Chapter Twenty-four

A total of eight deaths have been reported so far in the bombing of the Modern Music Museum in London during an official visit by His Majesty and members of the royal family. The identities of the victims have not yet been released, and Buckingham Palace has refused to comment on the status of the King.

—Breaking news alert from the BBC, 2:11 p.m., 12 January 2024

CONSTANCE REMAINS WITH ME THROUGHOUT the rest of the afternoon as we wait for an update on Alexander.

All details of his condition are kept from the media—a matter of national security at this point—and the hospital is crawling with police and personal protection officers, both for our safety and to hold the rabid journalists that surround the building at bay. No one is allowed to leave their room without a damn good reason, and while neither of us is thrilled about it, especially when I'm desperate to see Kit, Constance and I settle into something that resembles an uneasy truce.

After she dabs her eyes and resumes her prickly royal demeanor, I pepper her with questions, and she tersely explains that both Maisie and Helene have been told by the prime minister and home secretary to stay where they are, in case of another attack. This is what she meant when she said that no one cares what happens to her, I realize—she's not in the line of succession, and she's considered as expendable as I am. But Alexander is also her son, and as much as she and I don't like each other, I'm glad someone from the family is here.

Our shared fear and frustration with the lack of updates does a strange thing as we wait—it makes me feel like we actually have something in common. It's far from a familial bond, but by the time the sound of an argument filters in from the corridor outside my room, I'm almost starting to warm up to her. Almost.

"What on earth…," mutters Constance as she stands and marches toward the door, but despite the high-pitched tone that still lingers in my ears, I immediately recognize one of the voices.

"That's Kit," I say urgently, climbing out of bed, but Constance flings open the door before my feet touch the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demands. Kit stands a few steps away, physically blocked from the entrance by two protection officers with their holstered weapons now on full display.

"I just need to see—Evan!" says Kit, the relief in his voice palpable as he spots me over Constance's shoulder. "Are you all right? Would you bloody let me go?"

"Get your hands off him," says Constance sharply as I stumble across the freezing floor, my injured leg protesting as a dozen stitches tug against my skin. "Lord Clarence is family and well within his rights to be here."

The protection officers step aside, and Kit offers my grandmother a grateful bow of his head before hurrying past her and into the room. He catches me in his arms, lifting me off the ground as he holds me to him.

"Bloody hell, Ev," he mumbles into my hair, his voice choked with tears. "You have to stop doing this to me."

"Not my choice, trust me," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck. I can feel the edge of a bandage against my skin, and when I pull away enough to peer at him, I see several small cuts across his face, including one beneath his eye that required stitches. "You're okay?"

"Fine," he promises. "Climbing the bloody walls trying to find out how you are. MI5's here, and they wouldn't tell me anything—"

"No one is being told a thing," says Constance. "The press must be kept in the dark about the King's condition, is that understood?"

"He's alive?" says Kit, and I can tell by the catch in his voice that he wasn't expecting this. "At the museum, I thought…he was buried, and when they found him…"

His throat works hard, and I press my cheek to his. Dust still clings to his hair, turning parts of it ashy gray, and I realize he's dressed in hospital scrubs. "You saw what happened?"

"Only bits," he says. "One of the PPOs pinned me to the ground, but I could still see you. Ingrid threw herself at you, and then…then the column fell, and…"

My insides churn, and suddenly I think I'm going to be sick. "Ingrid?" I manage. "She was—she was with me?"

I see the body again, the blood and the bone and the parts I don't want to identify, and I press my lips together, as if that'll stop the contents of my stomach from coming up. But when Kit nods wordlessly, I let him go, and he sets me down just in time for me to grab the plastic bin next to my bed and be sick.

Someone calls for a nurse, and Kit crouches beside me, rubbing my back as I retch. He murmurs something, but the high pitch in my ears grows louder, drowning out his voice.

Ingrid was only there because of me—because I demanded that Alexander bring me. If I hadn't, if I'd listened to him and stayed behind, or if I'd trusted my gut and not gotten out of that car in the first place, she would still be alive. The other people in the body bags—maybe they'd still be alive, too. Alexander wouldn't have noticed the flowers, and he would've been in a different part of the lobby. And maybe, maybe—

I'm sick again, and a few seconds later, I feel the prick of a needle in my arm. I expect to black out—I expect them to sedate me like they did in AE—but instead all that happens is that my nausea subsides as quickly as it came.

"There we go," says a nurse, offering me a tissue as I sit back up. Her voice is muffled by the ringing in my ears, but that, too, slowly eases until I can hear myself panting. Kit presses a glass of water into my hand, and I'm so dazed that I don't think twice before drinking it.

Ingrid's dead, and this time, it really is my fault.

Kit helps me back onto the bed as the nurse fetches some crackers, but I sit sideways, my legs dangling and my head in my hands. "I shouldn't have been there," I whisper. "Alexander didn't want me to go. If I'd listened to him, then Ingrid…"

"That's not fair," says Kit. "You didn't know this was going to happen, Ev."

