Chapter Twenty-two

Nat4leele:Alexander's been seeing that American slag for TWENTY FIVE YEARS??? How did we never find out?? DIVORCE HIS ARSE.

gemino604:wait—so QH just put up with it all that time? girl. take that royal money and RUN.

MarciOSurley:The Queen is right, this is a tragedy. I hope they all find peace, happiness, and love.

guardenia93:I can't be the only person who thinks she and Nick make a super hot couple. Like, yeah, it's sad that she and the king didn't work out, but what an upgrade. Rooting for them. #royalwedding2025

AshPecla:What kind of person shags their husband's brother? Disgusting.

GRANdeVENtie3:yawn. rich people cheating on each other and being miserable. who cares.

yeetherish:Why are we deifying these inbred adulterers? Cancel the whole lot. They're nothing more than worthless grifters who've been living off the people for far too bloody long. Britain deserves better.

DutchessDame:time to bring back the guillotine. #offwithherhead

—The comments section of "Heartbroken Queen Regrets All," The Daily Sun, 12 January 2024

I BARELY SLEEP THAT NIGHT, and when I do, it's only to wake with a start, drenched in sweat, the last fragments of my nightmares already gone.

At first I can't figure out why. I was fine on Maisie's couch, after all, hours after the barrier broke in front of the hospital. But I didn't know then that I'd be facing another crowd so soon—anangry crowd this time, with every right to hate me and Alexander for what we did to their beloved queen.

Our protection officers will be more cautious now, I tell myself, after what happened to Maisie and me. But this does nothing to soothe my anxiety—if anything, it only makes me fixate on what else they've overlooked, and what other small things with big consequences can go wrong. And how Alexander, Kit, and I will be the ones paying the price.

After I jerk awake for the second time, Kit rubs my back until his hand stills and his breathing evens out. Not wanting to disturb him again, I slip away and settle onto the sofa in my sitting room instead, taking my laptop with me.

I spend the next three hours distracting myself by reading the comments about Helene's interview on various gossip sites. Some call her a liar and insist she's trying to save face, while others support her wholeheartedly and drag my mother's name through the mud—and occasionally mine, calling us leeches and her a succubus and all kinds of things that would make Constance proud.

Most of all, though, the people blame Alexander. Not everyone, of course. Some empathize with him, or pity him, or focus on the real villain in all of this—an archaic system that imprisons everyone born into it, then drapes them in gold and jewels and privilege beyond compare so no one will ever believe their pain.

But too many push their anger onto him, assigning him motivations and emotions and sinister traits that turn him into the worst of humanity, ignoring that he was in an impossible situation and allowed to make mistakes. All they want is a demon to hate, and in Alexander, they've found one in spades.

The revelations from Helene's interview dominate the news cycle, with her face plastered on the front page of every single news site I visit. But when I type out the Regal Record's address—more out of habit than any desire to see what they're saying—I'm instead faced with a paparazzi shot of Maisie and Gia exiting a club in what I think is Soho.

I recognize the outfit Maisie is wearing—a cute blue dress I helped her pick out sometime in September, before it grew too cold to need a jacket. Despite the packed pavement, there are several feet between her and Gia as they walk past a cluster of photographers, and unlike the shots featured in the roundup the Regal Record posted last week, they both look miserable.

Princess Mary and Lady Gia Suffer Falling-Out Amidst Royal Adultery Scandal

While the rest of the world is focused on the sensational surprise interview with Queen Helene that aired earlier tonight on the BBC—and we'll certainly get there, too—we at theRegal Record have received word of yet another royal breakup: Princess Mary and Lady Georgiana Greyville, who have known each other since nappies, have reportedly suffered a dramatic falling-out.

Lady Gia, as she's known to close friends and family, allegedly rushed to Windsor to check on her princess after a crowd barrier broke yesterday morning at the Royal London Children's Hospital, leaving Her Royal Highness with a sprained wrist and other minor injuries. Their reunion was short-lived, however, as Lady Gia stormed out of the heir to the throne's private apartment mere minutes later, leaving the princess utterly bereft. The catalyst behind their fight? A bouquet of roses from avery presidential American suitor.

While we wouldn't dare presume that these two besties have ever been anything more than the closest of friends, one must wonder why a sweet, but hardly personal, gift would lead to a shouting match heard throughout the halls of Windsor Castle.

To remember happier times between Her Royal Highness and Lady Gia, click the gallery below.

I read the article twice, too exhausted to be sure I'm not imagining things. But there they are, in neat black font on white background—details that no journalist or gossip blog should know about Maisie and Gia's fight. And as I scroll through the most recent entries, I realize it's more than the roses or their breakup. The Regal Record knew about Maisie's injuries, too. And the time stamp is less than an hour after we returned from London.

