Chapter Eighteen

You are a member of the British royal family. We are never tired, and we all love hospitals.

—Mary of Teck (1867–1953)

THE CROWD WAITING FOR MAISIE and me in front of the Royal London Children's Hospital is enormous.

It's not just the usual group of fans and photographers. A clamoring mass of tabloid journalists is there, too, held back by a single line of police, and I can hear the questions they hurl at my sister and me as we greet well-wishers behind the metal barricade on the opposite side.

"Mary! Are your parents getting divorced?"

"How do you feel about your mother shagging your uncle?"

"Evangeline! Is it true the affair started after you arrived?"

"Is your mother sleeping with the King?"

"Mary! Do you have anything to say about your father's mistress?"

"Evangeline!"

"Mary!"

"Evangeline!"

"Mary!"

The fans aren't much better, with their worried looks and sympathetic words of support—some for Helene, some for us. A few want to know how I'm feeling, and more than one dares to ask Maisie directly about the Switzerland photos. But her dazzling smile never falters, and I follow her lead, not wanting to be the weak link.

At last a frazzled-looking Fitz and a steely Tibby usher us through the front doors, and we're greeted by an official photographer, members of the Royal Rota, and nearly two dozen hospital employees and board members. Doctors, nurses, administrative assistants, charity representatives—their names and positions all blur together, and my face starts to hurt from all the smiling. Maisie is a consummate professional, though, and she more than makes up for what I lack in grace and charm, asking questions, offering compliments, and laughing at every terrible joke. The photographer mercifully spends much more time focusing on her, and I take advantage of his inattention to find my footing.

I start to relax halfway down the line, and my interest is genuine as I ask about the hospital and the role each person plays. It's one of the things I've learned from Maisie over the past six months—my job here isn't to be the center of attention, but to make our hosts feel like the most important people in the world. My sister does it flawlessly, and while I'm still learning, it helps that I feel like I have to earn the welcome that's always given toher.

Finally we reach the end of the line, where the well-dressed head of the hospital charity greets Maisie like she's known her for years. They exchange kisses on the cheeks, and Maisie turns toward me with a flourish.

"And this is my sister, Evangeline," she says warmly. "Evangeline, this is my godmother, Lady Peggy Merrit, director of the Children's Trust."

Suddenly it makes sense that Alexander felt comfortable sending us here, and I take her offered hand. "It's really nice to meet you."

"And you, Evangeline," says Peggy—or Lady Merrit, I suppose, but I'm still stubbornly adverse to titles. "We've all been so very worried about you."

I smile graciously. "I feel great, and I'm honored to have the opportunity to learn more about the incredible things you do here," I say, which is the line Tibby's fed me in case anyone asks about the supposed hunting accident. It's not a lie, exactly, and it swiftly turns the conversation back to our visit.

"We've certainly been looking forward to it," says Peggy. "Come—we have a wonderful tour planned, and the children are so very excited to see you both."

Maisie takes the lead, as she always does, and I end up a step behind. But as we move through the lobby, I spot a collection of flower arrangements lining the front desk, and a chill runs down my spine.

Every single vase is full of blood-red daisies.

In an instant, the eerie text I received this morning makes sense, and a strange buzz hums in my ears, growing louder with each second. Of course it's Ben. Of course he's the one who's watching, who somehow knows exactly where I am and what I'm doing, even though he's hundreds of miles away.

Suddenly I'm acutely aware of the healing wound in my chest, and as my pace starts to slow, Tibby is by my side in an instant, every bit as calm and collected as she always is.

"Are you all right, Miss Bright?" she says, and I nod, even though I'm not really sure.

"The crowd was just…a lot," I say quietly as we fall a few steps behind. "And those flowers…"

"What about them?" says Tibby, glancing at the bouquets. But if she recognizes them from my appearance at Wimbledon, she says nothing.

"Ben sends them to me," I admit, my voice falling to a whisper. "And I got a weird text this morning that I think—"

"Miss Bright?"

