Chapter Twelve

HUNTING ACCIDENT AT SANDRINGHAM TRIGGERS MEDICAL EMERGENCY; EVANGELINE REPORTED VICTIM

Buckingham Palace has announced that a hunting accident is to blame for the frightening scene at Sandringham Estate on the morning of Christmas Eve, and a well-placed palace insider has confirmed that Evangeline Bright was the victim.

While no life-threatening injuries were reported, speculation about the seriousness of the incident was fuelled by the alleged evacuation of the royal family to Windsor Castle shortly after the shooting took place, leading many to fear that foul play was involved. A Twitter post from Venetia, Duchess of York, however, suggests that the move was made to be closer to the hospital where Evangeline was taken.

@duchessvofyork What a frightening day! An unexpected detour to Windsor Castle now…there's nothing more important than being with your family on Christmas. Hug your loved ones tight.

12:23 p.m. · 24 December 2023

Bright, who is not an official member of the royal family, was airlifted yesterday morning to an undisclosed hospital for emergency treatment. Though there have been no further updates on the alleged victim's condition or location, the royal standard has not been raised at Windsor Castle, Sandringham House, or any other royal residence, suggesting that His Majesty is spending Christmas in hospital with his illegitimate daughter.

The identity of the shooter has not been released.

—The Daily Sun,25 December 2023

THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE MOST families are opening presents and drinking hot cocoa, mine is escorted back to Windsor Castle by more than a half dozen police vehicles, complete with sirens, flashing lights, and a motorcycle leading the way.

Even with the gunman still on the loose, it's overkill, but I'm too exhausted to make any kind of snarky remark. I'm stretched out across the middle bench seat in a bulletproof SUV, my head in my mom's lap and a blanket covering the rest of me, while Kit and Alexander sit in the row behind us. The three of them speak in hushed voices, and even though I drift in and out of consciousness, I catch snatches of their conversation.

"…didn't match the striations of any rifle in the Sandringham armory," says Alexander, and I can practically hear his frown.

"That's good, isn't it?" says my mother, her fingers gently combing through the tangles in my hair. "That no one on the estate was responsible, I mean."

"All it means is that they didn't use one of our hunting rifles," says Alexander grimly. "The police are doing their best, but the estate is twenty thousand acres, and much of it is open to the public. Even if they do find evidence…"

We hit a bump in the road, and though the doctors gave me a nerve block before our trip, rendering most of my upper-left side numb and useless, I still wince. But I only have myself to blame for this whole setup, as I refused point-blank to get in an ambulance, and this was the only alternative Alexander would accept.

I must dip into sleep again, because the next thing I hear is Kit's voice. "…said you banned the family from attending the service at St. George's Chapel this morning?"

"I doubt she's terribly upset," says Alexander dryly. "But yes, with the service at Windsor open to the general public, it was too much of a security risk. Maisie knows that the safety of the family is paramount, and I'm sure God will forgive us, considering the…"

Alexander trails off, and Kit swears quietly under his breath. I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but then I hear it.

Shouts—dozens of them all at once, a wall of voices that grow louder as the car creeps forward. I remember the protesters outside Sandringham, and a chill runs through my aching body, but the people with scarves covering their faces were silent. This crowd—

This crowd is calling my name.

"How do they know it was her?" says my mom, horrified.

"Who?" I say, my throat painfully dry. "What's going on?"

I try to sit up, but her hand is there, gently holding me down. "Photographers and journalists at the gate," she explains. "There must be nearly a hundred of them. Alex—"

"I don't know," he says in a strangled voice. "I told Doyle to release a statement calling it a hunting accident. Jenkins confirmed just an hour ago—"

"There's an article on the Daily Sun's site," says Kit suddenly. "A ‘well-placed palace insider' told them Evan was shot."

A few long seconds pass, and I assume Alexander's reading whatever post Kit has found. "Damn," mutters my father, followed by a few more colorful snarls. "That gold-digging, bloodsucking—"

"Venetia?" says Kit, and Alexander grunts in the affirmative.

"We knew she'd go to the press eventually," says my mother with a sigh. "I was hoping she would at least wait until Evan was out of the hospital, though."

The vehicle is moving at a snail's pace, and on the other side of the tinted windows, I can just make out several police officers guiding us through what must be a tightly packed crowd. My name is louder now, interspersed with what sound like questions, but I can't tell what any of them are saying. And I'm not sure I want to know.

