Chapter Twenty-five

ARRESTS MADE IN MUSEUM BOMBING; KING'S CONDITION STILL UNKNOWN

The Home Office has announced that several arrests have been made related to the bombing of the Modern Music Museum in London yesterday, which has claimed the lives of eight people.

While the identities of the suspected terrorists have not yetbeen revealed, the Army of the British Republic, a previously unknown and self-declared anti-monarchist group, has reportedly taken credit for the bombing in a video posted anonymously to social media. Though the Home Office has yet to confirm their claim, several international leaders, including President Hope Park of the United States, have already condemned the organization for the attack.

While the King's condition remains unknown, a palace insider has revealed that Evangeline Bright, illegitimate daughter of the King, and Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence and nephew to the Queen, survived the attack. Both have been admitted to an undisclosed hospital for treatment, though the extent of their injuries remains unknown.

—The Daily Sun,13 January 2024

IN THE EARLY HOURS OF the morning, long before the sun rises, Jenkins appears in the doorway of my hospital room.

Kit is asleep in the bed beside me, his body tense with nightmares that aren't hard to guess, but I'm awake, staring at the ceiling as I try not to think about what's happening down the hall. Every time I hear someone hurry past my room, my adrenaline spikes, and I'm sure this is it—that Alexander's finally let go. But neither my mother nor Constance comes to break the news to me, and each time my anxiety drags me out of bed to check with the protection officers stationed outside my door, all they do is offer a reassuring nod. Somehow, against all odds, he's hanging on.

"Jenkins?" I whisper as he slips inside the room, closing the door softly behind him. He startles slightly, clearly not expecting me to be awake, and in the dim light, I see his apologetic grimace.

"Good morning, Evan," he says softly. "How do you feel?"

"Like a building fell on me," I deadpan, and to his credit, he tries to smile. "Is Alexander still…?"

"His Majesty is a fighter," says Jenkins, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "Do you feel well enough to come home?"

"Already?" Technically Kit and I have both been discharged, but no one's argued about us staying in the room for a little while longer, considering Alexander's the only other patient on this floor.

"Her Royal Highness has asked that you be present for an emergency meeting this morning," he says. "In order to discuss the, er…plans for what will happen while His Majesty is incapacitated."

"Plans?" I say, confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means…" Jenkins clears his throat. "It means that though we all very much hope His Majesty will make a full recovery, we must decide how to carry on until he is ready to resume his duties. Her Royal Highness is the heir to the throne, of course, but until she is twenty-one, she is bound by the Regency Act of 2005, and that…complicates matters significantly."

I stare at him for a long moment. "Jenkins, I just learned the difference between MI5 and MI6. I have no idea what the Regency Act of 2005 is."

This finally gets a real—albeit faint—smile out of him. "It's an act that was put into place by Parliament shortly after your sister was born. It outlines what would happen—what will now happen—should something befall His Majesty before Her Royal Highness reaches the age of twenty-one."

"But he's not—he's not gone," I say. "He could wake up, right? Isn't a regency permanent?"

"The situation we're now in is…rather delicate, and we do not yet know if a true regency will be required. But it is possible."

I don't want to think about that, especially not now, in the early morning, with my ears still ringing from the bomb. "Why twenty-one?" I say. "I thought Queen Victoria was eighteen when she took the throne."

"She was," says Jenkins. "But while the Regency Act of 2005 was being drafted, your father asked to include a clause ensuring that so long as Her Royal Highness is under the age of twenty-one, she will be assisted by a council of senior royals, who are able to help make decisions and carry out the monarch's duties in his absence, whether temporary or permanent."

"So it won't all be on Maisie," I say, though I'm still confused.

"Precisely," he says. "And she wishes for you to be present during the discussion of the finer details."

I have no idea why, and spending hours listening to a dozen royal advisers arguing over political minutiae sounds like the worst way to spend any morning, let alone this one. But I nod, because the thought of what Maisie must be going through right now makes me shiver, and the idea of her facing it alone makes me ache with something I can't name. Protectiveness, maybe. Or maybe some kind of sibling connection I don't recognize. If Alexander takes a turn, or if he can't find his way back, my sister will be queen. And I don't think any of us are prepared, least of all her.

