Chapter Ten

Aoife

it was grand seeing you yesterday, kitters. have you and evangeline got a spare hour today? or maybe after christmas?

Kit

We have a tight schedule today, I'm afraid, and we'll be leaving for Klosters on Boxing Day.

Aoife

damn

Aoife

I like her. she seems delightfully normal, or whatever passes for normal in that bloody family of yours.

Kit

It's a rather low bar, admittedly.

Aoife

some other time, then, yeah?

Kit

Some other time.

Aoife

you really never mentioned me or dylan?

Kit

You know why. She has enough to worry about.

Aoife

that's nothing, love. just a bit of fun. no reason to tie yourself into a twist over it.

Kit

I fear our definitions of fun are very different.

Aoife

speaking of, she said she hasn't got many friends here, and I offered up my five-star services, but you two left before we could exchange numbers. any chance you could pass mine on?

Kit

She hasn't got a mobile, I'm afraid.

Aoife

oh.

Kit

Really. I have to ring her private secretary if I want to talk to her.

Aoife

I suppose that's a no, then.

Aoife

it's only because of dylan, you know. I don't really mean any ofit. not the way he does sometimes.

Kit

I know, Aoife. I'd just rather she be kept out of it.

Aoife

I won't say a word to her, I swear. if my secret's safe with you, then your secret's safe with me.

—Text message exchange between Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, and Aoife Marsh, 24 December 2023

"EVAN?"

I'm still leaning against the gilded frame outside my bedroom, my heart racing from the encounter with Ben, when my name filters down the hallway.

My eyes fly open. The security guard is gone now, and in his place stands Kit. He's in a gray sweater with fitted jeans, and his hair is tied back in a half ponytail that he pulls off with astounding ease. But even as I take in the sight of him—which is usually more than enough to make me go all warm and fuzzy inside—Ican't shake the coldness that's settled over me in Ben's wake.

"I'm fine," I say, seeing the worried crease in his brow as he makes his way toward me. "Just ran into Ben."

"Did he say anything?" says Kit, taking my arm, and I shake my head.

"Nothing menacing enough to hold up in a court of law," I mutter. "I love your hair like that."

"You do?" he says, mercifully letting the topic of Ben drop as he self-consciously touches his ends. "It's not quite long enough for a full ponytail, I'm afraid. And Aunt Helene will hate it."

Sure enough, as we enter the dining room a few minutes later, Helene's fork falls to her plate in a clatter.

"Kit, I am begging you—allow my assistant just a few minutes with that unruly mop of yours before church tomorrow. You can't be photographed like this."

"I think he looks exceptionally handsome," says Venetia, who sits across from Helene with her green eyes now fixed on Kit. "It's rather roguish, isn't it? If I were ten years younger…"

"You'd still be a decade too old," says Helene, now delicately spearing a strawberry.

Someone clears their throat behind me, and Kit and I both turn. My mother stands with a mug of coffee in one hand and a tote bag of painting supplies slung over her shoulder, and she smiles. "Longer hair suits you, Kit," she says, though unlike Ben's mother, there's nothing creepy about the way she says this.

"Thank you, Ms. Bright," says Kit politely, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice, too. "May I take your bag?"

Surprisingly, my mother hands it over, and while Kit sets it down in an unoccupied corner of the room, she drops a kiss on my forehead. "Good morning, Evie."

"Hi, Mom," I say quietly, and as I hug her, I have the sudden urge to lead her as far away from the dining room as we can get. "What are you—"

"Evangeline!" cuts in Venetia cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to our private conversation. "Now that you and your mum are both here, I've been meaning to ask—what time were you born, love?"

I blink. "What? Why?" We've barely said a word to each other, and this isn't exactly the kind of question you ask without a motive.

Helene must sense it, too, because she gives Venetia a look that could melt steel, but the duchess merely waves her off. "Oh, not like that, darling. I simply want to do her natal chart. It'll be similar to Maisie's, of course, considering they were born on the same day, but there must be all sorts of stories in the differences. Maisie's a Leo rising," she adds cheerfully. "You're so alike, the pair of you—I bet your ascendant is a fire sign, too."

"I don't know what that means," I say. "And I don't know when I was born. I was a little busy at the time."

Venetia laughs as if I've told the funniest joke in the world. "You certainly don't get your sense of humor from His Majesty, do you? Laura, surely you know her birth time."

I peer at my mother, whose expression has gone strangely fixed. She's still smiling, but it seems glued on now, and like it's taking a considerable amount of effort to keep it there.