At last, we must make it through the gate, because the shouting grows quieter as the SUV speeds up again, and I can feel my mother relax. She shouldn't be here—not at Windsor, not in the middle of everything. But I also know that nothing, not even Alexander, could send her away now. And I'm terrified.

"Security has locked down this part of the castle," says Alexander unprompted. "Though if you must go outside, do be certain to stick to the immediate grounds."

"I don't think any of us needs fresh air that badly," says Kit as the car pulls to a stop. Only then does my mother help me sit up, and I see the dozen staff members waiting for us at the door—including a man with a salt-and-pepper beard who wears a frown so deep that it's practically sliding off his face.

"Jenkins?" I gasp, wondering if I'm imagining things. But as a footman opens the door, he's there, his arms around me as he eases me gently onto the drive. And even though everyone's watching, I hug him in return and bury my face in his chest, finally letting myself feel the overwhelming grip of fear—of all that happened, of all that could've happened, and how close I came to losing everything.

"You're all right, Evan," he murmurs in a voice meant only for me. This kind of behavior would get any other member of the royal staff dismissed on the spot, but Jenkins has been the one constant in my life since my grandmother's death, and I refuse to let something as ridiculous as protocol steal that from us.

"You're here," I say, a little dizzy as I finally step back. "What about Louis? You shouldn't have to give up your Christmas."

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he says. "And I assure you, our nieces and nephews won't miss me, not when Louis's baking up a storm. Your Majesty," he adds, bowing his head as footsteps crunch against the gravel beside us.

"Jenkins," says Alexander. "Thank you for coming—and please, there's no need for formalities today. Has Dr. Gupta arrived?"

"He and his team have already set up their equipment in Evangeline's apartment, sir," says Jenkins, as proper as he always is, and he touches my good shoulder. "Let's get you inside, darling."

Somehow, miraculously, I manage the walk from the side entrance to my apartment, which feels like it's tripled in the two days we've been at Sandringham. The royal physician—Dr. Gupta—is waiting for me in my sitting room, and it's only after he checks my vitals and the small incision just below my shoulder that I'm finally allowed to pass out in my own bed.

Maybe it's the painkillers, or maybe the trauma of all that's happened is finally sinking in, but instead of sleeping soundly, Ifloat from dream to dream, each more surreal than the last. Kitand I are back in the woods at Sandringham, but they're darker and full of blood-red daisies. I know what's coming—Ican feel the gunman's eyes on me like heat from the sun—but when I turn, Venetia is there instead, asking me for the time I was born.

The trees morph into brick, and suddenly I'm standing in front of the gift shop Kit and I visited in Norfolk. Aoife chatters happily at me while I barely listen, too distracted by a garden of flowers made of jewel-like stones. When I look up, Dylan is there with us, staring at me with such intensity that I feel like I'm burning from the inside out. And as I cast around searching for Kit, I spot him lurking on the opposite side of the street—except as my vision focuses, I realize it's not him, but the faceless man with the teal scarf.

The buildings shift into the four posters of my bed in Windsor, almost exactly as they are, except the light pouring through the curtains is stained pink. Constance stands beside me with a silver-wrapped gift in her hand, and as our eyes meet, she doesn't look away. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can utter a word, everything goes black. And then it's Ben standing there instead, his lips twisted into a half smirk in the indigo light.

My eyes fly open, and for a few horrible seconds, I forget where I am. My room is completely dark now, with the winter sun long set, and somewhere in the distance, I think I hear the sound of someone whispering my name again. Confused, I glance at the spot where Constance-then-Ben stood. There's no one there—of course there isn't, there never was—but I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone.

"Evan?"

I suck in a breath, and the lamp on my desk switches on. But while the part of me that's still half-asleep expects Ben or Constance to be perched on my couch, it's my mom, her hair frizzy and the purple smudges beneath her eyes prominent. She looks like she's barely slept in days, and I feel a pang of guilt.

"Sorry," I say, clearing the thickness from my throat. My mouth is disgustingly dry, and I don't remember the last time I had any water. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm all right," she promises, climbing to her feet. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know," I say, slowly easing myself up into a sitting position. The nerve block has worn off, and there's a deep, constant ache in my shoulder that turns into a sharp stab every time I move. "Sore."

She heads to my bedside table, and as I gently probe the bandage covering my wound, she opens a pill bottle and pours a glass of water from a pitcher. "Here," she says, and I pop the painkillers into my mouth before downing the water in one go. "Are you hungry?"

