblestones. “Still can’t believe you got them to spring for first class.”
“It’s not a reward, it’s logistics,” Will said, his eyes closed as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. “Easier to manage the detail in a contained cabin.”
“Right. Logistics.” Kai snorted softly. “Just enjoy the fancy peanuts, cuz.”
The drive to Northolt was silent, a reverse of the roaring procession. London at five a.m. was a grey sketch, all empty streets and sodium-lit silence. Leilani watched the city blur past, her mind replaying fragments: the drumbeat in the Abbey, the weight of the tiara, the press of Will’s hand against her maile vine. She twisted the koa band on her finger, the wood already feeling like a part of her.
Northolt was a blur of low, functional buildings and stark security lights. The plane stood apart on the tarmac, a sleek private jet with discreet markings. The cold, damp air bit through her sweatshirt. A uniformed officer gave a curt nod, his breath frosting. “Everything is prepared, Sir. Ma’am.”
They moved quickly up the steps. The cabin was quiet, all cream leather and pale wood. It felt like a very expensive waiting room. Leilani’s mother immediately chose a window seat, arranging a blanket over her knees with precise, anxious movements. Kai stalked to the back, peering into the galley. “You got any decent coffee back here? Not that instant rubbish.”
A steward smiled politely. “We have Kona, sir. Flown in this morning.”
Kai’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Alright then.”
Will guided Leilani to a pair of seats facing each other. He sank down, running both hands over his face. “God. I’m shattered.”
“It’s done,” Leilani said, the words feeling monumental. She kicked off her shoes, tucking her feet beneath her on the soft leather. The plane’s door hissed shut, sealing them in a pressurized cocoon. The engines whined, a rising pitch that vibrated in her teeth.
They began to move, taxiing with a gentle lurch. Will reached across the aisle, taking her hand. Their wedding rings clicked together, wood on wood. He didn’t let go.
The takeoff was a profound, pressing silence. London fell away beneath them, its web of lights diminishing into a faint, glowing smear. Then they were above the clouds, the world outside a featureless white plain under a deepening indigo sky.
Her mother finally spoke, her voice thin in the hum. “Your father is already bragging to everyone at the hotel. Sending them the balcony photo on his phone like a teenage girl.”
Leilani smiled, a tired, real thing. “Let him.”
Kai came forward, holding two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Leilani. The rich, familiar scent of Kona bloomed in the sterile air. “Here. Taste of home before we even get there.” He glanced at Will. “You want some, Prince?”
“Will,” Will corrected, accepting the other mug. “And yes. Thank you, Kai.”
Kai just nodded, retreating to his seat. The simple use of his name, the sharing of coffee—it was a truce, fragile but holding.
The steward brought breakfast, but no one had much appetite. They picked at fruit, at pastries that tasted like air. Exhaustion settled over them, a thick, shared blanket. Leilani’s mother fell asleep first, her head tilted against the window, her breathing deep and even.
Kai put on headphones, his eyes closed, but his foot tapped a restless rhythm against the cabin floor.
Will and Leilani stayed awake, fingers interlaced, watching the sky through the window. The indigo softened, bled with streaks of orange and pink at the unseen horizon line. The plane chased the sunset westward.
“We’re following the light,” Will murmured.
“Going back to where it starts,” she replied.
He lifted her hand, turning it so the slim band of koa caught the fiery glow from the window. The inlaid diamond and the dark pearl at the center of her engagement ring sparkled, holding a tiny, captured piece of the sun. He did the same with his own hand, the simple wood glowing warmly.
“No going back now,” he said, his voice low.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” she whispered.
The plane banked slightly, a gentle shift in the world. The fasten seatbelt sign pinged softly. Below them, the vast, dark ocean gave way to the first, tentative specks of landfall. Pinpricks of light on black velvet. The islands.
Leilani pressed her forehead to the cool window. Her breath fogged the glass. A wave of something immense and wordless rose in her chest—not just homecoming, but a collision of all her selves. The girl from the loʻi, the student in New York, the woman who married a prince in an abbey. They were all arriving together.
Will squeezed her hand. She looked at him. His face was tired, open, waiting. The engines droned on, a steady promise.
The plane began its long, slow descent.