"I'm afraid I have no idea, either," she says. "It was a difficult birth, and the doctors gave me the good stuff. I didn't know what day it was, let alone what time."

"You've never looked at her birth certificate?" says Venetia dubiously. And for a split second, I swear Helene and my mother exchange an unreadable look.

"Evan's early life was somewhat…turbulent for me," says my mom. "Alexander has all the official documentation now. You'll have to ask him about any specifics."

Venetia opens her mouth, then swiftly closes it, her overdone lips puckered like she's swallowed a lemon. And when Helene and my mother glance at each other again, I'm sure I'm not imagining things.

Despite this awkward interaction, Venetia shows no signs of being subdued throughout breakfast. Helene and my mother make sure most of the chatter is mercifully directed toward Kit, who seems happy to talk in bland generalities about his term at Oxford, but whenever the conversation drifts toward me, Venetia's questions go from polite to probing in seconds. Again and again, Kit intercepts, turning the conversation back on himself with masterful skill, until Venetia finally seems to grow bored and excuses herself, citing an urgent need to make a phone call.

As soon as she's gone, the four of us seem to exhale at once, and I shift to face my mom in the chair beside me. "Are you going somewhere to paint? Maybe Kit and I could come along and keep you company."

"I thought I'd stay here for a little while," she says, sipping the last of her coffee. "Helene and I have plenty to catch up on, and I'm not sure we'll have another chance before the boys return."

"What?" I say, so startled that for a moment, I forget we're all being polite. "But—"

"It has been a long time," agrees Helene. "And we do have quite a lot to discuss."

I look back and forth between them, baffled. Never in my life have I pictured the pair of them sitting at the same table, having a civil—let alone friendly—conversation, and the thought of all the cruel things Helene could say to my mother fills my ears with incessant buzzing and the pit of my stomach with dread. Helene was the trigger for my mother's psychotic break, and even though it's been fourteen years, those scars must still exist somewhere inside her. And I have no idea how delicate they might be.

"Evan," says Kit, his fingers lacing through mine underneath the table. "Why don't we go on that walk?"

"Walk?" I say, barely comprehending the word. "But—"

"That's a great idea," says my mother. "Do me a favor and look for a spot that captures your attention. I'd like to work on a new piece while we're here, and it should be something special."

I don't know how to say no to that, or how to say yes to Kit, but he stands and guides me to my feet. "We'll be back before lunch," he promises, but before he can lead me to the exit, I slip my hand out of his grip and fling my arms tightly around my mom.

"Are you sure?" I whisper, and she hugs me gently in return.

"Positive," she murmurs. "Helene and I both have what we want now, and that makes all the difference."

I'm not convinced, but my mother releases me, and Kit's there again, apparently every bit as sure as she is that this isn't a massive mistake. I glance over my shoulder as we leave the dining room, but rather than focusing on my mother, I meet Helene's eye instead. She nods once, slowly, and this is as much of a promise as I'm going to get.

The garden, as it turns out, isn't just a stretch of flowers, but a dozen paths that lead through meticulous hedges and shrubs, past stunning fountains and statues, and into the woods that are spread out across the estate. Kit's arm is wrapped around the waist of my black wool peacoat as we meander between tall trees, the branches bare in the winter morning light, but for once, his presence isn't enough to calm the hurricane of anxiety inside me.

"I hate that we don't know what they're talking about," I say, resisting the urge to look back at Sandringham House, or at least what little we can see of it from here. "If Helene says something that sets my mom off…"

"She won't," says Kit. "What would be the point? It would only upset you and Alexander, and she wouldn't gain anything. Besides, Aunt Helene may be many things, but she isn't malicious or sadistic."

"No, just spiteful and heartless," I mutter. "She told the entire world about my mom's illness."

"Because she thought it would protect Maisie. I'm not defending her," he adds gently as I start to protest. "I'm completely on your side. But I've known Aunt Helene my entire life, and if I thought for a moment that she might do something to shatter your mother's peace, I would've never walked out of that room. If anything, they're almost certainly talking about Alexander."

"What about him?" I say, silently desperate that he's right.

"Logistics, I'd expect, especially if he and your mother choose to carry on while he's still legally married to Helene."

I make a face. "I can't believe they're sharing a bedroom. Do you think—no, never mind, don't answer that."

He laughs and kisses my temple. "Are you all right with it?With them being together again, if they are. If they choose to be."