"Okay," I say. "But when it's over, I'm coming back to sit with my mom."

"I'll make sure no one stops you," says Jenkins. And after another beat, he wordlessly takes my hand, as if reassuring himself that I'm really there. "Sometimes I wish I'd never brought you to England in the first place," he admits so quietly that I barely hear him.

"But I'm glad you did," I say.

"Even after all this?"

"Especially after all this." I glance at Kit, who's still asleep. He looks calmer now, like his nightmare has passed. "I like having people in my life who are worth a few bombs and bullets."

"It's hardly our typical British welcome," he says, and I shrug.

"You're all worth it."

After I check in on my mom and Alexander, whose condition hasn't changed, Jenkins and several protection officers escort Kit and me into a parking garage beneath the hospital, and we emerge into the predawn London morning in a Range Rover with bulletproof windows and armored plating around its frame.

Even though our location is supposed to be a secret, half the journalists on the planet are waiting for us at the exit, and Kit and I watch wordlessly through the tinted windows as they try to swarm the vehicle. The police hold them back behind the barriers, though, and our security team sees us swiftly onto the dark city streets, where we speed away from the hospital toward the relative safety of Windsor Castle.

"How bad is it?" I say to Jenkins. "The press coverage, I mean."

"It's the top story in virtually every English-speaking country around the world, and the majority that aren't," he says. "The BBC has been running wall-to-wall coverage of the bombing, though with no official word on His Majesty's condition, it's all speculation. I'd imagine our exit is already being shown on a loop."

"Are they wearing black?" says Kit, and though I don't understand the reference, Jenkins shakes his head.

"Not yet. Though there are plenty of rumors that it's only a matter of time."

Kit grimaces. "Are there plans to release an official statement?"

"As soon as Her Majesty feels it will not be misleading."

Kit must notice my confusion, because he says quietly, "Aunt Helene is—or was—waiting to see if he makes it through the night."

"Oh." I don't know how I feel about the thought of Helene still being such an important part in all of this, not when she hung my parents out to dry less than two days ago. But her interview feels so inconsequential now that I can barely muster up any anger toward her. Just bone-deep exhaustion I'm not sure will ever go away.

We reach Windsor Castle as a hint of pink appears on the horizon, and even more journalists are waiting for us at the gates. This time, security has already cleared the road, and we speed through without so much as slowing down.

Tibby stands at the entrance nearest the private apartments, clutching her tablet as she watches us approach. I notice she's wearing low heels today, along with a gray dress that's so dark it's almost black, and somehow these are the details that make it all feel real to me—that make me realize this is going to impact the rest of our lives, and nothing will ever be the same.

She hugs me fiercely as soon as we're inside, and I let her fuss over me on our way to my apartment. She doesn't ask any questions about Alexander or the details of the bombing, and I don't know if it's out of respect or because there's a blanket ban on trying to wheedle information out of us. Either way, I'm grateful, though when she notices the bandage on my leg, I actually see her bite her tongue.

Kit and I separate long enough to wash the dust and blood away, and once I'm dressed, I head out into my sitting room, fully expecting Kit to be waiting for me alongside Tibby. But there's no sign of either of them, and instead I'm greeted by my frantically pacing sister.

"It's about bloody time." She pounces toward me with the speed and grace of a jungle cat, and I do my best not to grunt asshe tackles me in a hug. I'm sorer now than I was in the immediate aftermath of the bombing, and my shoulder still aches, which doesn't exactly help. But I can tell from how tightly sheholds me that she needs this, and I delicately hug her in return.

"Good call, staying home yesterday," I say in a pitiful attempt at a joke. But as soon as she pulls away and I see the tears brimming in her eyes, I immediately regret it.

"Have you seen him?" she says, her lower lip trembling. "No one will let me leave. Mummy told me it's touch and go, but beyond that, I don't know a thing, and I've been going mad trying to figure out a way to visit him—"

"I saw him right before we left," I say, trying to sound reassuring. "My mom and Constance have been with him all night. He's…"

I pause. I don't want to scare her more than she already is, but I don't want to give her false hope, either. My ears are ringing again, faintly now, and I suck in a breath.