As if on cue, my stomach growls. "I think that's a yes," I say, and she manages a breathy laugh.

"I'd say so, too." She offers me her hand. "Let's get you something to eat."

Once I've brushed my teeth, my mom helps me change into clean clothes—an oversized sweatshirt and ratty pajama bottoms that Tibby has been threatening to burn for months now—and eases my arm into a sling. I'm still unsteady on my feet, but the world isn't spinning anymore, and I feel more alert than I have since this all happened.

When she opens the door to my sitting room, however, I suddenly wonder if I'm still dreaming. Thousands of tiny colorful lights are strung up around the room, with longer strands crisscrossing overhead, giving everything a soft, ethereal glow. Garlands decorate the walls, and there are enough poinsettias crammed into corners that I could start my own flower shop. A wreath hangs on the inside of my door, and best of all, there's a large Christmas tree in front of the window, covered in the same colorful string lights with a glittering star on top.

"What—" I begin, baffled, but then I hear a knock on the door. It creaks open before either my mother or I can say anything, and Maisie pokes her head inside.

"Evan?" Her voice is hushed, like someone else is still sleeping in the other room. As soon as our eyes meet, however, the softness in her posture vanishes, and she strides into my apartment like she owns it. She's wearing an emerald-green ball gown and cherry-red lipstick, and when she reaches the spot where I'm rooted to the ground, she wraps her thin arms around me like I'm made of spun sugar, and one wrong move will make me collapse.

"Maisie?" I say, confused. "What's going on? Did you do this?"

She nods into my shoulder, but she doesn't say anything. And a moment later, I feel something warm drip down my neck and absorb into the collar of my shirt.

My sister is crying.

Ignoring the sharp ache in my chest, I carefully slip my good arm around her waist and hug her as tightly as I dare. "Everything's okay, Mais. I'm okay."

"Some—someone tried to kill you," she says thickly, and her shoulders shake. "You and Kit and—and we don't know who or—or why."

Privately I think I know exactly who did it, even if I don't know why. But before I can say anything, movement in the hallway catches my eye, and Alexander and Kit appear in the doorway. They're both wearing tuxedos every bit as formal as Maisie's gown, but my father's bow tie hangs loose, and Kit's sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, giving them both a strangely casual appearance.

"Why don't we let Evan sit down, darling?" says Alexander as he joins us. Reluctantly Maisie lets me go, though her fingers wrap briefly around my wrist, featherlight and delicate.

"I'm just—really, really glad you're all right," she says, eyes still brimming. As Alexander eases me down onto the nearest sofa, my mother wordlessly hands her a tissue, and she takes it, dabbing her eyes. She must be wearing waterproof mascara, because her makeup doesn't budge. "I—Kit and I, we didn't want you to miss your first Christmas with the family, so we thought we'd bring Christmas to you."

"Thank you," I say as I glance around the room again, taking in the lights and decorations. "Really. This is incredible."

"It was all Maisie's idea," says Kit, bending down over the arm of the sofa and giving me a peck on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, Evan. How do you feel?"

"Better, I think," I say, and he's still hovering close enough for me to steal a quick, but real, kiss, even though my parents are watching—and are probably the reason for his restraint. "I'm sorry for ruining Christmas."

"You didn't ruin a bloody thing," says Alexander as several footmen carry dome-covered platters into the room. "We've got a few hours left, so why don't we make the most of it?"

While he, Kit, and Maisie rally around the tree, decorating the branches with glittering ornaments that look like they're made of real crystal, my mother tucks a blanket around me and brushes my tangled hair. Christmas music plays softly in the background, and even though it's probably the blood loss, there's something magical about all of this—something that fills me with warm contentment and giddiness that only seems to expand, chasing away the last of the somber shadows. The royal family has always felt more royal than family to me, but in this moment, with the people I love most chatting and laughing together, I almost forget that my father is King, that my sister is the future queen, and that most of the country thinks my mom and I have no place here. Nothing outside my sitting room matters as we pass around plates full of food, and then presents, each more ridiculous than the last.

"Really?" says Alexander, holding up a bobblehead of himself, complete with a giant crown. When the head wobbles, a tinny voice declares, "Gather 'round, ladies, to see the King's crown jewels!"