Someone in the castle—someone close to the royal family—is running directly to the Regal Record with insider information.

My mind races through the names and faces of everyone I saw at Windsor Castle that day, tripping over possibilities and half theories that don't make any sense, and I'm so distracted that I don't notice the whispers at first. They start out soft—so soft that they sound like a faint buzz, or maybe the rush of blood through my pounding heart. But as soon as I realize they have nothing to do with my too-fast pulse, they grow louder, and I slowly register the fact that the whispers are saying something—something I can't make out until I do. And this time, it isn't my name.

"You die today."

Terror cuts through me, so sharp and tangible that it might as well be a knife. I slam my laptop shut and leap to my feet, heading straight for the only weapon I can think of—a weighty silver candlestick on my mantel. Though it isn't much, I clutch it in both hands as the whispers surround me, repeating themselves again and again like some demonic nursery rhyme.

"You die today."

"You die today."

"You die today."

"Evan?"

I jump. Kit is standing in the doorway to my bedroom, his hair wild, his pajamas rumpled, and his eyes half-closed with sleep, and I'm so relieved to see him that I almost burst into tears.

"Can you hear that?" I say, not entirely sure I want to know the answer.

He cocks his head, listening for a long moment, and I can't tell if the faint whispers that echo in my mind are real, or if they're nothing more than figments of my imagination now.

"I'm sorry, Ev," he says at last. "I don't hear anything."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but the strange sounds have already disappeared. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I say, my voice tight and frantic and one wrong note away from snapping. "I keep hearing these whispers, ever since Sandringham. Mostly they say my name, but sometimes it's laughter or even music I've never heard before, and—and I can't tell where it's coming from, but today—just now—they said—they said—"

"Evan." Kit gently takes my shoulders and leans down so our foreheads are pressed together. "Just breathe, all right? Just for a minute."

I stare into his liquid brown eyes as we both inhale and exhale at the same time. I'm dizzy again, but at least the whispers are gone, and when he touches my cheek, I don't know what tosay.

"Did you sleep at all?" he murmurs, and I shake my head.

"Not really," I manage. "I was on my laptop."

He brushes his lips against mine. "You're exhausted. We have a few hours before you have to be at breakfast, so why don't we go back to bed? I'll chase Tibby off and wake you in time."

Breakfast. Maisie's Instagram picture. The museum opening. I can't do any of it like this—not when I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin. "The whispers were saying I'm going to die today."

"You're not going to die today," he murmurs, tucking my tangled hair behind my ear. "You're not going to die for a very, very long time."

I blink hard. "What if my mom and Alexander are right?" I mumble. "What if I really am losing my mind?"

"We'll figure out what's going on when we get to Virginia, okay?" he says, but I shake my head.

"You need to go back to Oxford."

"What I need right now has nothing to do with university," he says. "But we'll talk about it later, all right? For now, let's get you tucked into bed."

He leaves a note for Tibby on the dining table, and once we're back in my bedroom, he chooses an ocean soundscape on YouTube and plays it just loud enough to drown out any other noise—real or imagined. It reminds me of the nightmares I used to have when I was a kid, the ones where no matter what I did, I always ended up drowning. But this time, as he holds me and I slip into that same dream, he's on the shore with my mother and grandma, ready to show me the way back.

By the time he wakes me, a streak of sunlight sneaks in through a crack in the curtains, and it's nearly nine o'clock. Tibby is waiting in the sitting room, and though she's done an exceptional job of keeping to herself, as soon as she knows I'm up, she's back to ordering me around like I haven't been getting myself ready in the morning for practically my entire life.

I don't know what, if anything, Kit told her, and I don't ask as I brush my teeth and get dressed. A stylist is waiting for me in my sitting room, and thirty minutes later, my hair is dried and pulled into an artful half ponytail, my makeup is done, and Kit and I walk hand in hand to the breakfast room, where Alexander, Maisie, and my mother are all waiting for us.

I force a smile as Tibby takes picture after picture, some with all of us, some with just me and Maisie and our father. Even when we start to eat, I notice her sneaking a few shots when she thinks no one is looking. And although I'm calmer now, as I look around at my family gathered together, I can't shake the feeling that this is somehow a morning I'm always going to remember. Or that maybe those voices were right, and this is the last happy memory I'll ever have.

Our regular Range Rover is replaced with a Rolls-Royce bearing the royal standard, bulletproof windows, and an emergency airlock that, in case of a gas attack, will keep us safe. Security has more than doubled, with Ingrid accompanied by three other protection officers specifically there to keep an eye on me and Kit, and no fewer than six to protect Alexander.