I look up. Peggy has stopped at a pair of double doors, and both she and Maisie—and everyone else tagging along with us—are watching me, concerned.

"I'm sorry," I say with what I know isn't a convincing smile. "I was just admiring the flowers."

Peggy beams. "Oh, aren't they lovely? They arrived from the palace this morning. Just the touch of cheer we needed, wouldn't you say?"

I nod in polite agreement, ignoring the fact that Tibby is now in a hushed conversation with one of the protection officers nearby. "They're beautiful," I say, my mouth dry.

Peggy continues through the double doors, happily chatting away about the opening of the new wing we're touring, and Tibby presses something into my hand—a cold bottle of water.

"Small sips," she says under her breath. "And if you feel like you're about to faint, tell me so we can go somewhere private."

"I'm fine," I whisper, but I sip the water as instructed. The moment I'm done, Tibby steals the bottle back and hides it in her handbag, as if admitting that a member of the royal family can be thirsty is a cardinal sin.

The water helps, and I fall into step beside my sister as Peggy guides us through the wing, introducing us to more members of the staff and showing us the latest technological advances funded by the trust. Even among the bustle of saving lives, the atmosphere is warm and comforting, and everyone seems delighted to see us. It's such an about-face from the crowd outside that my overwrought nervous system finally begins to unclench, and by the time we reach a playroom full of waiting children, I'm sincerely happy to be there.

The kids are lined up to meet us—or at least the older ones are, while the younger ones are too busy with their toys to bother with two strangers in heels. There's a colorful banner stretched across the windows that reads Welcome Princesses, and it's so damn sweet that I almost feel like one.

Maisie and I read handmade cards, admire drawings, and listen to countless stories from the parents who hover nearby as they tell us all the hospital has done for their children. We split up at one point—Maisie sits at a low table to make paper flowers with a group of chatty kids, while I kneel on the floor in my coatdress to play blocks with a little girl named Elsie. Her mother looks on, a bit misty-eyed, and the official photographer spends an uncomfortable amount of time focused on the three of us. Maybe everything in the lobby was for show, but these moments feel personal.

At last, after more than ten minutes, I hug Elsie and thank her mother for her time. By now my feet are half-asleep, and I stumble slightly as I stand, using the back of a nearby chair for support. But before I can even right myself, Tibby is there, her arm looped through mine and a fake smile plastered on her face.

"Miss Bright," says Tibby smoothly, "why don't we step out into the hallway for a moment?"

This is definitely not a suggestion, and before I can protest, she starts to lead me forward. I try to dig my heels in without making it obvious, but then Ingrid is there, and between the two of them, I don't stand a chance.

"Really, I'm okay," I insist once we've stepped into the hallway. "My foot fell asleep, that's all."

They both continue to ignore me as Tibby guides me into a nearby room, where a nurse is waiting, clearly on call for exactly this scenario. Ingrid stands guard outside, and I reluctantly sink into a chair, though only because my leg is tingling with pins and needles.

"This is totally unnecessary," I protest as the nurse takes my blood pressure. "Tibby, seriously, I'm fine—"

"Your color is off," says Tibby. "And you looked like you were seconds away from passing out in the lobby. While I expect that might do the trick of commandeering a few headlines from Her Majesty, that is not how your father wants it to happen."

"Her Royal Highness's pressure is low, and her skin's a bit clammy," says the nurse apologetically, like this is somehow her fault.

"I'm not a Royal Highness," I say with a sigh. "And I'm sweaty because the playroom was warm. Tibby, come on—I'm fine, and people are going to notice that I'm missing."

She sniffs. "If by some miracle Fitz is doing his job, Maisie ought to be handing out plastic tiaras and swords right about now, and I expect that will be enough to distract everyone for a while. You need to take a moment."

I grit my teeth, but no matter what I say, I know Tibby won't budge, not when she's convinced I'm one misstep away from collapsing in public. And so, when the nurse leaves us with another bottle of water and some cookies, I nibble on them grudgingly as Tibby checks her phone.