"I think I did," I say, so softly I'm not even sure my voice carries. But he squeezes my knee, and I know he heard. "Those whispers in my sitting room…"

"That had nothing to do with this," says Kit. "Okay? You didn't know this would happen, and it isn't your fault. You had no control over any of it. Whoever did this—"

I look at him suddenly, my eyes bleary as I feel myself go pale. "The man in the teal scarf," I say. "The one in the crowd—"

"Who?" says an unfamiliar male voice in the doorway, and Kit and I both turn.

Constance has disappeared into the hallway, and in her place stands a tall man with thick black hair, dark skin, and a sharp charcoal suit. There's something overwhelmingly intimidating about him—even more so than the protection officers carrying loaded guns—and I look nervously at Kit.

Kit clears his throat. "Evangeline, this is Suraj Singh. He's from MI5."

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Bright," says Singh, stepping into the room and extending his hand toward me. "Though I wish it were under different circumstances."

I eye his hand like it might bite me. "MI5. Isn't that like the CIA?"

"More like your FBI," he says with the ease of someone who expects me to be difficult. "MI5 is the British security service, while MI6 deals in foreign intelligence. It's entirely possible they'll also be assisting with the investigation, but for now, you're stuck with me."

My experience with the police hasn't exactly endeared me to any kind of government authority, but his hand still hovers between us, and reluctantly I take it. His grip is firm, but brief, and as soon as he lets my hand go, I wedge both of mine between my knees.

"Lord Clarence was kind enough to tell me all he remembers about the incident at the Modern Music Museum this morning," he says smoothly. "And I was hoping you might feel up to the same, particularly if there's someone you've noticed or—"

"Who gave you permission to be in here?"

Before today, I never would've thought I'd be relieved to see Constance, but as she steps through the doorway, her face hard as stone, I could actually hug her.

Singh clears his throat. "Your Majesty," he says, bowing his head. "Forgive me. I'm Agent Suraj Singh, and I've been sent by the home secretary—"

"I don't care who sent you," says Constance, drawing herself up to her full height. "You've no right to be in this room, or to question a member of the royal family."

My mouth goes dry, though I'm not sure what part surprises me more—Constance being protective of me, or her referring to me as a member of the royal family.

"Ma'am," says Singh patiently, "we need Miss Bright's statement—"

"And you'll have it," says Constance. "Once Evangeline is out of a hospital gown and in the safety of a royal residence."

Singh purses his lips, and suddenly, in the face of Constance's ire, he doesn't seem nearly as intimidating. "My team is in the process of tracing the terrorists now, ma'am, and time is of the essence—"

"You know who did this?" I cut in, and Singh hesitates.

"We made several arrests at the scene," he admits. "And an anti-monarchist group that calls itself the Army of the British Republic has taken credit. But situations such as these can be chaotic and confusing, particularly in the initial hours and days, and the more information we have—"

"There is nothing Evangeline can tell you that other witnesses cannot," says Constance. But as Singh looks at me again, I can see he thinks otherwise.

"You said you saw a man in the crowd—one wearing a teal scarf," he says. "He seemed suspicious to you?"

I open my mouth, though I'm not entirely sure what's going to come out. Before I can make a sound, however, Constance steps between us, her arms crossed as she blocks his way.

"One more word, and I'll be having more than a few with the home secretary over your conduct in the hospital room of a traumatized eighteen-year-old girl," she says sharply. "Now go, before I have you physically thrown out in front of every single journalist camped outside."

Singh manages a tight smile. "Very well, ma'am," he says, and he pulls a card from his pocket, reaching past her to offer it to Kit. "When Miss Bright is ready to speak."

Kit takes the card, and Singh offers Constance another bow before exiting the room. As soon as he's gone, Constance shuts the door and begins to pace in her heels, clearly fuming.

"The nerve of that man," she mutters. "You must never answer any questions without legal representation present, is that understood? No matter how innocent you are, you mustn't say a word."

"I know," I say quietly. "I promise, I know."

Her frown deepens, but at least this seems to satisfy her for now. "I've just spoken to the doctors," she says, and Kit and I immediately sit up straighter.

"About Alexander?" I say. "Is he—"

"He's out of surgery," she says in a clipped voice. "Which was more than he was expected to survive. For now, he's in a medically induced coma, though the doctors can't say much more at this stage. If he…" Her voice catches again, and she takes a steadying breath. "If he survives the night, then we'll have a better idea of what the future might hold."

If.I swallow hard as Kit's fingers slip between mine. "Does my mom know how bad it is?" I say, and Constance shoots me a withering look.

"What have I been saying about how important it is that his condition not leak to the press?"

"My mom won't tell anyone," I insist. "Helene's the one who runs to the media every chance she—"

"I'm well aware," snaps Constance. "But she is still his wife, and she still has the right to make medical decisions for him. Which unfortunately means she is the only other person currently being updated on his condition."

Constance and I stare at each other, my mind racing as I try to put my thoughts into words. "So you're saying—you're saying my mom has no idea if he's even alive?"

She purses her lips. "No."

"What about me?" I say, my heart pounding. "Does she know I'm okay?"