Kit holds my hand the entire way, and he and my father chat about the museum we're about to visit—a newly renovated building along the Thames that's been nearly two years in the making. They pretend that nothing's wrong, that neither of them noticed there were no newspapers waiting for us at the breakfast table this morning, or that I've barely said a word. And none of us mentions the protesters lining the sidewalks as we approach the museum, or that the crowd waiting for us behind reinforced barriers is booing.

"Ready?" says Alexander, looking straight at me.

I try to take a steadying breath, but it hitches in my throat, and suddenly I want nothing more than to say no, to tell him we have to drive away and forget this photo op, forget this opening, forget that he has duties and responsibilities. The crowd is tense. The sky is an overbearing gray. And every cell in my body is screaming at me that we shouldn't be here.

But Alexander won't leave, even if I beg. And if I don't go into that museum, Kit will stay behind with me, and my father will be alone. The photographers will have their iconic picture of him walking up the steps surrounded by bodyguards, with no family or loved ones there to offer support, and I have to do this. I have to do this.

"Ready," I manage, trying to smile away the anxiety coursing through me, replacing my blood with ice and panic. It will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.

But as we step out of the car—Alexander first, then me, then Kit—I nearly freeze on the spot. A wall of jeers hits us like an avalanche, and I notice a muscle tightening in Alexander's jaw as he smiles and waves to the hostile crowd. Our protection officers surround us, not letting us anywhere near the barriers, and I'm enormously grateful as Ingrid joins me on our walk to the front doors. Kit is on my other side, and I clutch his hand, afraid that if I let go, I'll never find it again.

Among the endless questions and accusations hurled at Alexander, none of which he acknowledges, the sound of my own name catches my attention. The voice is deep and clear, and out of habit—or maybe because I don't expect to be addressed today—I glance over into the sea of people watching us.

And there, right up against the barrier, is the man with the teal scarf.

He's not alone—there are three others with him, the lower half of their faces also covered by thick scarves, though I notice a single lock of red hair sticking out from beneath the smallest figure's hood. They're all staring at me, and I grip Kit's hand so tightly that he leans in until his lips are an inch from my ear.

"All right?" he says, barely audible. I shake my head.

"Ingrid," I manage. "To your right—the man with the teal scarf."

"I see him," says Ingrid quietly, and she hangs back for a moment to speak to the protection officers behind us. I feel strangely exposed without her there, and I practically glue myself to Kit's side as we finally ascend the steps.

The curator, who's willowy and blond and looks jarringly like Helene, greets us at the arched entrance with a curtsy. After introducing herself, she dives straight into a gushing speech about how grateful she is that we were able to make it, though she doesn't say a word about the interview or the antagonistic crowd. Alexander is polite and down-to-earth, without any indication that his estranged wife has just aired his dirty laundry to the entire world, and only when the doors close behind us do I release my death grip on Kit's hand.

"Sorry," I whisper as he flexes his fingers. "There's someone out there—he was at the hospital, too."

"The one you thought had a gun?" he says, and I nod grimly. But our conversation is quickly cut short as the curator introduces her team, and Kit and I both work our way down the line to greet everyone.

The lobby of the museum is an architectural wonder, with soaring arched ceilings and marble columns that seem to shimmer as we move. The curator tells us about the design of the museum—that everything was built with acoustics in mind, and that it could double as a concert hall if need be. Kit and I join Alexander, who looks thoroughly intrigued, and I almost manage to focus—until I see them.

Three vases of blood-red daisies, spaced perfectly apart on the welcome desk.

I take Kit's hand again and, without letting my own fake smile falter, I meet his questioning gaze and glance at the desk. He freezes in place for a moment, clearly seeing the flowers, too, and we fall out of step with the others.

"Is everything all right?" says the curator, and Alexander pauses.

"Evangeline?" he says, his worry obvious, but my mouth is dry, and I'm not sure what to say.

"We were just noticing the flowers," says Kit after a beat. "They're beautiful—and rather distinct, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, yes," says the curator. "We were so pleased to receive them, Your Majesty. It was a lovely gesture from the Palace."

"We're very glad," says Alexander, so smoothly that for a moment, I think he doesn't understand. But he steps toward the welcome desk, the curator at his elbow, and I notice the slight tremble in his hand as he touches the card tucked in the middle bouquet. Finally, finally, he might actually believe—

Boom.

A noise unlike anything I've ever heard before seems to shatter the very air around us, rocking the marble beneath my feet. And before I can process what's happening, before I can wrap my head around the way the entire lobby is disintegrating before my eyes, Kit's hand is ripped from mine as something collides with me with the force of a concrete wall, and the world goes black.