"Those flowers in the lobby," she says without preamble. "What did you mean, Ben sent them?"

"I'm sure it was him," I say, and in between bites, I explain everything—the bouquet and menacing note at Wimbledon, the flowers beside my hospital bed, and even the Christmas gift and Ben's insistence that he never misses.

"The photo album is unnerving, I'll grant you," says Tibby once I'm finished, her expression troubled. "But gerberas aren't exactly a rare flower."

"No, but they're the exact same shade, and it can't be a coincidence. He's trying to get under my skin."

"Clearly it's working." She raises an eyebrow. "And you believe he's doing this for what reason, precisely?"

"I don't know," I say, slumping in my chair. "A warning? A reminder that he's always watching? At Sandringham, he pretended everything was fine, but it isn't, Tibby. I'm the reason he was practically exiled last summer, and he wants revenge. But I don't even know why he did it all in the first place."

Tibby sighs. "Whatever his reasons were, you must remember that he's half a world away—"

"He arrived in Paris this morning," I say, before I can stop myself. Tibby gives me a strange look.

"Very well," she says slowly. "He's in Paris. Which means he isn't here, Evan. He could send an entire field of flowers, and it still wouldn't matter—they can't hurt you."

I shake my head, and my throat tightens as I resist the urge to press my palms to my tearing eyes. "He doesn't need to be here. He wasn't in the room when Jasper attacked me, either, and he was miles away when I was shot, but I'm sure he's behind that, too. Someone tried to kill me, and he just happened to show up the day before? But Alexander refuses to even acknowledge the possibility, and I can't talk to my mom about it, and Kit is supportive, but he isn't convinced, and—I just need someone to listen to me."

She takes a slow, steady breath and tucks her phone away. "I am listening, Evan," she says. "And I'm worried. Maybe Ben is behind it all, but it isn't your job to figure it out."

"Who else is going to do it?" I say. "No one believes me. No one's even looking for the person who tried to kill me and Kit—"

"On the contrary, your father has half the Home Office working round the clock to find the shooter," says Tibby.

"But no one's caught them yet. The shooter's wandering around free as a bird, and if they come after us again—"

"What happened at Sandringham was a fluke," says Tibby. "Someone was impossibly lucky, sneaking onto the grounds like they did, and you and Kit were undoubtedly victims of opportunity. Not intended targets. If it had been Maisie out there instead, or Helene…"

This has never once occurred to me over the last seventeen days, and I open and shut my mouth, not sure what to say. "But…but what about the date on the photo album? I know there are other explanations, but—what if Ben was involved? What if it was all planned, and he tries again?"

Tibby says nothing for a long moment, and she eases down into the chair across from mine. "Where is this coming from, Evan? You were joking about the shooter this morning, and you certainly didn't seem worried then."

"I don't know. I don't know." I bury my face in my hands and take a shuddering breath. "Maybe it's the crowds, or—or being out in public again. I didn't think about that part. I didn't think about what it would feel like to be around hundreds of strangers when any one of them might want to kill me."

I feel Tibby's hand on my knee, but I can't make myself look at her. "You've no idea what kind of effort goes into your security, do you?" she says, but for once, there's no judgment in her voice. "You're safe, Evan—as safe as anyone in the world could possibly be. Your father wouldn't have sent you here otherwise. There are snipers on the roof as we speak, and an entire tactical team no more than fifty feet away, ready to set the world on fire to save you and your sister from every threat imaginable. Each room of this hospital has been searched, and everyone inside has been background-checked within an inch of their lives. Millions of pounds every year are spent protecting your family—"

"From other people," I say in a choked voice. "From crowds and overzealous fans who think they know us thanks to some twisted parasocial relationship. But who's supposed to protect us from each other?"

Tibby doesn't seem to have an answer to this, and she watches me with the intensity of someone trying to read between the lines—to see the three-dimensional shape that's hidden in the magic picture.