My mouth drops open, and from the armchair, Maisie immediately pales. "I had no idea it did that," she insists, but she's mostly drowned out by Alexander's sharp guffaw.

"Of all the bloody things…," he says, shaking the bobblehead again.

"King Philanderer II at your service, m'lady!"

He throws his head back, and any lingering hint of propriety dissolves into howls of laughter. My mother joins in, reaching for the toy to take a closer look, and even Kit chuckles as I manage a tired grin. Only Maisie, whose face is bright red, is unamused.

"I'm going to bloody murder Fitz," she mutters, and I immediately feel a stab of pity for her hapless private secretary.

"On the contrary," says our father, now wiping tears from his eyes, "I think I owe him a pay rise."

We pass around the bobblehead and listen to it repeat its assortment of sordid phrases until I wince from laughter, and my mother pointedly sets the toy aside. While most of the gifts are jokes—though none of the rest are nearly as funny—her gift to me is a framed photograph I've never seen before.

It's a picture of her and Alexander, both much younger, and a baby that can only be me. We're sitting beside a Christmas tree, the lights twinkling behind us, and they're focused on me as I seemingly do my best to rip the wrapping paper from a stuffed bear. They're smiling—the kind of secret, genuine smiles not meant for the camera—and I can just make out their joined hands.

"This was your first Christmas," says my mother softly. "I know you don't remember it, but your father and I do."

I touch the frame, not knowing what to say. I wish I could remember it. I wish I could remember every moment from those first few years, when my parents were still happy and together, even if Alexander was living a double life with Helene and Maisie. I wish I could remember a time when none of us had to make room for estrangements and arrests and the scandal of just existing.

"I love it," I say, setting my head on her shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Evie," she murmurs as she kisses my hair. "I'm just relieved we have this Christmas, too."

Maisie leans over to peer at the photo. "Oh—that's the one that was on your desk for the Christmas speech, isn't it?" she says to Alexander, who nods.

"I hoped it might go a long way to silence the conspiracy theorists," he says, and I don't need to ask which ones he's talking about. My mother's been vilified and called all kinds of names in the press, which seems fixated on the lie that she trapped and extorted him with a pregnancy he didn't want. I didn't realize it bothered Alexander so much, but as he watches my mother, it's clear that it does.

"And that," says Maisie, pointing to the record player that's currently spitting out a Bing Crosby Christmas song, "is from me and Kit. Along with the record collection beneath it."

"Really?" I say, craning my neck as much as I dare. The cabinet the record player sits on is covered in Christmas decorations, but it's definitely new, and the shelves are crammed full of vinyl records. "You and Kit did that?"

He nods. "We had to guess at some of your favorites, but I think we found most of them. And," he teases, glancing at my sister, "only half or so are Taylor Swift albums."

Maisie lifts her chin defiantly. "She's universal. And they're signed," she adds, and I grin.

"One more reason for the entire world to hate me," I say. "I love it."

We're passing around something called Christmas pudding, which looks suspiciously like a steaming mountain of fruitcake, when another knock sounds on the door. Alexander calls for whoever it is to enter, but as soon as I see who's on the other side, I immediately wish he hadn't.

Venetia stands in the threshold, her blond hair pulled into a fancy updo that shows off the low bodice of her glittering scarlet gown. She wears a plastered-on smile that makes her Botox obvious, and a gift is tucked into her bare arms.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" she says sweetly, curtsying to my father and Maisie. "I just wanted to see how Evangeline is feeling."

"I'm fine," I say, forcing a small smile. It quickly drops, however, when Venetia enters the room, and I spot a figure lurking in the corridor behind her.

Ben.

He, like Alexander and Kit, is also wearing a tuxedo, but his is still done up properly, and nothing about him is infused with Christmas cheer. To my dismay, he follows his mother inside my sitting room, and as his gaze slides to me, I instantly look away and suppress a shiver. Of all the brash and shameless things he's done in the past, showing his face tonight is a step too far, even for him.

"Oh, Evangeline," says Venetia, bending down to kiss my cheeks. "We're so relieved you're all right. I can't tell you how worried I was—my own niece, nearly killed on Christmas Eve!"

Hearing her call me her niece almost makes me choke, but she shoves the gift into my hand and I busy myself with carefully undoing the sharply folded corners. I can tell it's a book at first touch, but when I finally get it open, I'm not prepared to see a younger Venetia staring up at me from the cover.