Something heavy settles over me, and I take a deep breath, considering the question. Unlike some kids with unmarried parents, I never fantasized about mine getting back together in a sweeping romance that fixed every problem in my life. If anything, the very thought makes me uneasy for reasons I'm not sure I can explain.

"I don't think I have any right to try to stop them," I admit at last. "But I don't like it. Not the idea of them—I think anyone who's ever seen them together knows how much they love each other, and they have a right to be happy. But I'm not sure that's possible. Alexander can love my mom more than anything in the world, but he's still King, and being with him will shine a spotlight on her that'll never go away. The press has already villainized her, and no amount of truth or damage control will change the fact that everyone—everyone knows about the darkest moments of her life."

"And because of that, they can't be together?"

I shake my head. "The media will never let it go, and the public will never forget what happened. No matter what comes next, she'll always be the—the crazy mistress who tried to drown her daughter in a bathtub. At least if she's out of the limelight, she'll have a chance to move on with her life. She'll have a chance to be more."

Kit is quiet as we head deeper into the trees. Overhead, a bird breaks into song, and I crane my neck to find it, but it's hidden in the endless bare branches.

"What if," he says slowly, "your mum doesn't want to be more?"

I frown. "Who wants to be defined by the worst thing that's ever happened to them?"

Kit purses his lips. "For years, she's been separated from the people she loves. She couldn't be with Alexander because—well, obvious reasons, and she was scared to be around you in case she hurt you again. But now that everything's out in the open, she's here—in England, with you and Alexander. There's nothing more the press can do to her. They have all her secrets, and you…you're healthy. Thriving, even. She's still careful with you—gentle, I mean," he adds when I shoot him a confused look. "I can't pretend to know what it must be like, surviving all she's gone through, but I would imagine she'll always be gentle with you. And the important thing is that she has you now, and you have her. And you both have Alexander. What would the point of all those terrible things be if she walked away? What could possibly be worth more than the love between the three of you?"

For a long moment, I say nothing, and I let myself picture it instead. My mom and Alexander, both of them happy—really, truly happy, despite the endless storm of bullshit the media would throw at them. "He'll never divorce Helene," I say. "And he'll never marry my mom, either—it'd make her queen, and he wouldn't do that to her. It would also be the biggest scandal in the history of the monarchy, besides maybe Henry VIII and his wives."

"No monarch has divorced since, I'll grant you," says Kit. "But that's hardly the equivalent of beheading two queens and creating a new religion."

"Maybe not, but Helene's the most idolized woman in the world," I say. "There's no way Alexander can leave her without becoming public enemy number one."

"It would be…tricky," he agrees. "But perhaps—"

Crack.

A loud noise echoes through the woods, and I glance up, sure that a tree branch has broken. But before I can even comprehend what's happening, Kit's arms are around me, and he dives toward the base of the nearest tree as another crack rings out, and then another.

Kit and I hit the hard ground in a heap, his body pressed against mine, and I let out a yelp of pain as my left shoulder seems to bear the brunt of our fall. But Kit covers my mouth with his hand, stifling any sound, and I stare at him, my eyes wide.

What the hell is going on?

Another crack cuts through the still morning, and the tree trunk seems to explode a foot above our heads, showering us with wood chips.

Those cracks aren't breaking branches, I realize as cold horror spreads through me.

They're gunshots.

Kit catches my eye, and he must see my sudden surge of panic, because he presses his finger to his lips, and I manage a jerky nod. Only then does he remove his hand from my mouth, and he pulls out his phone to type a quick message, his body still covering mine.

My heart is pounding so hard that my chest hurts, and the edges of my vision slowly turn black from sheer terror. But as I lie perfectly still, my muscles taut while I wait for the next shot, I notice a dark red smear on the shoulder of Kit's tan coat. Maybe it's denial, or maybe just adrenaline, but for a split second, I can't wrap my head around what I'm looking at. When it hits me, however, all the air leaves my lungs, and the world seems to lurch sideways.

"Kit."His name is barely a breath, though it's enough to grab his attention. He follows my gaze, his brow furrowed, but his confusion turns to wild-eyed fear as he hastily shifts his weight off me. He's still hovering, barely an inch above me as his hair falls into my eyes, and he slides his hand between us to undo the buttons of my coat.

What are you—I mouth, but he's pushing my lapel away from my chest, and then I see it. A scarlet stain blooming in the cream of my sweater, just below my shoulder.

It's not his blood. It's mine.