"I'll speak to Fitz," she says at last. "I think it's time for us to cut this visit short."

"What? No," I insist, rising to my feet and hastily wiping my cheeks. "Tibby, I'm fine. Really. And I'm obviously not going to mention any of this to the kids."

"They're not the ones I'm concerned about," she says, and I give her a withering look.

"I'm not bailing. And I know you don't want to be responsible for the rumors that'll inevitably crop up if I do," I say. "I just—I haven't been sleeping well lately, okay? I'm tired, I hate hospitals, the flowers rattled me, and I promise I'll rest when we get back. But we can't leave early—these kids deserve better, and Maisie will never forgive me. You know how she is when she's holding a grudge."

Tibby eyes me for a long moment. "Fair point," she allows reluctantly. "The Maisie bit, that is. And I'd rather not give the press another nasty headline, so you get one more chance, Evan. But if I so much as see you slouch, we're going back to Windsor."

"Deal," I say, and even though my eyes are still brimming with unshed tears, I plaster on my sunniest smile. "Let's go, then, before there aren't any swords and tiaras left to hand out."

After Tibby cleans up my smudged makeup, we spend another hour touring the rest of the facility and visiting patients in their rooms. Tibby watches me like a hawk the entire time, but I refuse to let my Evangeline mask slip, not wanting to give her a single reason to follow through with her threat. And at last, once we've hugged dozens of children, shaken what feels like hundreds of hands, and smiled for countless photos, Peggy escorts Maisie and me back down to the lobby.

As we say our goodbyes, I refuse to look at the flowers lining the front desk. But I can feel them there, like stares burning a hole in the back of my head, and it's a relief when our protection officers usher Maisie and me out the door and into the waiting crowd.

That relief doesn't last long, however. The teeming mass of onlookers is bigger than it was this morning, with so many rows of people packed against the creaking barriers that a wave of claustrophobia threatens to drown me. Even though all I want to do is climb into the Range Rover, Maisie heads straight for the fans eager to catch a glimpse of her, and I follow with an iron fist wrapped around my heart, knowing exactly how it'll look if I don't.

With a smile still glued onto my aching face, I shake hands and accept bouquets—none of which are daisies, thankfully, but there are plenty of deep-red roses. The roar of the crowd grows louder as Maisie and I make our way down the barriers, and anxiety spreads through me like a weed, choking what little composure I have left until I can barely speak. I want to leave—I need to leave, but when I glance at my sister, she's still chatting happily with her well-wishers, seemingly oblivious to the unrest around us.

"Miss Bright?" says Tibby, who lingers nearby with an armful of bouquets. I force another smile, afraid of what will happen if I open my mouth, and though she eyes me warily, she doesn't press. Maybe because there are a dozen cameras pointed our way, and a hundred more phones documenting our every move. Or maybe, unlikely as it is, I look more convincing than I think I do. Either way, for the first time that day, I desperately want her to take my arm and march me out of there, appearances be damned. But despite her many talents, even Tibby hasn't yet learned how to read my mind.

We're only ten feet from the SUV when I notice a flash of color in the crowd—a vivid teal. At first I think it must be someone's hat or sweater, but as I pose half-heartedly for a selfie I know Tibby will berate me for, I see it again. And this time, when I look up, he's there—the protester who stood outside the Sandringham gate.

I recognize him instantly. His face is once again covered in a teal scarf, and he has a beanie pulled down over his ears, leaving only his deep-set eyes exposed as he stares at me with the intensity of a predator who's found his prey. Though he's several rows back from the barrier, he elbows his way closer with each passing second, ignoring the protests of those he shoves out of his way.

Despite the frigid January weather, a drop of sweat trickles down my spine. The crowd is seething now, crushed against each other, fighting for enough space to breathe. Hands reach for me, touching my coat and gloves, but my heels are rooted to the pavement, and I can't take my eyes off the man with the scarf.