"We'll find a way for you to see him after the meeting," I say at last. "Even if we have to sneak you out of here."

She wipes her eyes, and I can tell she understands everything I'm not saying. "I don't know if that'll be possible," she admits. "The prime minister himself told me to stay put. It's a matter of national security, apparently."

Privately I agree. I don't want to imagine the chaos if Maisie is somehow hurt in all this, too. "Then we'll VidChat my mom, all right? We'll figure it out. Now tell me about this meeting and why you decided to drag me out of bed so early."

I expect this to be a neutral topic, or at the very least easier to bear than the thought of Alexander's mangled body, but Maisie's lower lip quivers again, and I think she might actually burst into tears.

"The entire senior staff will be there," she manages, her voice not much more than a squeak. "I'm of age now, and—and they'll all be—looking to me for instruction, but—" She sniffs and dabs at her cheeks with the cuff of her midnight-blue sweater. "I don't know what to do, Evan. This wasn't supposed to happen for decades."

"It hasn't happened yet," I say, trying to sound reassuring, even though the idea still makes me reel. "Everyone coming to this meeting was hired by Alexander for a reason, and they know what they're doing. Listen to them. Listen to your mom and Nicholas, and remember they're all there to support you, not the other way arou—"

A sharp knock cuts me off, and even though this is my apartment, Maisie calls for whoever it is to enter. A beat later, Jenkins opens the door, his expression even more somber than it was when he left me in Tibby's hands.

My heart drops to my knees. "What's wrong? Is Alexander—"

"His Majesty's condition has not changed," he says hastily. "But I fear there is a…situation in the conference room that requires Her Royal Highness's immediate attention."

I glance at Maisie, and she smooths the fear from her face and draws herself up to her full height. In the space of a single heartbeat, she goes from my terrified half sister to heir to the throne—one who could become queen at any moment—and I bite my lip, silently wondering if this is the last time I'll see her like that. Raw and vulnerable and genuine, without the weight of the entire country and Commonwealth on her shoulders.

As the three of us head into the long gallery, we're joined by a nervous-looking Tibby and a silent but steady Kit, who gives me a questioning look. I shrug. Whatever's going on now, I suspect there are a lot of situations that are going to require Maisie's attention, and this kind of grave urgency is something we all need to get used to.

As we climb the staircase to the upper floors, I wince at the pain in my leg, and Kit wordlessly takes my elbow. I have no right to complain, not when Ingrid's dead and Alexander's fighting for his life, but I'm still embarrassingly slow, and by the time Kit and I catch up to the others, they're standing in front of the closed doorway to the conference room.

Fitz, Maisie's private secretary, is already waiting for her, his suit jacket wrinkled and his red hair sticking up like he hasn't brushed it in days. Tibby doesn't even try to hide her disdain, and as he briefs Maisie in a low voice, she joins Kit and me, her scowl deep and her jaw set.

"Utterly incompetent. Has he never heard of a bloody comb?" mutters Tibby before refocusing on me. "I expect you won't have to do or say much. Just listen, and remember that everyone inside that room is there to keep things running as smoothly as possible in His Majesty's absence. And if Maisie seems like she needs a break, it's completely within your rights to call for—"

"What?"My sister's voice cuts through Tibby's murmur, and Fitz flushes.

"I—I'm very sorry, Your Royal Highness, but there was nothing I could do—"

Maisie lets out a curse so vile that even Tibby looks taken aback, and Jenkins steps forward. "Security is on standby, Your Royal Highness," he says. "Should you choose that particular route."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but my sister grits her teeth and pushes open the door with the force of a tornado. I glance at Kit, both alarmed and intrigued, and we follow her into the room just in time to see Maisie round on someone sitting near the empty seat at the head of the table.

"How dare you show your face now," she says, her voice shaking with fury. "You've no right to be here. None."

"I think you'll find that I have every right to be here, especially now," says a mild voice that chases away every trace of exhaustion inside me, leaving nothing but adrenaline and anger behind.

Sitting beside his father, with his blond hair pushed back casually from his face and his lips twisted into the faintest hint of a smirk, is Ben.