Constance sets her jaw, and I slide off the bed, closing the distance between us.

"Go get her," I say in a low, dangerous voice. "Wherever she is—go get her, and bring her here."

Her eyes narrow. "Watch your tone with me, Evangeline. The hospital is on lockdown—"

"I don't care," I say. "And you shouldn't, either. I get why you don't trust her, but she loves him more than her own life, and we both know he feels the same. You can't keep her in the dark. Not now, not when…" I shake my head. "He'd want her here. You know he would."

Constance glances away, the lines in her forehead multiplying. I try to think of what to say next—of what combination of threats and pleas might make her relent—but just as I open my mouth again, she sighs.

"Very well," she says, so quietly that I almost don't hear her over the ringing in my ears. "I shall send for her."

Instantly the tension in my body deflates, and my limbs feel like rubber. "Thank you," I say, but it's all I can manage right now. She nods tersely, and as Kit helps me back onto the bed, she goes to the door to speak to one of the officers in the hall.

"Fetch Ms. Bright," she orders. "She's downstairs with one of your colleagues. Don't allow her to speak to anyone, and bring her directly to me."

"Yes, ma'am," says the officer, and when Constance reenters the room, I'm gaping at her.

"My mom's been here the whole time?"

"Of course she has," she says blisteringly, but there's no real bite in her voice now. "You're her daughter. Where else would she be?"

My mother arrives less than five minutes later, and I know instantly from the hollows beneath her eyes and the gray tint to her face that she's spent the entire afternoon desperately trying to convince herself that Alexander and I aren't dead. "I'm sorry," I say as she clings to me. "I thought someone would tell you. I didn't know—I'm so sorry—"

She shakes her head. "You're all right," she manages. "That's all that matters."

"Alexander's alive, too," I say, ignoring Constance's glare. "But…he's in really bad shape, Mom. They don't know if…"

My mom holds me tighter, and a dry sob escapes her. We stay like that, tangled together in the middle of the room, until my legs start to give out from the effort of supporting our combined weight. And once we've separated, me perched on the bed and my mom gripping my hand in both of hers, Constance looks between us, as if coming to some kind of decision.

"How far can you walk?" she says to me, and I glance at my leg. The cut is deep and jagged, and it's yet another scar to remind me of what's turning out to be the worst month of my life. But in the face of everything else, it's barely a blip.

"As far as I need to," I say, and she nods.

"Put on your dressing gown and follow me—both of you. Kit, stay here. I'll bring her back soon enough."

He doesn't argue, and I tie the sash of a hospital robe around my waist as my mom and I follow Constance into the corridor. The protection officers assigned to my room start to protest, but she silences them with a single look, and I tuck myself underneath my mom's arm as Constance leads us down the hall.

I don't know where we're going until we stop in front of a door guarded by two more protection officers. And as they exchange a grim look, I'm positive I know what's on the other side.

"You will let us all in," says Constance, "or you will lose your livelihoods."

There's a moment—just a moment—when I see both of them weighing her threat and wondering if she actually possesses the power to have them fired. But she's the former queen consort, mother of the current sovereign, and grandmother to the heir to the throne. If anyone has the power to do anything in this country, it's her.

And so they step aside and open the door, and with her head held high, Constance leads us into Alexander's hospital room.

The first thing I notice is the beeping. It isn't just a single steady beep-beep-beep, but several layers of tinny noise, all indicating that he's still alive—or, at the very least, that the machines are keeping him going for now. A nurse sits in the corner beside a computer that displays his vital signs, and another pair of protection officers stand near the door, eyeing us like we might be threats. I ignore them and, mustering up all the courage I have left, finally look at my father.

He lies in an oversized hospital bed, with so many bandages wrapped around his broken body that there's no real way to tell who he is. The only sign that it's him is the part of his swollen face not hidden under gauze, and even then, he's barely recognizable. I freeze, completely unprepared for the sight of him like this, and Constance stands stiffly beside me, also unmoving. But my mother doesn't hesitate as she walks toward his bedside and takes his bare hand, gently sandwiching it between hers.

"Oh, Alex," she says softly, her eyes raking over the damage. "My Alex. Look at you."

There's something so achingly tender about the way she says his name that tears well in my eyes, but I blink hard, refusing to lose it right now. Not in front of my mom. Instead, I force myself forward and push a plastic chair beside the bed, giving her a place to sit.

"We should know more about His Majesty's condition in the morning," says the nurse in a gentle Scottish accent. "For now, the doctors have stabilized him, and we'll do all we can to help him make it through the night."

"He will," says my mother with quiet certainty. Her eyes linger on his face, and her thumb strokes the back of his hand. "I'd like to stay with him, if it's allowed."

The nurse looks at Constance, who still stands by the door, her cheeks bloodless and her eyes haunted. For all her arrogance and bad temper, right now she's nothing more than a mother faced with the possibility of losing her son, and her throat tightens before she nods.

"He would want you here," she says, and my mom offers her the tiniest of smiles before turning her gaze back to my father. And as she lays her head down beside their intertwined hands, I drag another chair over and join her.