Royally Ever After: Tips and Tricks from the Duchess of York

"It's my third book," she says proudly. "I wrote it almost ten years ago, but the monarchy never changes, and it all still applies. It's about joining the royal family," she adds at what must be my blank stare. "It's meant for girls looking to marry into it, of course, but it's an excellent reference for you, too."

"Wow," I say, hoping this doesn't sound as hollow as I think it might. "This is…great. Thank you."

Venetia beams, and she takes my hands—including the one in the sling. "We're just so happy you're all right," she says again, this time with tears in her eyes. "We were so worried, darling."

Worried enough to cry on the shoulders of a Daily Sun journalist, but I don't say that. Instead, I let her kiss my cheeks again without complaint, but once she steps aside, Ben's there, and my expression drops.

Across the sitting room, Alexander tenses, and Kit shifts forward on the love seat, prepared to leap to his feet if need be. And while I'm grateful for both of them, I look straight at Ben now, refusing to offer him even a hint of goodwill.

"I'm relieved to see you up and about," he says with an amiable smile. "It seemed like it was touch and go there for a while."

"I'm not that easy to kill," I say in as neutral a voice as I can muster. There's still an edge of hatred to it, though, but Ben's smile doesn't falter.

"Lucky us," he says, and to my disgust, he leans in to brush his lips against my cheek. At his touch, I stay perfectly still, feeling like I've plunged into a tank of ice.

"You missed," I whisper in his ear.

"I never miss," he breathes, and when he straightens, there's a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Here—I thought you'd like a reminder of how far you've come."

He offers me a shallow golden box tied with red ribbon, and when I refuse to take it, he sets it in my lap instead. We stare at each other for a painfully long moment, but at last Ben slips his arm into his mother's.

"We ought to get back to the party and let them enjoy the rest of their night," he says, and we finally agree on something.

"Of course," says Venetia as he leads her to the exit. "Happy Christmas, all!"

None of us says a word until Ben closes the door behind him, and only then do we all let out a collective exhale. "What did he give you?" says Maisie with an eager glint she can't hide as she kneels on the carpet beside the sofa.

"You can have it, whatever it is," I say, and my father clears his throat.

"Evan, I know you don't trust him, and I certainly don't blame you. But I truly believe he isn't responsible for this particular incident."

"It's hardly the first time someone's tried to have a go at one of us," says Maisie as she snatches up Ben's gift and starts to unwrap it. "Daddy, didn't a woman try to stab you on a walkabout once?"

"Mm, a few years after you and your sister were born," he says. "Your grandfather was shot at twice in the nineties."

"And Mummy was attacked when she was pregnant with me—broke her nose and everything," says Maisie, tossing the ribbon aside. "See? It happens."

"It won't happen again," says Alexander darkly. "I've already spoken to Victor Stephens, our head of security, and—"

"A photo album?"

We all look at Maisie now, who's staring into the box. She pulls out a red leather-bound book, and when she turns to the first page, I spot my face peering back.

It's one of the few photos the public has of me as a kid, from my third boarding school yearbook. I have uneven bangs, a zit on my chin, and I'm scowling at the camera, but Ben has blown it up so large that it takes up nearly the entire page. Confused, I reach forward to flip to another, and this time I'm looking at several pictures from a royal garden party held at Buckingham Palace this summer. But they aren't the official photos released on social media. These were taken by someone else, and I'm the focus of them all.

"Odd," says Maisie, seemingly bored of it already as she checks out one more page—which is full of more candid pictures of me at various appearances over the past month, including the one where Thaddeus Park is catching me in his arms. She eyes the photos for another beat before shutting the album with a satisfying snap, and she sets it on my lap again before turning back to her mulled wine. "The pictures aren't exactly flattering, are they? Ben may be a monster, but there's simply no excuse for immortalizing paparazzi dreck."

As she segues into a tirade about the terrible angles some of the Royal Rota have been using on her lately, I pick up the album, determined to hide it under the sofa until I can throw it in a dumpster myself. Something on the cover shimmers in the twinkling Christmas lights, however, and as I squint, I spot two lines of gold lettering embedded in the leather.

Evangeline Florence Phillipa Constance Bright

2005–

It's innocuous—my name and my birth year, that's all. But my heart starts to race, and as I lean forward, it takes me a moment to understand why.

The space after my birth year isn't blank. Instead, so faint that it might as well be my imagination, I can just make out the shape of four more digits that look like they've been removed.