When he's less than three feet away—so close now that I can make out the ring of gold around his pupils—the sun breaks free of the heavy clouds. And as he pushes aside a woman filming me with her phone, I catch the glint of something metal in his hand, and unadulterated terror strikes me like lightning.

"Gun!" I cry as panic erases everything in my mind except the singular need to escape. A chorus of screams pierce the air as I spin away from the crowd, my vision blurred and my breath caught in my throat, but I don't look back.

The car—I have to get to the car.

As I stumble forward on my teetering stilettos, however, an earsplitting crack reverberates off the building, and I lose my footing completely. Cries of surprise and pain echo behind me, and I hit the ground hard, my injured shoulder taking the brunt of it.

Agony cuts through me, and for a split second, I think I've been shot again. I gasp, the edges of my vision going black, but when I glance down at the front of my coatdress, there's no sign of a bullet wound—only some slush from the sidewalk.

"Evan!"

My sister's scream rises above the commotion, and when I look up, the pathway between me and the hospital entrance has disappeared. Instead, the crowd surges past an overturned barrier, propelled by the crush of bodies behind them as they flood the empty space.

"Maisie!" I shout as I scramble to my feet, pain momentarily forgotten. I've lost sight of the man with the teal scarf, and the thought of him getting anywhere near my sister chills me to the bone. "Maisie!"

But before I can dive recklessly into the throng, a pair of arms wrap around me, and Ingrid drags me away from the tangle of human bodies. I fight to break free, but she's incredibly strong, and before I know what's happening, Ingrid shoves me unceremoniously into the back seat of the Range Rover.

I tumble over the soft leather, dazed and panicked and desperate to find Maisie. But by the time I right myself, ready to dash back into the melee, another protection officer bursts through the edge of the crowd—and he's holding my sister in his arms.

"Evan!" she sobs as he lifts her into the car. She's chillingly pale, and a button hangs loose from her lavender coat, but to my relief, she looks mostly unscathed. Ignoring my throbbing shoulder, I throw my good arm around her and hold her tight, and she clings to me like I'm the only thing in the world that can keep her from sinking into oblivion.

"They attacked me," she babbles, her voice too high and tight. "Evan—did you see? The crowd, they came out of nowhere, and—and they were everywhere—"

"I saw," I say, swallowing my own hot fear. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Tibby and Fitz hastily climb into the vehicle behind ours. "Are you okay? I heard a gunshot, and—"

"Gunshot?" Her wide eyes brim with tears. "Someone had a gun?"

"In the crowd," I say shakily. "The man pushing his way up to me—he had a teal scarf—"

"He wasn't holding a gun, Miss Bright." Ingrid climbs into the passenger seat and pulls her door shut, cutting out the worst of the crowd. "It was a mobile with a metallic case."

"A—what?" I say, stunned. I glance out the window, part of me expecting to see him staring me down like he did outside Sandringham, but a line of police officers stand between us and the crowd now, blocking my view. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," she says, and despite her gruff demeanor, there's a hint of softness in her voice, too. "I had eyes on him the whole time, Miss Bright, I assure you."

"But—the gunshot—" I say as Maisie finally lets me go and digs a tissue out of her purse.

"The sound you heard was the barrier breaking from a surge in the crowd," says Ingrid. "You were never in any danger, Miss Bright."

As I stare at the back of her head, speechless and reeling, Maisie dabs her eyes. "But they attacked me," she insists. "They ran straight for me and knocked me down, and—and I understand them hating Evan, of course, but I'm their future queen. They love me. They love me."

Despite her barb, I take her trembling hand in mine as we pull away from the chaotic scene. And though my shoulder continues to protest every tiny move I make, I look out the window once more at the countless faces that watch us go. But I'm only searching for one.

Finally, just as we turn a corner, I see him—the man in the teal scarf. Despite the Range Rover's tinted windows, he's staring straight at us, and in that moment, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this won't be the last time we meet.